Murder in the Bookshop

by Carolyn Wells

‘Why should I?’ and Stone looked at her in innocent surprise. ‘I admit I don’t understand this locking in business, but it takes more than that to rouse me to insurrection. Don’t let me keep you if you are busy.’

  A pleasant smile accompanied this last speech, and Stone bowed a dismissal that it was not easy to ignore.

  She went out and Stone heard her lock the room door from the hall side. He listened to her footsteps along the hall and then, dropping into an easy chair, he gave way to a spasm of silent mirth.

  The laughter, however, was short-lived. Indeed, it was more a matter of nervous exasperation than of merriment and, physically relieved a little, Stone turned his thoughts to his present emergencies.

  Benson and Tiny must first be considered.

  It was about eleven o’clock and Stone hastily scribbled a note which he hoped might reach them safely. He wrote:

  ‘Held by the enemy. Go back home but return at midnight and do up the dogs, then bring my suitcase and find some way to get it up to me or I can use sheets. Bring a flashlight. This side of the house, second storey, is all mine. I’ve no plans yet. The chief may come at any moment. I can’t use you till dark, so make it midnight. The lady in no danger or discomfort, I think. My barring in is hopeless but bring oustiti and bunch of skeleton keys. Maybe something to eat away steel bars? If I’m not snuffed out, I’ll pull through, but case pretty hopeless.’

  Then he folded it and sat by the window to watch for the possible appearance of Benson.

  At last he saw a large and unpleasant person get into a car and drive away, and concluded it must be the redoubtable Sam. Soon after that, he saw a head peeping from the foliage and recognized Benson. He cautiously showed the white letter and, as the youth crept nearer, he dropped it between the bars and out of the window. Watching carefully, Benson ran for it and got it and quickly disappeared.

  This convinced Stone that since Sam was away and the boss criminal not present, Benson was not watched. No dogs were heard, and, as there was nothing else to do, Fleming Stone lighted a cigarette and sat down to smoke.

  He summarized his dangers and his hopes. It seemed to him the former far outnumbered the latter, but he must consider them more closely.

  The woman in charge was not awe-inspiring; the awful big man, Sam, though as yet unknown, might prove tractable.

  With his unquenchable hopefulness, Stone concluded he was not yet beaten, but he could not persuade himself that the immediate future would be easy sledding.

  He had thoroughly investigated his domain and, as he anticipated, there was not, so far as he could see, the slightest chance of escape from this simple locking in. It was maddening to be held by plain, old-fashioned locks and keys. Had he been incarcerated in a tower or a dungeon with a keeper who carried great keys on a clanking chain, it would have better suited his dignity and perhaps have been easier to get out of.

  Directly back of his sitting room was the bedroom and an adjoining bath, both decently though not smartly appointed. But such details interested him little beside the fact that each room’s windows presented the same immovable steel bars, plain, simple bars that looked easy to cut if one had proper tools and plenty of time.

  Stone wasted no time thinking about cutting these bars. He knew that to negotiate successfully with Benson for tools and things was outside the possibilities.

  He devoted his thoughts to some more ingenious means of escape. For escape he must. He, Fleming Stone, to be baffled by a common lock! Perish the thought!

  But the thought showed no signs of perishing.

  At one o’clock a knock came on the door, and automatically Stone said, ‘Come in.’

  The door was unlocked and ‘the very large man’, who was indubitably Sam, came in, bringing a big tray.

  He set it on a chair, and from the hall brought a folded bridge table, which he opened and set up without a word.

  On this he put the tray and stood a moment, looking at Stone. The detective gladly accepted this opportunity to study his visitor, and saw to his satisfaction an expression of awe and admiration in the eyes that stared at him. He well knew this particular look, it was hero-worship, and he had often received it from devotees of detective fiction. There is a glamour, he had found, about a Criminal Investigator, and if this giant felt that way about it he might be a decided asset.

  Stone didn’t rush things, however. He said, pleasantly, but not invitingly, ‘You’re Sam, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes. Howjer know?’

  ‘Your mother told me you were a big man and you most certainly are!’

  This speech was accompanied by a look of unmistakable admiration. Sam fell for it and drew himself up with pride.

