by Q. Patrick
“Good God!” exclaimed Sir Wilfrid.
“When they find out that the Judge is safely out of the picture, the Harvey-Lenoir combine lies low for a bit while Myra ingratiates herself with the other kid. The first death had been a bit risky. Eric had been smothered right there in his bed, and, as I’ve said, someone actually heard the swish of Myra’s skirt. They were going to take no chances with Irving. Myra learns natural history. When the time’s ripe she strikes again. Irving is found dead on the railroad tracks. No one saw him leave the house because his stepmother warned him to be careful. She told him Mr. Dodd no longer approved of the early morning walks and would send him back if he was discovered.”
Here McFee paused as though he had suddenly been given insight into a diabolically brilliant mind.
“And that’s what Harvey was doing in the garden when he told us he was meditating on that novel of his! Myra had planted him there on purpose so that the boy, seeing one of the masters, would naturally make a detour and not go past old Kettering’s shed. I don’t know which of them thought out that little trick, but it’s certainly one of the smartest things I’ve ever come across. Well, gentlemen, that is the first part of their plan—the part they have already put into action. But the crime is not complete yet.”
“You mean—you mean there was more danger here at Craiglea?” Mr. Dodd had leant forward in his chair.
“No, sir. No more at Craiglea. But there was danger in America. As soon as they’d definitely pointed these crimes at the Hellers, Harvey and Lenoir were going back to America. They were going to kill Judge Bernard-Moss himself. They still had the Hellers to hide behind. What more likely than that a bullet from the gun of one of these mysterious Hellers should hit and kill their avowed enemy while he was driving in his car or walking on the street? It was all perfect. Myra waits a few months, acting the bereaved widow. Then the society columns of the St. Paul Chronicle announce the marriage of Myra Bernard-Moss, nee Lenoir, ex-chorus girl, and Dave Harvey, the disinherited playboy son of the famous automobile manufacturer. They’re back in their own backyard again, not only with the Judge’s money but with the two fortunes of Eric and Irving Bernard-Moss as well.”
While he was speaking, Sophonisba had been twisting her hands together. At this point she jumped to her feet.
“But—but it can’t be true! Why should Mr. Harvey want money? His father’s rich and he hasn’t disinherited him. I heard them talking on the telephone yesterday.”
McFee raised an eyebrow and regarded her sympathetically. “Maybe you heard him talking to someone he called Pop?”
“Yes, I did.”
“That doesn’t prove anything, Miss Dodd. Lots of people are called Pop in America. In fact, it’s not often used in talking to your own father, but usually to some older man who’s no relation at all. In this case, my guess would be that Harvey was talking to a certain Pop Baxter whose reputation in St. Paul is not much better than his own.”
Sophonisba was still standing, look of doubt and bewilderment on her face. When she spoke, it was obvious that she was making a great effort to bring out her words—the effort that all reticent English people experience when approaching a subject that is highly personal.
“You may be right about the telephone call,” she said quietly, “but I happen to know that you can’t be right when you say that—that Mr. Harvey is in love with Mrs. Bernard-Moss. Why, he told me—”
Both Harvey and McFee had sprung to their feet, but it was the detective who spoke first.
“Stop, Miss Dodd. Please don’t say another word!”
As Sophonisba sank back limply in her chair, McFee turned to the headmaster of Craiglea, who was looking towards his daughter with some concern.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dodd,” he said gently. “I’m sorry that Miss Sophonisba has forced me to bring up a point which I had hoped to be able to leave out entirely. It isn’t only criminal charges we have against this man, Harvey. He has done something else which, though not punishable by law, is the lowest of all the low tricks he’s ever pulled. He has wormed his way into the—er—confidence of a young girl. And, under the pretense of personal interest, has used her as a mere catspaw to supply him with information as to what the police were doing.”
All eyes had turned to Sophonisba whose cheeks were burning red.
