In 1909 this couple, showing an excellent record for industry and honesty, applied to Bidewell Home for Orphans, Los Angeles, for baby girl. They were most careful in making selection, desiring a very young child, a blond, and one of exceptionably good looks. Said since they were both so ugly, they particularly wanted a pretty child. Were finally granted permission to adopt Dorothy Ericson, 3 months old, orphan without known relatives, child of poor but highly respected Norwegian parents who died in tenement fire two months before. The child lived with her foster parents in railroad camps where they worked, and disappeared when they left the job. Nothing has been heard of her since.
“Excellent, superb; magnifique!” he cried exultantly as I finished reading the jerkily worded but complete report. “Behold the dossier of these founders of a new religion, these Messiahs of a new faith, my friend!
“Also behold the answer to the puzzle which has driven Jules de Grandin nearly frantic. A lily may grow upon a dung-heap, a rose may rise from a bed of filth, but two apes do not beget a gazelle, nor do carrion crows have doves for progeny. No, certainly not. I knew it; I was sure of it; I was certain. She could not have been their child, Friend Trowbridge; but this proves the truth of my premonition.”
“But what’s it all about?” I demanded. “I’m not surprised at the Hudgekins’ pedigree—their appearance is certainly against them—nor does the news that the girl’s not their child surprise me, but—”
“‘But’ be everlastingly cooked in hell’s most choicely heated furnace!” he interrupted. “You ask what it means? This, cordieu!
“In California, that land of sunshine, alkali dust and crack-brained, fool-fostered religious thought, these two cheap criminals, these out-sweepings of the jail, in some way stumbled on a smattering of learning concerning the Eastern philosophies which have set many a Western woman’s feet upon the road to madness. Perhaps they saw some monkey-faced, turbaned trickster from the Orient harvesting a crop of golden dollars from credulous old ladies of both sexes who flocked about him as country bumpkins patronize the manipulators of the three cards at county fairs. Although I should not have said they possessed so much shrewdness it appears they conceived the idea of starting a new religion—a cult of their own. The man who will demand ten signatures upon a promissory note and look askance at you if you tell him of interplanetary distances, will swallow any idle fable, no matter how absurd, if it be boldly asserted and surrounded with sufficient nonsensical mummery and labeled a religion. Very well. These two were astute enough to realize they could not hope to impose on those possessing money by themselves, for their appearance was too much against them. But ah, if they could but come upon some most attractive person—a young girl endowed with charm and beauty, by preference—and put her forward as the prophetess of their cult while they remained in the background to pull the strings which moved their pretty puppet, that would be something entirely different!
“And so they did. Appearing to reform completely, they assumed the guise of honest working-folk, adopted a baby girl with unformed mind whom they trained to work their wicked will from earliest infancy, and—voilà, the result we have already seen.
“Poor thing, she sincerely believes that she is not as other women, but is a being apart, sent into the world to lighten its darkness; she stated in guileless simplicity what would be blasphemy coming from knowing lips, and by her charm and beauty she snares those whose wealth has not been sufficient to fill their starved lives. Ah, my friend, youth and beauty are heaven’s rarest treasures, but each time God creates a beautiful woman the Devil opens a new page in his ledger. Consider how their nefarious scheme has worked:
“Take the poor little rich Mademoiselle Couvert, by example: Endowed with riches beyond the dream of most, she still lacked every vestige of personal attractiveness, her life had been a dismal routine of emptiness and her starved, repressed soul longed for beauty as a flower longs for sunlight. When the beauteous priestess of this seventy-nine-thousand-times-damned cult deigned to notice her, even called her friend, she was ecstatic in her happiness, and it was but a matter of time till she was induced by flattery to make the priestess her heir by will. Then, deliberately, I believe, that sale bête, Hudgekins, pushed her against his daughter, thus forcing her unwittingly to disobey one of the cult’s so stupid rules.
“Consider, my friend: We, as physicians, know to what lengths the attraction of woman for woman can go—we see it daily in schoolgirl ‘crushes,’ usually where a younger woman makes a veritable goddess of an older one. Again, we see it when one lacking in charm, and beauty attaches herself worshipfully to someone being endowed with both. To such starved souls the very sight of the adored one is like the touch of his sweetheart’s lips to a love-sick youth. They love, they worship, they adore; not infrequently the passion’s strength becomes so great as to be clearly a pathological condition. So it was in this case. When Mademoiselle Estrella mouthed the words she had been taught, and bade her worshiper depart from her side, poor Mademoiselle Couvert was overwhelmed. It was as if she had been stricken blind and never more would see the sun; there was nothing left in life for her; she destroyed herself—and her will was duly probated. Yes.
