His suspects remained the same, and in the same order. Ramsay, Gill, Guy Balfour—and Alli. The last he held in reserve until the rest should be freed, and he hoped he never would be called upon to accuse her directly. But she must be considered if developments called for it.
At the apartment, he found many people and much seemed to be going on. Groups here and there whispered what were apparently important bits of information and young friends of Guy’s stood apart from older friends of the late Philip Balfour.
Keith Ramsay was obviously at the head of affairs. Servants went to him for instructions, guests asked him for information, curiosity seekers made him impertinent requests—all of which Ramsay managed with admirable generalship.
Guy was there but he was engaged with some friends and showed no interest in the occasion.
Ramsay made a chance to speak to Stone quietly.
‘Watch Guy,’ he said. ‘I don’t like his actions. He’s all wrought up and may go to pieces at any minute.’
‘I will,’ and Stone looked across the room and back to Ramsay. ‘How is Mrs Balfour?’
‘Holding up bravely. She’s in the morning room with some of her friends.’
‘Has she considered what she will do about the letter from the book thief?’
‘Oh, no, not yet. She says she won’t even think about it until tomorrow.’
‘No, of course not. What’s happening tonight after the funeral?’
‘There’ll be supper here for anyone who cares to come. Shall you be over?’
‘Not then; I’m coming here during the funeral to prowl a bit in one or two places. Leave your rooms unlocked, will you?’
‘Of course. But remember, Stone, I’m not the murderer.’
‘No. Who is?’
‘Wish I knew! There’s Guy now. Looks ill, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes. Who’s that with him?’
‘Swinton, the chap who lives downstairs. And behind him is Wiley, he lives in this house, too.’
‘Yes, I know them both. Couldn’t see them plainly for the moment. Mr Wiley is a collector, I believe.’
‘Yes, there are several collectors here. They’re all dying for a look at the library. But I’ve locked it up. Too easy to annex a book in a crowd.’
Stone quickly remembered that the letter in his pocket used the word ‘annex’ for stealing a book, but it was too slight a coincidence to implicate Ramsay.
‘There goes Guy,’ he said, ‘going upstairs with Swinton. Are they chums?’
‘I think so,’ Keith returned. ‘You see, Swinton lived in the same home town with Guy before they all moved to New York.’
‘Where was that?’
‘Trentwood, way down East. Massachusetts or Connecticut, I forget which.’
‘The Balfours lived there?’
‘Yes, father and son. That’s where Philip Balfour met Alli and married her and then they came to New York. That was three years ago. I’ve only been here a year. I daresay people think me presumptuous to be taking charge here as I am, but there’s no one else to do it. Somebody has to. I thought there would be some relative, old maid aunt or someone like that, to look after things. But there’s no one. Alli isn’t to be troubled about anything today, even the police let up on her, though they’re quizzing around the city.’
‘About what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Among Mr Balfour’s friends, mostly. They took a lot of addresses. Probably Guy has a lot of young fellows up in his rooms, entertaining them in his own way. So somebody must look after the crowd and I’ve taken over.’
‘Good for you. Now I’m going to look round a bit. I shall peep into your rooms but don’t let it alarm you, I doubt I’ll dig deep.’
‘Go to it, but don’t mess up the drawers of my chiffonier. I’m by way of being a tidy chap.’
‘And I shall look into Mrs Balfour’s rooms a little. Don’t alarm her, I’m sure she’ll never know I’ve been there if no one tells her. And it’s better for her to have me rummage than old Manton or Burnet.’
‘Much better. Go to it, man.’
So Stone went on his way and stopped first at Keith Ramsay’s pleasant rooms, pausing longest in his sitting room, which was also office and library, for the young man had amassed a few shelves of books of his own and was justly proud of them.
Stone was after letters and he carefully looked at various packets and boxes of them, stacked away in desk drawers and cupboards. But nothing incriminating did he find, nor had he expected to.