  ‘Yes, I am.’ But suddenly he seemed to remember his role and said gruffly:

  ‘Don’t you try to soft-soap me. I’m here to watch you and I’m gonta do it. If you try to spring a getaway, you’ll be sorry, for I ain’t bein’ any too gentle with you. And you needn’t try to make friends. I ain’t that sort.’

  ‘You’re a mind reader! I was trying to do that very thing, in the hope that if I succeeded, you’d help me to get away. How can a fellow bust through a door with an honest-to-goodness lock and key on it? And there’s no reason for my being here. I thought maybe your sense of justice was oversized, like the rest of you. But I see it isn’t. Don’t stay, if it bores you.’

  ‘Don’t get sassy, you might be sorry.’

  ‘As how?’

  ‘I might hit yer a clip.’

  ‘Not you! I’m a character reader, you know, and you’d never hit without provocation of any sort. You’ve got a code of honour of your own and I’ll bet you live up to it.’

  ‘There you go again—soft-soapin’! I tell you that won’t get you anywhere.’

  ‘What will get me anywhere?’

  ‘Nothin’ short of a miracle, I guess. And they don’t have those much, nowadays.’

  ‘Oh, yes, they do. You’d be surprised to know how often they occur. I have second sight, you know, and I prophesy that what will seem to you a miracle will happen to you in less than twenty-four hours. Do you play bridge?’

  ‘Yes. Is that your miracle? Thirteen spades dealt to me in one hand, I s’pose? Well, I’ve never had that yet.’

  ‘Nor anyone else.’

  ‘Yes, they have. Why, I know a feller—’

  The door opened and Mrs Bindle came in.

  ‘Whatever are you doing here, Sam!’ she cried, in astonishment. ‘Have you forgotten Mr Powers positively forbade you to speak to Mr Stone any more than absolutely necessary?’

  ‘I jest brought him up his lunch, Ma, and I was goin’ right down.’

  ‘His lunch! And he hasn’t even uncovered the dishes, and it’s cold already! What you two been talking about?’

  ‘I’m afraid it was my fault, Mrs Bindle,’ Stone volunteered. ‘I’m a gregarious sort, and Sam seemed pleasant to talk to, and so we’ve had a short chat. No harm done, I assure you.’

  ‘Anything is harm that’s against Mr Powers’ orders.’ But the woman’s face softened as she looked at her son, and Stone sensed at once that the great hulk of humanity opposite him was his mother’s joy and pride, her idol, the apple of her eye.

  ‘I know, Ma—I won’t do it again—but you know I never saw a real detective before, and he seems so jolly talkative and all—’

  ‘What’s the harm, Mrs Bindle?’ Stone asked. ‘Why can’t I have an hour’s chat with Sam? I’m pretty tired of sitting alone. Why can’t I go out for a walk in the grounds? I couldn’t get away, with Sam and your dogs in charge.’

  ‘Don’t waste your breath, Mr Stone,’ and Mrs Bindle looked at him scornfully. ‘Understand, my son and I are left here to see to it that you don’t leave us. Why then should I put temptation in your way?’

  ‘And what do you think, Ma?’ Sam exclaimed. ‘He says—Mr Stone does—that he can perform miracles and he’s going to perform one on me tonight.’

  ‘Now, now,’ and Stone laughed outright,
‘that’s the way stories go! I didn’t say anything of the sort, Sam. Now, see if you can tell truthfully what I did say?’

  ‘That’s what I heard you say, and my hearing is all right.’ Sam looked sulky now, and Stone realized that he thought he was being held up to ridicule.

  ‘No,’ Stone said, seriously, ‘I did not say I should perform any miracle. I said possibly a miracle might occur tonight, but it is by no means certain.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Mrs Bindle asked, as she quite noticeably shuddered. ‘I’m afraid of such things. I’m even afraid of Mr Powers when he has his mask on.’

  ‘Oh, does he wear it now?’ Stone seemed interested in a friendly way. ‘Such a nice one, isn’t it? Black satin and nicely stitched and all.’

  ‘Oh, do you know Mr Powers?’

  Stone looked around as if fearing an eavesdropper, and then said in a low voice, ‘Not by that name.’

