CHAPTER XXI
THE MURDER OF ANDREW APTHORPE
THE Apthorpe estate ran parallel to the main street of the town but thehouse itself was perched on a hill almost a mile distant from it. A longwinding ascent led to a big stone, turreted mansion commanding anextensive view of the country that lay about it. A well kept lawn threehundred yards in width surrounded the house.
"The place was built," Mr. Westward explained, "by Colonel Crofton, therailroad man. On this lawn were great beds of rhododendrons which cost agreat deal of money. When Apthorpe bought it he had them torn up andsown in grass. He said the flower beds and shrubberies were places whereburglars might conceal themselves by day to break in by night."
"He was certainly suspicious," Trent commented.
Westward pointed to the house which rose like a fortress above them.
"When Crofton had it there were windows on the ground level and severalentrances. Apthorpe had them filled with granite all except that bigdoorway opposite."
By this time Trent was near enough to see that the house was not remotefrom buildings such as the stables and garages which are adjacent tomost such residences. He remarked on the peculiarity.
"The automobiles are kept in the basement of the house," Westwardexplained. "The big doors I pointed out to you cannot be opened by thechauffeurs. When they want to go out or come in they have to phone forpermission. Then Mr. Apthorpe or some one else would touch a button inhis big living room and the gates would swing open. He had a searchlighton the tower until the Federal authorities forbade it."
"It seems to me he must have lived in dread of violence," Trentobserved, "and yet why should he? He was a well known Boston broker ofan old New England family, not the kind one would think involved incrime. In fiction it is the man who comes home after spending half hislife in the mysterious East that one suspects of robbing gods of theirjeweled eyes and incurring the sworn vengeances of their priests."
"All men who collect precious stones live in dread," Charles Westwardsaid. "I've never seen any of his things. I'm not interested in themparticularly. I've always talked about fishing when I've been there, butit's common knowledge that he was going to leave his valuables to theMuseum of Fine Arts. One of the things which incensed his wife was thathe wouldn't give her or her daughter any of the jewels but preferred tokeep them locked away."
A flight of twenty granite steps led to the main entrance, two heavilybuilt, metal studded doors. A lofty hall was disclosed with a circularstairway around it. Leading from the hall to what seemed the main roomon that floor was a flight of six steps. The chestnut doors had beenshattered. Obviously it was the room in which Apthorpe had met hisdeath. For the rest it looked in no way different from half a hundredother rooms in big houses which Trent had investigated professionally.Bookshelves not more than four feet in height lined three sides of theapartment. Making a pretense of reading the titles Trent looked to seewhether they were indeed volumes or mere blinds. The policeman incharge, knowing Mr. Westward well, was only too willing to show him andhis friend what was to be seen. The body, he explained, was in an upperchamber.
One peculiarity Trent noted in the book cases. Apparently there was noway to open them. They were of metal painted over. If keyholes existedthey were hidden from view. Fearing that the policeman in charge wouldnotice his scrutiny, he walked over to the open window and looked out.It was from this that the murderer made his escape. Twelve feet belowthe green closely cropped turf touched the granite foundation of thewalls.
When Mr. Westward offered him a cigar he took out his pipe instead andknocked out the ashes against the window ledge. Mr. Westward heard anexclamation of annoyance and asked its cause. Then he saw that while thestem of the pipe remained in its owner's hand the bowl had fallen to thelawn below.
"I won't be a minute," Trent said, and went down the main steps to thegrounds. It was no accident that led him to drop his favorite briar. Hiskeen eyes had seen footprints in the grass as he looked down. They mightwell be the marks of him who had stolen the famous emerald and Trent haddecreed a private vendetta against one who might have robbed him forwhat he came into Massachusetts. Searching for the pipe bowl which hehad instantly detected he made a rapid examination of the ground.
There were indeed footprints made undoubtedly by some one dropping fromthe end of the portiere to the soft turf. And as he gazed, themysterious man whom he had suspected faded into thin air. They were theimprints of the high heels that only women wear! Carefully he followedthem as far as the big gates of the garage. They were not distinct toany but a trained observer. They were single tracks leading from thegrass beneath the window to the garage. Not an unnecessary step had beentaken. Apparently the local police had pulled in the portiere from thewindow and had made no examination of the grass below.
Trent noticed that a man, evidently a gardener, was approaching him.Quickly he dropped the bowl of his pipe again among some clover. The manwas eager and obliging. Furthermore he had heavily shod feet which werealready making their impression on the turf to the undoing of any whomight seek, as Anthony Trent had done, to make a careful examination.Already the high heeled imprints were obliterated.
