The Circular Staircase

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  CHAPTER XXI

  FOURTEEN ELM STREET

  It was Monday evening when we found the body of poor old Thomas. Mondaynight had been uneventful; things were quiet at the house and thepeculiar circumstances of the old man's death had been carefully keptfrom the servants. Rosie took charge of the dining-room and pantry, inthe absence of a butler, and, except for the warning of the Casanovadoctor, everything breathed of peace.

  Affairs at the Traders' Bank were progressing slowly. The failure hadhit small stock-holders very hard, the minister of the little Methodistchapel in Casanova among them. He had received as a legacy from anuncle a few shares of stock in the Traders' Bank, and now his joy wasturned to bitterness: he had to sacrifice everything he had in theworld, and his feeling against Paul Armstrong, dead, as he was, musthave been bitter in the extreme. He was asked to officiate at thesimple services when the dead banker's body was interred in Casanovachurchyard, but the good man providentially took cold, and a substitutewas called in.

  A few days after the services he called to see me, a kind-faced littleman, in a very bad frock-coat and laundered tie. I think he wasuncertain as to my connection with the Armstrong family, and dubiouswhether I considered Mr. Armstrong's taking away a matter forcondolence or congratulation. He was not long in doubt.

  I liked the little man. He had known Thomas well, and had promised toofficiate at the services in the rickety African Zion Church. He toldme more of himself than he knew, and before he left, I astonishedhim--and myself, I admit--by promising a new carpet for his church. Hewas much affected, and I gathered that he had yearned over his raggedchapel as a mother over a half-clothed child.

  "You are laying up treasure, Miss Innes," he said brokenly, "whereneither moth nor rust corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal."

  "It is certainly a safer place than Sunnyside," I admitted. And thethought of the carpet permitted him to smile. He stood just inside thedoorway, looking from the luxury of the house to the beauty of the view.

  "The rich ought to be good," he said wistfully. "They have so muchthat is beautiful, and beauty is ennobling. And yet--while I ought tosay nothing but good of the dead--Mr. Armstrong saw nothing of thisfair prospect. To him these trees and lawns were not the work of God.They were property, at so much an acre. He loved money, Miss Innes.He offered up everything to his golden calf. Not power, not ambition,was his fetish: it was money." Then he dropped his pulpit manner, and,turning to me with his engaging smile: "In spite of all this luxury,"he said, "the country people here have a saying that Mr. Paul Armstrongcould sit on a dollar and see all around it. Unlike the summer people,he gave neither to the poor nor to the church. He loved money for itsown sake."

  "And there are no pockets in shrouds!" I said cynically.

  I sent him home in the car, with a bunch of hot-house roses for hiswife, and he was quite overwhelmed. As for me, I had a generous glowthat was cheap at the price of a church carpet. I received lessgratification--and less gratitude--when I presented the new silvercommunion set to St. Barnabas.

  I had a great many things to think about in those days. I made out alist of questions and possible answers, but I seemed only to be workingaround in a circle. I always ended where I began. The list wassomething like this:

  Who had entered the house the night before the murder?

  Thomas claimed it was Mr. Bailey, whom he had seen on the foot-path,and who owned the pearl cuff-link.

  Why did Arnold Armstrong come back after he had left the house thenight he was killed?

  No answer. Was it on the mission Louise had mentioned?

  Who admitted him?

  Gertrude said she had locked the east entry. There was no key on thedead man or in the door. He must have been admitted from within.

  Who had been locked in the clothes chute?

  Some one unfamiliar with the house, evidently. Only two people missingfrom the household, Rosie and Gertrude. Rosie had been at the lodge.Therefore--but was it Gertrude? Might it not have been the mysteriousintruder again?

  Who had accosted Rosie on the drive?

  Again--perhaps the nightly visitor. It seemed more likely some one whosuspected a secret at the lodge. Was Louise under surveillance?

  Who had passed Louise on the circular staircase?

  Could it have been Thomas? The key to the east entry made this apossibility. But why was he there, if it were indeed he?

  Who had made the hole in the trunk-room wall?

  It was not vandalism. It had been done quietly, and with deliberatepurpose. If I had only known how to read the purpose of that gapingaperture what I might have saved in anxiety and mental strain!

  Why had Louise left her people and come home to hide at the lodge?

  There was no answer, as yet, to this, or to the next questions.

  Why did both she and Doctor Walker warn us away from the house?

  Who was Lucien Wallace?