“Very well. What then? We do not know for certain how the old Mademoiselle Stiles came to her death; but I firmly believe it was criminally induced by those vile ones who had secured her signature to a will in their daughter’s favor.
“But yes. What next? The young Glendower is not greatly wealthy, but his fortune of a hundred thousand dollars is not to be sneezed upon. Already we have seen how great a fool he has become for love of this beautiful girl. There is nothing he would not do to please her. We know of a certainty he has made his will naming her as sole beneficiary; perchance he would destroy himself, were she to ask it.
“Will she marry him? The hope has been held out, but I think it a vain one. These evil ones who have reaped so rich a harvest through their villainous schemes, they will not willingly permit that their little goose of the golden eggs shall become the bride of a man possessing a mere hundred thousand; besides, that money is already as good as in their pockets. No, no, my friend; the young Glendower is even now in deadly peril. Already I can see their smug-faced lawyer rising to request probate of the will which invests them with his property!
“But this ‘act of supreme adoration’ we keep hearing about,” I asked, “what can it be?”
“Précisément,” he agreed with a vigorous nod. “What? We do not know, but I damn fear it is bound up with the young Glendower’s approaching doom, and I shall make it our business to be present when it is performed. Pardieu, I shall not be greatly astonished if Jules de Grandin has an act of his own to perform about that time. Mais oui; certainly! It might be as well, all things considered, if we were to get in touch with the excellent—”
“Detective Sergeant Costello to see Dr. de Grandin!” Nora McGinnis appeared at the drawing-room door like a cuckoo popping from its clock, and stood aside to permit six feet and several inches of Hibernian muscle, bone and good nature to enter.
“Eh bien, mon trésor,” the Frenchman hailed, delightedly, “this is most truly a case of speaking of the angels and immediately finding a feather from their wings! In all the city there is no one I more greatly desire to see at this moment than your excellent self!”
“Thanks, Dr. de Grandin, sor,” returned the big detective sergeant, smiling down at de Grandin with genuine affection. “’Tis Jerry Costello as can say th’ same concernin’ yerself, too. Indade, I’ve a case up me sleeve that won’t wur-rk out no ways, so I’ve come to get ye to help me fit th’ pieces together.”
“Avec plaisir,” the Frenchman replied. “Say on, and when you have done, I have a case for you, too, I think.”
4
“WELL, SOR,” THE DETECTIVE began as he eased his great bulk into an easy-chair and bit the end from the cigar I tendered him, “’tis like this: Last night somethin’ after two o’clock in th’ mornin’, one o’ th’ moto
rcycle squad, a bright lad be th’ name o’ Stebbins, wuz comin’ out of a coffee-pot where he’d been to git a shot o’ Java to take th’ frost from his bones, when he seen a big car comin’ down Tunlaw Street hell-bent fer election. ‘Ah ha,’ says he, ‘this bur-rd seems in a hurry, maybe he’d like to hurry over to th’ traffic court wid a ticket,’ an’ wid that he tunes up his ’cycle an’ sets out to see what all th’ road-burnin’ was about.
“’Twas a powerful car, sor, an’ Stebbins had th’ divil’s own time keepin’ it in sight, but he hung on like th’ tail to a dog, drawin’ closer an’ closer as his gas gits to feedin’ good, an’ what d’ye think he seen, sor?”
“Le bon Dieu knows,” de Grandin admitted.
“Th’ limousine turns th’ corner on two wheels, runnin’ down Tuscarora Avenue like th’ hammers o’ hell, an’ draws up before Mr. Marschaulk’s house, pantin’ like a dog that’s had his lights run out. Next moment out leaps a big gorilla of a felly supportin’ another man in his arms, an’ makes fer th’ front door.
“‘What’s th’ main idea?’ Stebbins wants to know as he draws up alongside; ‘don’t they have no speed laws where you come from?’