He thought, what a farce ‘searching’ is! If Ramsay had anything he didn’t want me to see, he would have hidden it so thoroughly that I would take hours to find it, or if very dangerous to his well-being he would have destroyed it. A few notes from Alli Balfour he left untouched, knowing if they held anything of importance they would not be there.
The only other paper that held any interest for him was a scribbled page torn from the desk pad which, interlined and crossed out by turns, showed such phrases as: ‘I realize the dishonour of every hour I spend beneath your roof’—‘I therefore propose to resign my position’—‘My confession is forced from me’—‘I trust you understand’—and other similar phrases that could only mean a rough draft of a letter he meant to write to Philip Balfour or a speech he meant to make to him.
The attitude taken by Ramsay in that matter was admirable and quite natural to a man of his temperament. But the attitude of Philip Balfour amazed Stone. He wished he had known the collector. A man who would say he would let his wife leave him rather than his assistant must be queer in his head—unless, of course, Keith Ramsay made that up!
It was dawning on Stone that many speeches and acts accredited to Keith Ramsay might be taken with a grain of salt or—perhaps might better not be taken at all.
He left Ramsay’s rooms and started toward the suite occupied by Alli Balfour.
His hand on the door, he was about to turn the knob when a voice at his elbow said:
‘Just a moment, Mr Stone; you won’t find Mrs Balfour in there.’
‘I know it,’ and Stone coolly proceeded to open the door.
‘Oh, you’re prospecting—I see.’ Guy looked quizzical.
‘Yes,’ Stone said, ‘and I am very busy about it. Don’t detain me unless absolutely necessary.’
‘It seems necessary to me,’ and Guy teetered on his toes like an impatient child. ‘That snooping business can wait. Do step in my place for a moment and have a little pow-wow.’
‘I thought you had a flock of cronies in there.’
‘I had, but one of them declared it wasn’t right for me to entertain a pack of hoodlums on the day of my father’s funeral.’
‘Did you think it was?’
‘Well, no. But they came of themselves. I didn’t invite them.’
‘And who was the somewhat forward guest who put them out?’
‘Oh, it was Rollinson, a stickler for proprieties.’
‘Well, I agree with Rollinson. And now we’re here, don’t you want to have a little talk with me?’
‘About what?’
‘About your future—your near future.’
‘Anything the matter with my near future?’
Guy looked troubled, and as he turned back to his own front door, which opened into a little foyer, and ushered Fleming Stone inside, he said:
‘I’m glad the fellers went and I’m glad you came.’
‘So’m I,’ and Stone seated himself while Guy lounged on a divan.
‘You see,’ Guy began, ‘I want to know if I’m suspected of the death of my father.’
‘By whom?’
‘Well, first, by you?’
‘No, I don’t suspect you, or, at least, I haven’t so far. But it does show a lack of reverence and respect for your father to have a bunch of cronies up here, smoking and drinking and telling stories, just before the funeral services. It shows a shocking heartlessness that would go far to strengthen the suspicions of anyone who held them.’
&nb
sp; ‘Yes, I daresay. Now, Mr Stone, you’re beginning to think I did in poor old Dad. Is that right?’
‘Not quite. I’m only beginning to think I must pay a little more attention to your qualifications as a suspect.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to say you’re too late for that. You should have begun last Friday.’ And then Potter came to summon Stone to the telephone.
CHAPTER X
THE DEATH OF THE SCION
FLEMING STONE had no opportunity to take up again his conversation with Guy. He left the Balfour house to keep a dinner engagement and afterward, when he knew the funeral services were being observed, he returned.
He searched Guy’s rooms but found nothing of any significance. The contents of the desk were almost entirely letters and papers of Philip Balfour’s and only a few notes of condolence and some bills indicated a change of occupants. Stone glanced over them, looked through Guy’s personal belongings and gave up hope of finding anything incriminating.
And, as he asked himself, what could he expect to find? If Guy had killed his father he was not the sort to leave any evidence about.
Philip Balfour had employed a capable valet, but the man had left the morning after the murder and declared he would not stay in the place another minute. Guy had never had a man of his own and proposed to do so, but had not yet engaged one.