  What did Thomas see in the shadows the night he died?

  What was the meaning of the subtle change in Gertrude?

  Was Jack Bailey an accomplice or a victim in the looting of theTraders' Bank?

  What all-powerful reason made Louise determine to marry Doctor Walker?

  The examiners were still working on the books of the Traders' Bank, andit was probable that several weeks would elapse before everything wascleared up. The firm of expert accountants who had examined the bookssome two months before testified that every bond, every piece ofvaluable paper, was there at that time. It had been shortly aftertheir examination that the president, who had been in bad health, hadgone to California. Mr. Bailey was still ill at the Knickerbocker, andin this, as in other ways, Gertrude's conduct puzzled me. She seemedindifferent, refused to discuss matters pertaining to the bank, andnever, to my knowledge, either wrote to him or went to see him.

  Gradually I came to the conclusion that Gertrude, with the rest of theworld, believed her lover guilty, and--although I believed it myself,for that matter--I was irritated by her indifference. Girls in my daydid not meekly accept the public's verdict as to the man they loved.

  But presently something occurred that made me think that underGertrude's surface calm there was a seething flood of emotions.

  Tuesday morning the detective made a careful search of the grounds, buthe found nothing. In the afternoon he disappeared, and it was latethat night when he came home. He said he would have to go back to thecity the following day, and arranged with Halsey and Alex to guard thehouse.

  Liddy came to me on Wednesday morning with her black silk apron held uplike a bag, and her eyes big with virtuous wrath. It was the day ofThomas' funeral in the village, and Alex and I were in the conservatorycutting flowers for the old man's casket. Liddy is never so happy aswhen she is making herself wretched, and now her mouth drooped whileher eyes were triumphant.

  "I always said there were plenty of things going on here, right underour noses, that we couldn't see," she said, holding out her apron.

  "I don't see with my nose," I remarked. "What have you got there?"

  Liddy pushed aside a half-dozen geranium pots, and in the space thuscleared she dumped the contents of her apron--a handful of tiny bits ofpaper. Alex had stepped back, but I saw him watching her curiously.

  "Wait a moment, Liddy," I said. "You have been going through thelibrary paper-basket again!"

  Liddy was arranging her bits of paper with the skill of long practiceand paid no attention.

  "Did it ever occur to you," I went on, putting my hand over the scraps,"that when people tear up their correspondence, it is for the expresspurpose of keeping it from being read?"

  "If they wasn't ashamed of it they wouldn't take so much trouble, MissRachel," Liddy said oracularly. "More than that, with things happeningevery day, I consider it my duty. If you don't read and act on this, Ishall give it to that Jamieson, and I'll venture he'll not go back tothe city to-day."

  That decided me. If the scraps had anything
to do with the mysteryordinary conventions had no value. So Liddy arranged the scraps, likeworking out one of the puzzle-pictures children play with, and she didit with much the same eagerness. When it was finished she steppedaside while I read it.

  "Wednesday night, nine o'clock. Bridge," I real aloud. Then, aware ofAlex's stare, I turned on Liddy.

  "Some one is to play bridge to-night at nine o'clock," I said. "Is thatyour business, or mine?"

  Liddy was aggrieved. She was about to reply when I scooped up thepieces and left the conservatory.

  "Now then," I said, when we got outside, "will you tell me why youchoose to take Alex into your confidence? He's no fool. Do yousuppose he thinks any one in this house is going to play bridgeto-night at nine o'clock, by appointment! I suppose you have shown itin the kitchen, and instead of my being able to slip down to the bridgeto-night quietly, and see who is there, the whole household will begoing in a procession."

  "Nobody knows it," Liddy said humbly. "I found it in the basket inMiss Gertrude's dressing-room. Look at the back of the sheet." Iturned over some of the scraps, and, sure enough, it was a blankdeposit slip from the Traders' Bank. So Gertrude was going to meetJack Bailey that night by the bridge! And I had thought he was ill!It hardly seemed like the action of an innocent man--this avoidance ofdaylight, and of his fiancee's people. I decided to make certain,however, by going to the bridge that night.

  After luncheon Mr. Jamieson suggested that I go with him to Richfield,and I consented.

  "I am inclined to place more faith in Doctor Stewart's story," he said,"since I found that scrap in old Thomas' pocket. It bears out thestatement that the woman with the child, and the woman who quarreledwith Armstrong, are the same. It looks as if Thomas had stumbled on tosome affair which was more or less discreditable to the dead man, and,with a certain loyalty to the family, had kept it to himself. Then,you see, your story about the woman at the card-room window begins tomean something. It is the nearest approach to anything tangible thatwe have had yet."