When the pipe was found the man insisted on speaking of the murder. Hedeclared that for an hour on the fatal night a big touring car had beendrawn up near his cottage in a lane nearby and that two men got out ofit leaving another in charge.
Trent shook him off as soon as he could and returned to the house, hispreviously held theories wholly upset. He had built them in the facts orfalsities carefully supplied by Miss Thompson and he was anxious to seethe lady. It was most likely that the woman who had lowered herself fromthe window was the woman who had committed the murder. And for whatcould the crimes have been committed so readily as the Takowaja emerald?
He recalled now that there had been a certain reserve in the Westwards'manner when they had spoken of Miss Thompson. Might they not havesuspected her and yet feared to voice these suspicions to a stranger?
As he thought it over he came to the conclusion that it was not of thecrime of murder they suspected her but perhaps because of her relationswith so notorious a man as the late Andrew Apthorpe. He remembered thatthe dead man's family was alienated from him, possibly for this veryreason.
He was given an opportunity very shortly to see the nurse. She camealong the hall, not seeing him as he stood in the entrance, and made herway toward Mr. Westward. She was a tall woman, quietly dressed and notin nurses' uniform. Her walk was studied and her gestures exaggerated.She was that hard, blond type overladen with affectation to one whoobserved carelessly. But Trent could see she had a jaw like a prizefighter and her carefully pencilled eyes were intrinsically bellicose.She had a big frame and was, he judged, muscularly strong. And of coursenurses must have good nerves. If she had the emerald he was determinedto obtain, it would not be an easy conquest.
Her greeting of Mr. Westward was effusive. Indeed it seemed too effusiveto please him. He was courteous and expressed sympathy. She talkedvolubly. She related in detail the events of the previous night and thelistener noticed that she was letter perfect. The only new angle he gotwas a description of the supposed murderer. According to Nurse Thompsonhe was about fifty, wore a short grizzled moustache, was of mediumheight but very broad, and dressed in a dark gray suit. In accent shejudged him to be a Westerner. She would recognize him, she declareddramatically, among ten million.
Trent had no wish to meet her--yet. He had seen her, recognized apredacious and formidable type and had observed she wore expensive shoeswith fashionably high heels.
Presently Charles Westward joined him.
"I've been talking to Miss Thompson," he volunteered.
"I saw you," Trent said, "but supposed it was one of the family. Shewasn't dressed as a nurse."
"She doesn't act like one," Westward answered. "Richmond was right. Thatwoman drinks. I don't like her, Mr. Trent."
"I suppose she needs sympathy now that her position is lost?"
/> The more Anthony Trent thought over the matter the more thoroughly hebecame convinced that the mysterious stranger of whom the nurse spokehad no existence. If she had killed her employer she would not have doneso unless it were to her advantage. And what better reason could therebe, were she criminally minded, than some of his famous jewels? Trentdetermined to follow the thing up. He chuckled to think that he was nowon the opposite side of the fence, the hunter instead of the hunted.But that was no reason that he should aid his enemy the law. If hedevoted his talents to the running down of the murderer he wanted thereward for himself.
Supposing that she had planned the crime, the opportunity was hers whenshe had the old man alone in the house. She would have been far tooclever to use her knowledge of drugs to poison him. By such a ruse shewould inevitably have incurred suspicion. If his assumption were correctshe had been very clever. At eight o'clock she had started the ballrolling. At nine she had strengthened her position by some acting cleverenough to deceive Mrs. Westward. And when they had reached her primed byher story of the threatening stranger they had found her waitinghysterically for their aid. No doubt she had been drinking. Most womenhate using firearms for violent purposes unless the act is one ofsuddenly inspired fury when the deed almost synchronizes with theimpelling thought.
She had planned the thing carefully. She had, if his theory held,probably shot the old man as he sat reading. Then she had locked andbarred the great doors and lowered herself to the ground and entered bythe garage door which she could have opened from above. Thus the mencoming to her aid found a scene prepared which her ingenuity had ledthem to expect as entirely reasonable.
"By the way," he demanded suddenly, "how long was the doctor or coronerin getting to Mr. Apthorpe?"
"He didn't get there until midnight. His motor broke down."
It was thus impossible to fix accurately the time of Apthorpe's death.
As they turned from the drive into Groton's main street a big limousinepassed them. To its occupants Mr. Westward raised his hat.
"Mrs. Apthorpe," he explained, "her daughter and son-in-law, HughFanwood. The other man was Wilkinson the lawyer who acts for Mrs.Apthorpe." He paused as another car turned into the drive. "Look likedetectives," he commented. "We are well out of it."