  ‘I told you so, Sam! I’ve believed all along Powers isn’t his real name! I was just sure of it!’

  ‘What is his real name?’ Stone asked.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Mrs Bindle told him. ‘We don’t know him so very well.’

  ‘Well, what does it matter? Take away the tray, Sam. I can’t eat cold food. And don’t bring any other, I don’t want anything. I’ll make a short list, Sam, for you to buy for me in the village. What village is it?’

  ‘Never you mind,’ said Sam’s mother. ‘You make your list, and he’ll get what he can of it, and that’ll have to do you.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’ll do me. I’m not a fusser. How’s your lady guest? Doesn’t she want a lot of things? Make-up, hair-nets, perfumes and what-nots? Better get her a pack of cards and teach her to play patience. She’s likely to need it.’

  ‘I’ll attend to her, Mr Stone. Don’t trouble yourself.’

  ‘No trouble at all. Besides, I haven’t done anything yet. Did you say we’d play bridge this evening?’

  ‘I said nothing of the sort! You are not here to be entertained.’

  ‘And yet I am entertained—greatly.’

  There was no retort to this. Mrs Bindle went off and, taking a list Stone handed him, Sam went away, too.

  Locked in again, Stone made up his mind to enjoy his enforced idleness as much as he could. But the small shelf of books at his disposal failed to show any volume he cared to read. There was no radio. He was reduced to the morning paper, which he still had in his overcoat pocket.

  He began on the first page and he read every word on every page, but without feeling he had gained any information or entertainment from them.

  He gazed out of the window, until he declared to himself he never wanted to see a glorious autumn landscape again.

  But at last the long afternoon wore away, and Sam brought a tray of dinner for him.

  It was a good dinner, well cooked and arranged on hot water dishes.

  Sam did not stay and the detective ate heartily, after his early breakfast and omitted luncheon.

  Then Sam returned with some attractive dessert, and lingered to take the tray.

  ‘You’re a good sort,’ Stone said, sincerely enough, for Sam’s quiet respectful attention pleased him. ‘What time do the people turn in here?’

  ‘Whenever they get ready,’ and Sam looked belligerent. ‘We got a maid in the house but she ain’t allowed in here. I s’pose you can turn down your own bed?’

  ‘Of course. No chance of his Eminence coming tonight?’

  ‘Who said so? He comes when he likes. You want to see him, particular?’

  ‘I do, indeed. I suppose I’ll be told when he comes?’

  ‘You bet you will. You and the lady across the hall. And what he won’t tell you two—!’

  ‘I’ll be glad to be told something, at any rate. Perhaps he’ll tell me who killed Mr Balfour and his son. Do you know?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t be let to live if I did. If you know and won’t tell, you’ll be put out of the way of those who do know. But don’t be quizzin’ me. The boss’ll be coming soon—if at all. When he comes, you can ask all the questions you can think of and you can sling ’em at him pretty swift; he’ll keep up with you.’

  ‘I just want to know the murderer. I can keep up with your boss all right, but I must get some information out of him.’

  ‘I wish you joy outa that job.’

  ‘It may not be pleasant, but I shall accomplish it all the same. Doesn’t your boss ever think he’s up against a pretty stiff proposition when he tackles Fleming Stone?’

  ‘Well, he does, but you see, he’s got me to help him. He depends a heap on me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stone, giving Sam an odd look. ‘Yes, I should think he would.’

  CHAPTER XVII

  HELD BY THE ENEMY

  AGAIN Fleming Stone was left to his thoughts, unless he could find something to do more active than thinking.

  Although November was fast approaching, the autumn air was crisp without being chill and, raising the front window, he sat down to smoke and, incidentally, to watch for Benson. He wished he had told him to come earlier than midnight. Still, he had no wish for the lad to meet up with the mysterious Mr Powers.

  Yet he eagerly awaited his own meeting with the man and was fully decided to learn his identity or perish in the attempt.

  He smiled sourly as he realized that ‘perish in the attempt’ might be no flight of fancy, but a true detail of what might happen in the near future.

  He had promised Sam a miracle—well, his promise might be made good, but it was likely the miracle would happen to him, and would be a mighty unpleasant one.