“An’, ‘Sure they do,’ answers th’ other guy, bold as brass, ‘an’ they has policemen that’s some good to th’ public, too. This here’s Mr. Marschaulk, an’ he’s been took mighty bad. I like to burned me motor out gittin’ him home, an’ if ye’ll run fer th’ nearest, doctor, ’stead o’ standin’ there playin’ wid that book o’ summonses, I’ll be thinkin’ more o’ ye.’
“Well, sor, Stebbins is no one’s fool, an’ he can see wid half an eye that Mr. Marschaulk’s in a bad way, so he notes down th’ car’s number an’ beats it down th’ street till he sees a doctor’s sign, then hammers on th’ front door till th’ sawbones—askin’ yer pardon, gentlemen—comes down to see what its all about.
“They goes over to Marschaulk’s in th’ All America speed record, sor, an’ what do they find?”
“Dieu de Dieu, is this a guessing-game?” de Grandin cried testily. “What did they find, mon vieux?”
“A corpse, sor; a dead corpse, an’ nothin’ else. Mr. Marschaulk’s body had been dumped down in his front hall promiscuous-like, an’ th’ guy as brought him an’ th’ car he brought him in had vamoosed. Vanished into thin air, as th’ felly says.
“Stebbins had th’ license number, as I told ye, an’ right away he locates th’ owner. It were Mr. Cochran—Tobias A. Cochran, th’ banker, sor; an’ he’d been in his bed an’ asleep fer th’ last two hours. Furthermore, he told Stebbins he’d let his Filipino chauffeur go to New York th’ day before, an’ th’ felly wuz still away. On top o’ that, when they came to examine th’ garage, they found unmistakable evidence it had been burglarized, in fact, th’ lock wuz broke clean away.”
“U’m,” de Grandin murmured, “it would seem Monsieur Cochran is not implicated, then.”
“No, sor; aside from his fine stand in’ in th’ community, his alibi’s watertight as a copper kettle. But ye ain’t heard nothin’ yet.
“It were a coroner’s case, o course, an’ Mr. Martin didn’t let no grass grow under his feet orderin’ th’ autopsy. They found Mr. Marschaulk had been dead th’ better part o’ two hours before Stebbins an’ th’ doctor found him, an’ that he died o’ mercuric cyanide—”
“Bon Dieu, the poisonest of the poisons!” de Grandin ejaculated. “Very good, my friend, what have you found? Has the man been apprehended?”
“He has not, sor, an’ that’s one reason I’m settin’ here this minute. Stebbins wuz so taken up wid gittin’ th’ car’s number an’ runnin’ fer a doctor that he didn’t git a good look at th’ felly. In fact, he never even seen his face, as he kept it down all th’ time they wuz talkin’. That seemed natural enough at th’ time, too, as he wuz supportin’ Mr. Marschaulk on his shoulder, like. Th’ most we know about him is he wuz heavy-set, but not fat, wid a big pair o’ shoulders an’ a voice like a bullfrog singin’ in a clump o’ reeds.”
“And you can find no motive for the killing, whether it be suicide or homicide?”
“That we can’t, sor. This here now Mr. Marschaulk wuz a harmless sort o’ nut, sor; kind o’ bugs on religion, from what I’ve been told. Some time ago he took up wid a new church, o’ some kind an’ has been runnin’ wild ever since, but in a harmless way—goin’ to their meetin’s an’ th’ like o’ that, ye know. It seems like he wuz out wid some o’ th’ church folks th’ very night he died, but when we went to round up th’ evidence, we drew a blank there.
“Just a little before ten o’clock he called at Mr. Hudgekins’ apartment in th’ Granada, but left sometime around eleven by himself. We’ve th’ Hudgekins’ word fer it, an’ th’ elevator boy’s an’ th’ hallman’s, too. He’d been there often enough for them to know him by sight, ye see.”
“U’m, and Monsieur and Madame Hudgekins, did they remain at home?” de Grandin asked casually, but there were ominous flashes of cold lightning in his eyes as he spoke.
“As far as we can check up, they did, sor. They say they did, an’ we can’t find nobody who seen ’em leave, an’ about a quarter after twelve Mr. Hudgekins himself called th’ office an’ asked fer more heat—though why he asked th’ saints only know, as ’twas warm as summer last night an’ them apartments is heated hot enough to roast a hog.”