“He’s used her,” went on McFee relentlessly, to get himself out of jail this afternoon. He’s most likely used her to plant false suspicions on other people. He’s used her—”
He did not finish his sentence, for suddenly a chair fell over with a resounding crash. David Harvey had hurled himself across the room and aimed a blow which, but for the intervening desk, would have landed squarely on McFee’s jaw.
“You swine!”
“Stop that … Saunders!”
The Chief Constable rapped out his words like bullets from a machine-gun.
“It’s all right, Sir Wilfrid.” Harvey’s voice had come back under control almost miraculously. Instinctively he straightened his tie, then his hands fell at his sides and he moved back to his chair. “I’m sorry. There’ll be no more trouble from me.”
His fingers were not even shaking as he pulled a cigarette-case from his pocket and proffered it first to Sophonisba and then to Myra Bernard-Moss.
XXII
ANTI-CLIMAX
In the moment of silence that followed this outburst, it was as though a spotlight were focused on David Harvey. Seemingly unconscious of the attention he was arousing, the English master had lighted a cigarette for himself and was polishing his nails against his perfectly creased trousers.
Sophonisba still appeared to be thoroughly agitated. Her expression was a curious mixture, a mixture of shame, confidence and doubt. Now and again she looked up under her lashes at Myra Bernard-Moss, who was blowing her nose into Harvey’s large silk handkerchief.
Sir Wilfred cleared his throat. His brows were bristling like twin hedgehogs.
“Mr. Harvey—Mrs. Bernard-Moss: very serious charges have been made against you this afternoon. It is my duty to warn you that there is no need for you to answer them without legal representation. At the same time, if you do wish to speak, anything you say may be used in evidence.”
He nodded to Inspector Saunders, who produced a large notebook.
“Thank you, Sir Wilfrid,” murmured Harvey, “but we won’t need a lawyer. All the same, it’s a good idea to write down what I have to say. As a novelist, I think it’ll make interesting reading.” He turned to McFee with a pleasant, almost admiring smile. “Well, you’ve worked out an ingenious theory. And I don’t bear you any ill will for it. In fact, I’m sorry I took a poke at you just now, but no man likes to have motives and actions attributed to him that are not strictly accurate.”
“No harm done,” replied McFee, returning his smile with almost equal pleasantness. “It’s quite prepared to admit I’ve got some of the details wrong. Maybe I was a bit carried away by my story.”
“I quite sympathize with you, McFee. I realize what your position must be with the Drummond Detective Agency. Both your charges have been killed and your employers are demanding an explanation. Naturally, it’s as good as your future’s worth to make up a convincing story, and you certainly couldn’t have done better than you did. My only objection to it is that it happens to be totally incorrect.”
“Perhaps you can give us a better one.”
“I think I can. And not only that, I can prove exactly where you went wrong. But don’t let that bother you, McFee.” Harvey’s tone was airy, almost flippant. “I’m going to behave like the amateur sleuth in fiction. I’ll make you a present of the right solution—without charge.”
McFee regarded him with tolerant skepticism. Sophonisba moved in her chair, her hands gripping tightly to the arms. Mlle. Santais twisted the thin gold chain that hung around her bony neck.
“Yes.” Harvey went serenely on. “I didn’t hear the first part of your case against poor Myra, but Sir Wilfrid has giv
en me an excellent summary. I gather you pointed out that anyone at Craiglea would have been able to commit the two crimes. I quite agree with you that our murderer was probably an inmate of the school.” He paused and looked around with some amusement at his fellow staff-members. “In fact, I’ll even go so far as to say that our murderer is here in the room at this very moment.”
“Damn it, damn it, man. This is sheer impudence,” barked Sir Wilfrid. “I must forbid you to make a mock of us all like this.”
“Let him tell us what he has to say.” The Bishop had crossed his arms and was gazing earnestly at the Chief Constable. “In all fairness, Sir Wilfrid, the young man should be given a chance to clear himself.”