But the ever ready Potter looked after the young man, and all his personal belongings were arranged properly in the places of those his father had used. As Stone looked at the brushes and other implements on the dresser, he noticed they were blond tortoise-shell, whereas Philip Balfour had had silver ones.
‘The world moves,’ Stone told himself, and after another look around he concluded a better place to look would be the rooms Guy was living in before his father died.
He determined to do this as soon as might be and went downstairs to the lower floor of the duplex. He found Potter and asked him a few questions about his new master.
‘Mr Guy is a fine young man,’ the butler said, but Stone felt sure he would have said the same thing had he known Guy for a villain.
‘Yes,’ agreed Stone. ‘I’m sure of that. Is he much like his father?’
‘In a few ways, yes, but in the main, no. A good-natured chap, Mr Guy, but with no ambition. A lovable sort, but lazy as they come. He’s never worked a day in his life. If he wanted more money than his allowance he could always wheedle it out of his father.’
‘You have no suspicion of his guilt, have you, Potter?’
The grave friendliness of Stone’s voice had the effect of producing a serious answer instead of a mere indignant denial.
‘Well, no, sir,’ Potter said. ‘I did, at first, but I’ve watched him these two days and he’s innocent, I think. But I can’t say he feels deep grief because his father’s gone—’
‘Does anybody?’ Stone spoke significantly.
Potter sighed. ‘I’m afraid not, sir. It’s known to all of us in the house that Mrs Balfour and Mr Ramsay are by way of being in love, and it’s my opinion that Mr Balfour knew it and didn’t let on.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, Mr Ramsay was a most useful man to the master. He helped him with his books like nobody else could. And he could manage his wife. A strong man was Mr Balfour and a wise one. Those two couldn’t go very far without Mr Balfour gettin’ on to it.’
‘Therefore, you think Mr Ramsay might—’
‘Or Mrs Balfour—’ Potter said, and stopped there, as one of the under servants appeared.
Fleming Stone went home.
He was not ashamed of having tried to get some information from a servant. He had long ago discovered that the knowledge of a menial is well worth listening to. And he knew that Potter was a reliable source of enlightenment who honestly felt it his duty to help the investigators all he could.
Stone thought for a long time over Potter’s suggestion of Alli Balfour’s connection with the crime.
If Potter really suspected her, he must have some reason for it, and the reason in all probability was the affection between her and Keith Ramsay.
Though he had thought of this, he had not really suspected Alli, nor did he do so now, but it must be looked into more deeply, which he could only do after the funeral rites were over.
He went to bed Sunday night feeling that he had a hard row to hoe. He seemed to have so many suspects, and every suspect seemed to have means and opportunity in addition to an obvious motive.
Monday morning, as was not unusual, he was wakened by the sound of the telephone bell on his bedside table.
Inspector Manton was calling and the gist of his message was that he felt the police had shilly-shallied long enough and that he proposed to arrest Keith Ramsay that very day.
Stone smiled as he heard the word shilly-shally, for the writer of the letter to Alli had used the term. Still, he could scarcely suspect Manton of having stolen the Button Gwinnett book so he let it pass. He asked the Inspector at least to delay the arrest until his own arrival and promised to be at the Balfour house inside of an hour.
As good as his word, Stone arrived in slightly less than an hour and found Manton and Burnet in conference with Keith Ramsay and Mrs Balfour.
The latter was pale and greatly disturbed, Ramsay was indignant.
‘You have no right to arrest me,’ he was saying as Stone entered. ‘It is surely a fifty-fifty chance that the theft of the book and the death of Mr Balfour are the work of the same hand. Now, you have had communications from outside, which indicate pretty clearly that the book is or may be available. Yet you ignore this possibility and accuse me, with no evidence whatever, of murdering Mr Balfour. If the masked man, of whom I told you, stole the book, I hold that you should get in touch with him on the chance of proving him the murderer as well. I hold it is my right that you should run down this very important clue of the letter from the thief, before you so positively assert my guilt.’