“Tête du Diable,” de Grandin swore, “this spoils everything!”
“How’s that, sor?”
“Tell me, my sergeant,” the Frenchman demanded irrelevantly, “you interviewed Monsieur and Madame Hudgekins. What is your opinion of them?”
“Well, sor,” Costello colored with embarrassment, “do ye want th’ truth?”
“But certainly, however painful it may be.”
“Well, then, sor, though they lives in a fine house an’ wears fine clothes an’ acts like a pair o’ howlin’ swells, if I seen ’em in different circumstances, I’d run ’em in on suspicion an’ see if I couldn’t make a case later. Th’ man looks like a bruiser to me, like a second-rate pug that’s managed to git hold of a pot o’ money somewhere, an’ the’ woman—Lord save us, sor, I’ve run in many a wan lookin’ far more respectable when I wuz poundin’ a beat in uniform down in th’ old second ward!”
“Bien oui,” de Grandin chuckled delightedly. “I have not the pleasure of knowing your so delectable second ward, my old one, but I can well guess what sort of neighborhood it was. My sergeant, your intuitions are marvelous. Your inner judgment has the courage to call your sight a liar. Now tell me, how did Mademoiselle Hudgekins impress you?”
“I didn’t see her, sor. She were out o’ town, an’ has been for some time. I checked that up, too.”
“Barbe d’une anguile, this is exasperating!” de Grandin fumed. “It is ‘stalemate’ at every turn, parbleu!”
“Oh, you’re obsessed with the idea the Hudgekins are mixed up in this!” I scoffed. “It’s no go, old fellow. Come, admit you’re beaten, and apply yourself to trying to find what Marschaulk did and where he went after leaving the Granada last night.”
“I s’pose ye’re right, Dr. Trowbridge, sor,” Sergeant Costello admitted sorrowfully, “but I’m wid Dr. de Grandin; I can’t get it out o’ me nut that that pair o’ bur-rds had sumpin to do wid pore old Marschaulk’s death, or at least know more about it than they’re willin’ to admit.”
“Hélas, we can do nothing here,” de Grandin added sadly. “Come, Friend Sergeant, let us visit the good Coroner Martin; we may find additional information. Trowbridge, mon vieux, I shall return when I return; more definite I can not be.”
I WAS FINISHING A SOLITARY breakfast when he fairly bounced into the room, his face drawn with fatigue, but a light of elation shining in his little blue eyes. “Triomphe—or at least progress!” he announced as he dropped into a chair and drained a cup of coffee in three gigantic gulps. “Attend me with greatest care, my friend:
“Last night the good Costello and I repaire
d to Coroner Martin’s and inspected the relics of the lamented Monsieur Marschaulk. Thereafter we journeyed to the Hotel Granada, where we found the same people on duty as the night before. A few questions supplied certain bits of information we had not before had. By example, we proved conclusively that those retainers of the house remembered not what they had done, but what they thought they had done. They all insisted it would have been impossible for anyone to have left the place without being seen by them, but anon it developed that just before eleven o’clock there rose a great cloud of smoke in the alley which flanks the apartment, and one and all they went to investigate its source. Something smoked most vilely in the middle of the passageway, and when they went too near they found it stung their eyes so they were practically blinded. Now, during that short interval, they finally admitted, it would have been possible for one to slip past them, through the passage on the side street and be out of sight before they realized it. Much can be accomplished in a minute, or even half a minute, by one who is fleet of foot and has his actions planned, my friend.”
“Yes, that’s all very well,” I conceded, “but you’re forgetting one thing. How could Hudgekins call up and demand more heat at twelve o’clock if he had sneaked out at eleven? Do you contend that he crept back into the house while they were looking at another smoke screen? If he did, he must have worked the trick at least four times in all, since you seem to think it was he who brought Marschaulk’s body home and stole Cochran’s car to do it.”
He looked thoughtfully at the little disk of bubbles forming above the lump of sugar he had just dropped into his third cup of coffee. “One must think that over,” he admitted. “Re-entrance to the house after two o’clock would not have been difficult, for the telephone girl quits work at half-past twelve, and at one the hallman locks the outer doors and leaves, while the lift man goes off duty at the same time and the car is thereafter operated automatically by push buttons. Each tenant has a key to the building so belated arrivals can let themselves in or out as they desire.”
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