That night Anthony Trent went back to New York. Twenty-four hours laterhis fast runabout drew up at the Westward's hospitable home.
"I brought my car over from Boston," he explained untruthfully, "on myway back to New York by way of the Berkshires and dropped in to see ifthere was any news in the Apthorpe murder case. The Boston papers hadvery little I didn't already know."
He learned a great deal that interested him. First that Nurse Thompsonhad been left fifty thousand dollars in the Apthorpe will. This, on theadvice of counsel, would not be contested, as the widow desired, on theground of undue influence. Her daughter Mrs. Hugh Fanwood was notdesirous of publicity.
Secondly one of the most famous jewels in the world had been stolen.
"Imagine it," Mrs. Westward exclaimed, "for five years an emerald thatwas once in a Tsarina's crown has been within a mile of us and not asoul in Groton knew of it. It was worth a fortune. _Now_ we know why thepoor man was done to death."
"Have they any clue?" he demanded.
"They have offered a reward of ten thousand dollars. Miss Thompson'sdescription of the man has been circulated widely and caused arrests inevery town in the state. The house is being searched by a detectiveagency but we all believe it's useless. I don't think Amelia Apthorpebehaved at all well. She insisted on having everybody searched who wasin the house. Not Charles of course but every one she didn't know andsome whom she did."
"I was in the house," Trent reminded them, "perhaps I ought to offermyself."
"No, no," Westward exclaimed, "I told Mrs. Apthorpe who you were. I saidyou bought the Stanley camp on Kennebago and that I could vouch foryou."
"That's mighty nice of you," Trent responded warmly. It was at a momentlike this when he realized he was deceiving a good sportsman that hehated the life he had chosen. It was one of the reasons that he deniedhimself friends. "Did she have any sort of scrap with Miss Thompson?"
"It's too mild a word," said Westward. "After the nurse's things weresearched she was told to go. Then she said she should bring an actionagainst Mrs. Apthorpe for defamation of character and illegal search.She promised that there would be enough scandal unearthed to satisfyeven the yellow press. I don't suppose poor Amelia Apthorpe knew therewere such lurid words in or out of the dictionary until the Thompsonwoman flung them at her."
"Will she bring action, do you think?"
"I think she's too shrewd. From what Hugh Fanwood told me they hadlooked up her record and found it shady. She _was_ a graduate nurseonce. Her diploma is genuine and the doctor here tells me she knew herbusiness, but there are other things that she wouldn't want in print. Ithink we've seen the last of her. She'll get her fifty thousand dollarsand when she's gone through that she'll find some other old fool to fallfor her."
So far, Trent's conjecture as to her character had been accurate. Thedeath of Apthorpe meant a large sum of money to her while the legacyremained unrevoked. He could not marry her since he was not divorcedfrom his wife. Perhaps he had believed in her sufficiently to show herhis peerless emerald. Or perhaps he had only hinted at its glories andshe had become possessed of the secret of its whereabouts. In any caseAnthony Trent firmly believed she had it. It was quite likely that shehad secreted it somewhere in the grounds of the mansion to retrieve itwithout risk later on. What woman except Nurse Thompson would havelowered herself from the room to the turf below on the night of themurder? And was it not likely that the emerald was the cause of thetragedy? The whole history of precious stones could be written in blood.In any case it was a working hypothesis sound enough for Trent to havefaith in.
In accordance with the advice of lawyers and relatives Mrs. AndrewApthorpe decided to place no obstacle in the way of the departure ofNurse Thompson. She told Mrs. Westward she was certain the woman hadtaken the diamond ring she flaunted and that it had not been a gift, asshe claimed, from her employer. Furthermore it was evident that she hadmade a good deal of money in padding the household expenses.
Detectives, meanwhile, clinging faithfully to the description sogenerously amplified by Miss Thompson of the thief in the night, werehunting everywhere for him and his loot.
The _West Groton Gazette_ supplied Anthony Trent with some much neededinformation. It printed in its social columns the news that Miss NorahThompson was to make an extended stay in the West, making her first longstop at San Francisco. Until then she was staying with a married sisterin East Boston. Since the name was given in full Anthony Trent hadlittle difficulty in finding what he needed. An operative from a Bostondetective agency gleaned the facts while Trent made a pleasant stay atthe Touraine. To the operative he was a Mr. Graham Maltby of Chicago.
When he went West on the same train as the now resplendent Miss NorahThompson he was possessed of a vast amount of information concerningher. In St. Louis six years before she had badly beaten a man whom shedeclared had broken his engagement to marry her. She was a singularlyviolent disposition and had figured in half a dozen cases which wound upin police courts.
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