  His situation was a novel one. Never before in his life had he been made a prisoner. And now to be kept inactive by an old-fashioned door key was a little too much!

  He heard the sounds of an approaching motor, and looking out the front window saw a big black car come swiftly up the drive and stop at the house.

  He drew a sigh of relief that his enemy had probably arrived. Whatever the interview might bring, it was better than this interminable waiting.

  A shapeless, cloaked figure got out of the car and went into the house, but just as the man disappeared under the piazza roof, Stone noticed he wore a derby hat. He wanted to think the expected Mr Powers was the same man who killed Balfour, and this looked like it.

  He waited, momentarily expecting to be summoned, but time dragged wearily by with no word from below. At last he heard the door across the hall opened and he had reason to think Alli had been taken downstairs for an interview. He scarcely dared hope that he should be called while she was there and resigned himself to a further wait, but almost at once, Sam came and invited him down to a conference.

  ‘And don’t cut up any funny business,’ the big man advised, as they went down the stairs. ‘You see, I’m under orders to take care of you if you get out of hand and while I sorta like you I have to obey orders.’

  ‘Of course, Sam, take care of me all you want to. But I shall be tractable. I don’t want to make you any trouble.’

  ‘You won’t. Here we are, sir, step right in the parlour.’

  Sam opened the door into the large room directly under Stone’s front room above and the detective went in. Sam went in, too, and they sat down. Fleming Stone saw Alli and nodded to her with a smile, then turned to the singular figure who seemed to be in charge of things.

  This was the man he had seen get out of the motor car, and he looked at him with interest.

  Fleming Stone saw what looked like a large man, but as he was draped in a long full garment, like a black domino, it was hard to guess at his real size. He wore a black satin mask, with a frill that hid his chin, and Stone noticed a glitter in the eyes that shone through the eyeholes.

  ‘You are Fleming Stone?’ he asked in an odd voice.

  ‘Yes, as you well know. Don’t keep those horse chestnuts in your cheeks if they bother you.’

  ‘They do, a little. I use them to disguise my voice.’

  ‘Unnecessary,
since I know you, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t, though you may think you do. I am a long-time friend of Mrs Balfour, and I hope both she and you will agree to a proposition I am about to make. I do not want a long discussion about the happenings of the past week, I just want you two to consider my proposal and make your own decision. I am not the killer of Mr Balfour, but that is not the point. This is the case. I am not a friend of Keith Ramsay and as I happen to know—know, mind you—that he killed his friend and employer, Philip Balfour, and Guy Balfour too, I want to see him convicted of those crimes. I ask nothing more than justice, but that justice must be done. Now, you, Mrs Balfour, and you, Mr Stone, are in a sort of collusion to save that man and I propose to thwart your plans. If you, Mr Stone, will agree to change your tactics and prove Keith Ramsay guilty, and you, Mrs Balfour, will admit your belief in Ramsay’s guilt, you two may walk out of here, free and unmolested. If not, there is a mighty uncomfortable future ahead of you.’

  Stone looked at Alli, with a nod, as if handing her the situation, and she responded at once:

  ‘Mr Powers, your proposition and the way you put it leads me to think you are the murderer of my husband, yourself. If so, I hope you may yet meet your just deserts, but as to my part in this matter, I positively refuse to do anything except to reiterate my belief in Keith Ramsay’s innocence and to help prove it in any way I can.’

  ‘You are daring, Mrs Balfour; perhaps you’d better have a care. And, Mr Stone, what have you to say?’

  ‘I echo Mrs Balfour’s speech entirely. And understand this: I know who committed those two murders, I know who stole the valuable book and rest assured he shall not get away with it. It is you who would better have a care. It is you who have a mighty uncomfortable future ahead of you. So proceed with your threats and your bullying. What do you propose to do?’

  It was unusual for Fleming Stone to lose his temper, but he was at a disadvantage and he knew it. The powerful Sam would soon settle any physical attack he might make on the so-called Powers and no attempt at reasoning or appeal to justice would be of any effect.

  The strange glitter in the eyes of the masked man gave Stone an impression of madness and he felt that he could best deal with that by definite accusations.