‘That seems right to me, too, Inspector,’ and Fleming Stone looked at Manton with real scorn. ‘Where is Guy Balfour?’ he went on. ‘That young man is more or less under suspicion and should be present at this time.’
‘Where is he?’ Manton asked of Mrs Balfour.
‘I suppose he is not up yet,’ she returned. ‘He always sleeps late.’
‘Then get him up,’ directed Burnet. ‘Shall I go and do it?’
‘No,’ and Alli spoke with dignity, ‘I will attend to it.’
She touched a nearby bell push and Potter appeared.
‘Is Mr Guy downstairs, Potter?’ she asked.
‘No, madam, he has not yet come down.’
‘Then go and fetch him, please. If he is still asleep, waken him and ask him to join us as soon as possible.’
Potter departed on his errand and few words were spoken until his return.
Then he said, ‘I cannot get into Mr Guy’s apartment at all, madam. He has locked the hall door from the inside, and there is no other way to enter. I knocked repeatedly, but received no answer.’
Mrs Balfour’s face paled, but Ramsay spoke quickly. ‘I don’t believe there’s anything to be alarmed at, Alli,’ he said. ‘Guy is a keen one for sleep and he must be awakened. Shall I go and rouse him?’
‘What can you do more than Potter?’ asked Manton. ‘No, Mr Ramsay, stay where you are. We must break in, if necessary.’
‘That isn’t necessary,’ and Alli spoke with dignity. ‘There is another way in. There is a door between Guy’s dressing room and my own. When my husband was alive, that door was always open. Now that Guy has the rooms, that door is locked—and I have the only key.’
‘That is fortunate, Mrs Balfour,’ and the Inspector looked relieved. ‘Will you tell Captain Burnet where he can find that key? Or call your maid?’
‘Captain Burnet can get it,’ Alli said. ‘Let him get Potter to go with him, and they will find the key in the small top drawer of the Chinese cabinet in my dressing room. They can knock again on the locked door that opens into Gu
y’s dressing room and if he doesn’t answer, they may unlock the door and look in.’
‘Oh, I don’t apprehend anything wrong,’ Manton declared, ‘but young men are hard to get up in the morning.’
It seemed to those waiting that it was a long time before Potter appeared at the door and said that Captain had asked for either the Inspector or Fleming Stone to come to him in Guy’s apartment.
‘You go, Stone,’ said Manton, quite obviously unwilling to leave his potential prisoners. ‘Find out what’s the trouble and fix it right or let us know.’
Stone went with the butler, saying, ‘Another tragedy, Potter?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Stone, but there’s something devilish going on.’
The hall door of the suite was now open and the two men entered.
‘Come on in here,’ Burnet’s voice sounded from the bathroom. ‘Hurry.’
Stone went first into the large bathroom, and saw that Burnet was in the small compartment which held the shower bath and beyond which was the steam room. The policeman turned to greet them and silently pointed to the closed door that gave entrance to the steam room. From under this door came tiny puffs of white steam, hissing and smoking. The rug that lay in front of the door was wet and soggy, and the tiled floor showed wet places here and there.
‘The door will not open,’ Burnet said in a low voice. ‘I fear Guy Balfour is locked in there by some accident, and is—’
‘If he is in there, he is most certainly dead,’ said Stone, solemnly; ‘that steam is scalding hot. We must open the door as quickly as possible, but keep away from it while it is being opened. Potter, telephone down for the manager to come up here at once, and also order the chief engineer and a house plumber to hurry along. Make them understand it is a fearful emergency and they must rush! Tell them to shut off the steam.’
‘Shall I use the house telephone call in Mr Balfour’s office?’
‘Yes, yes, but move quicker! Burnet, something terrible must have taken place in there. Guy must have gone in there for a steam bath and accidentally locked himself in, turned on the steam and for some reason couldn’t turn it off again—and—it’s too awful to think of! I wonder if he was subject to spasms or anything of the sort. Do you suppose there’s really no way to get into that room but to break in?’
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