“Very well, very well, my lord. But his blood’s on his own head.”
Harvey had risen to his feet. His eyes were now on Sophonisba.
“Before anything else,” he said “I want to admit several facts and to deny others—facts that have no immediate bearing on the case, but which affect me personally.”
Sir Wilfrid nodded a curt assent.
“Both Mrs. Bernard-Moss and I were on the stage for a while, but she was not a chorus-girl any more than I was a playboy. We have even acted together in a theatre group I started when I was a kid. We were friendly, and I’ll admit that at the age of nineteen I adored her desperately for at least three weeks.”
He turned to McFee.
“As for her marriage to the Judge, you’ve got it all wrong. He’s one of the finest men in America and she’s very happy with him. Why shouldn’t she be? Incidentally, she hadn’t seen me for months before they met. It was a complete surprise to her when we ran into each other here at Craiglea.” He smiled. “To go back to her husband for a moment, it may interest you to know that Myra hardly talks of anyone else. In fact, she’s so keen on the idea of matrimony that she has been doing her best to help me with a little project of my own in that direction.” His eyes had turned back to Sophonisba. “I want to make that point very clear.”
During his last sentence, Mlle. Santais had twisted the chain around her neck so tightly that it almost choked her. For one moment, a look of hope had sprung into her eyes. Then, as she saw Harvey turn towards Sophonisba, her fingers relaxed their hold on the chain. Instinctively they had sought the little gold cross which hung at the end of it.
“Let’s get on with it,” snapped Sir Wilfrid. “We can’t sit about all day.”
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m like-McFee, I’m getting carried away by my thesis.” Harvey’s tone was serious beneath its flippancy. “I’m going to tell you a story—a simple, true story. It begins with a paragraph in the St. Paul Chronicle—a paragraph which I believe has already been read out to you. Would you please pass it to me, McFee? I haven’t a copy, although it did come out of my own newspaper.”
In mild astonishment, the detective fumbled over his notes and produced the cutting.
“Thank you.”
For the second time that afternoon, the cutting was read out:
HELLER’S BROTHER MURDERED
“The headless body found recently in the East River has been identified today by relatives as that of Franz Heller, brother of the noted agitator who was condemned to death in the Minnesota criminal court last winter. Identification was further established by clothing on the dead man’s body. Police believe that the man was dead before being immersed in the water, and that death took place approximately two months ago. …”
Harvey smiled round him blandly.
“Now let us suppose for the moment that this theory isn’t true, that the police were mistaken.” He inclined his head at Sir Wilfrid. “No one in this world can be a hundred per cent right. The police of America, like their brothers over here, are not infallible.”
The Chief Constable snorted but made no further comment.
“Let’s suppose that Franz is not dead. Let’s suppose he’s as much alive as Anna, whom, incidentally, McFee seems to have forgotten completely. McFee tells us the real motive for the crime does not lie with the Hellers. Suppose for the moment that he is wrong, too. What do we find? We find that the same facts which apply so neatly to Myra and myself, apply with equal neatness to one or both of the Hellers.”
Mr. Heath almost dropped the cigarette-case which was emblazoned with the colors of his regiment.
“Now, that letter which the Judge received from Saltmarsh, for example. It might have been sent by me, I admit. But it might just as well have been sent by Franz or Anna. And then there’s the cricket-ball.” Harvey pronounced the word with slightly mocking emphasis. “According to McFee’s theory, the cricket-ball had nothing to do with the case. It was thrown by Eric, who had become a momentary victim to some psychological phenomenon which enables small boys to smell out their enemies on sight.”
He glanced ruefully at McFee.
“Now, isn’t that rather too Freudian? In the first place, Eric Moss had run to the house straight from the cricket-path and couldn’t have known then that this lady was his new stepmother. In the second place, she was walking with Mr. Dodd, and, as Dr. Freud would doubtless tell you, no schoolboy’s subconscious mind would permit him to throw a cricket-ball at his headmaster.
“My own explanation of the incident isn’t half so subtle. Simply, that it was thrown by Franz or Anna. I agree with you that it was done entirely on impulse. Obviously it was not an attempt at murder. It was motivated by a blind anger—by a blind desire to hurt a member of the family which they hated with an intensity which we commonplace people cannot understand.”
“Dear, dear,” murmured the Bishop, who had been listening to this tale of murder and hatred with resigned disapproval.
Harvey seemed to be warming to his subject. His usually sleek blond hair was almost as untidy as McFee’s.
“We come now to the heron’s nest and the butterfly which is glamorously called the painted lady. McFee suggests that those two mistakes must have been made by a person who was not so hot at natural history—a person like poor Myra who, in spite of great enthusiasm, only had a few weeks at it. Now here I get more subtle on you. I suggest that the heron story and the stolen butterfly were both deliberately arranged to frame Mrs. Bernard-Moss, deliberately arranged to fool an investigator like McFee.
“Let’s consider these two so-called slips. Weren’t they much too elementary for a clever criminal? And the criminal was obviously very clever. The placing of the dead body on the railroad tracks seems almost farcically stupid. But, if these mistakes were made on purpose to throw suspicion on an innocent person, then they were diabolically ingenious—worthy of the Hellers themselves.”
“But why on earth should anyone want to throw suspicion on Mrs. Bernard-Moss?” exclaimed Sir Wilfrid irritably.
“I’ll tell you why.” Harvey’s voice was calm. “That was one of the main points in the Hellers’ revenge. They were going to kill the two children and then have the stepmother convicted of their murder. Mr. McFee has told you what they were going to do to the Judge. A very neat way of disposing of the whole family.”
A series of bewildered exclamations followed this remark. Even McFee seemed to have become seriously interested in what the young man had to say. He leant over the desk with widening eyes.
Harvey went on: “What else has been brought up against Mrs. Bernard-Moss? The rustle of a skirt which Lucas heard in the dormitory when the murderer was carrying the body to the closet.” He turned to Sir Wilfrid. “You know young Lucas actually saw the first murder committed, don’t you, sir?”
The Chief Constable screwed the monocle into his eye. “McFee told me some such tale several weeks ago. I did not set much store by it. The boy had a stomach-ache, and he was frightened. I don’t listen to little boys’ gossip.”
“But—heaven help us!” The Bishop’s mouth was wide open. “You mean—you mean to tell me that St. John—? Gracious, he never spoke to me about it.”
“I expect he was either too scared or too good a detective, my lord.” Harvey wa
s smiling. “But let’s get back to the skirt. Your son heard the rustle of a skirt in the dormitory and McFee deduces from that that the murderer was Mrs. Bernard-Moss. Is that fair? Weren’t there other women in the house? Might not Anna have rustled her skirt, too? Anyway, as a clue the whole thing seems a wash-out to me. Why couldn’t a man rustle?” He fingered his own Oxford trousers. “Look at my floppy trousers. Look at my lord’s clerical skirt. Look at McFee’s apron or Mr. Dodd’s academic gown. Why, even Lucas’s pyjamas would most likely have swished a bit.”
Harvey’s blue eyes were alight with concentration.
“McFee has only one other piece of real evidence against Mrs. Bernard-Moss. The rest—the details of her marriage, her friendship with me, the nature of her husband’s will—even if all that is true, it’s only circumstantial and has no real bearing on the case. It’s a very clever theory, perhaps, but clever theories aren’t always the correct ones. I don’t blame McFee, mind. I think he’s done a grand piece of work, but since I’m implicated, it’s obviously to my advantage to prove him wrong.”
He glanced at the detective.
“I would like to say another few words on my relations with Mrs. Bernard-Moss, so that this matter is completely understood.” He stared at Sophonisba for a moment, then made a gallant little bow to the distracted American lady.