  Warner took us to Richfield in the car. It was about twenty-five milesby railroad, but by taking a series of atrociously rough short cuts wegot there very quickly. It was a pretty little town, on the river, andback on the hill I could see the Mortons' big country house, whereHalsey and Gertrude had been staying until the night of the murder.

  Elm Street was almost the only street, and number fourteen was easilyfound. It was a small white house, dilapidated without having gainedanything picturesque, with a low window and a porch only a foot or soabove the bit of a lawn. There was a baby-carriage in the path, andfrom a swing at the side came the sound of conflict. Three smallchildren were disputing vociferously, and a faded young woman with akindly face was trying to hush the clamor. When she saw us she untiedher gingham apron and came around to the porch.

  "Good afternoon," I said. Jamieson lifted his hat, without speaking."I came to inquire about a child named Lucien Wallace."

  "I am glad you have come," she said. "In spite of the other children,I think the little fellow is lonely. We thought perhaps his motherwould be here to-day."

  Mr. Jamieson stepped forward.

  "You are Mrs. Tate?" I wondered how the detective knew.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Mrs. Tate, we want to make some inquiries. Perhaps in the house--"

  "Come right in," she said hospitably. And soon we were in the littleshabby parlor, exactly like a thousand of its prototypes. Mrs. Tate satuneasily, her hands folded in her lap.

  "How long has Lucien been here?" Mr. Jamieson asked.

  "Since a week ago last Friday. His mother paid one week's board inadvance; the other has not been paid."

  "Was he ill when he came?"

  "No, sir, not what you'd call sick. He was getting better of typhoid,she said, and he's picking up fine."

  "Will you tell me his mother's name and address?"

  "That's the trouble," the young woman said, knitting her brows. "Shegave her name as Mrs. Wallace, and said she had no address. She waslooking for a boarding-house in town. She said she worked in adepartment store, and couldn't take care of the child properly, and heneeded fresh air and milk. I had three children of my own, and onemore didn't make much difference in the work, but--I wish she would paythis week's board."

  "Did she say what store it was?"

  "No, sir, but all the boy's clothes came from King's. He has far toofine clothes for the country."

  There was a chorus of shouts and shrill yells from the front door,followed by the loud stamping of children's feet and a throaty "whoa,whoa!" Into the room came a tandem team of two chubby youngsters, aboy and a girl, harnessed with a clothes-line, and driven by a laughingboy of about seven, in tan overalls and brass buttons. The smalldriver caught my attention at once: he was a beautiful child, and,although he showed traces of recent severe illness, his skin had nowthe clear transparency of health.

  "Whoa, Flinders," he shouted. "You're goin' to smash the trap."

  Mr. Jamieson coaxed him over by holding out a lead-pencil, striped blueand yellow.

  "Now, then," he said, when the boy had taken the lead-pencil and wastesting its usefulness on the detective's cuff, "now then, I'll bet youdon't know what your name is!"

  "I do," said the boy. "Lucien Wallace."

  "Great! And what's your mother's name?"

  "Mother, of course. What's your mother's name?" And he pointed to me!I am going to stop wearing black: it doubles a woman's age.

  "And where did you live before you came here?" The detective waspolite enough not to smile.

  "Grossmutter," he said. And I saw Mr. Jamieson's eyebrows go up.

  "German," he commented. "Well, young man, you don't seem to know muchabout yourself."

  "I've tried it all week," Mrs. Tate broke in. "The boy knows a word ortwo of German, but he doesn't know where he lived, or anything abouthimself."

  Mr. Jamieson wrote something on a card and gave it to her.

  "Mrs. Tate," he said, "I want you to do something. Here is some moneyfor the telephone call. The instant the boy's mother appears here,call up that number and ask for the person whose name is there. Youcan run across to the drug-store on an errand and do it quietly. Justsay, 'The lady has come.'"

  "'The lady has come,'" repeated Mrs. Tate. "Very well, sir, and I hopeit will be soon. The milk-bill alone is almost double what it was."

  "How much is the child's board?" I asked.

  "Three dollars a week, including his washing."

  "Very well," I said. "Now, Mrs. Tate, I am going to pay last week'sboard and a week in advance. If the mother comes, she is to knownothing of this visit--absolutely not a word, and, in return for yoursilence, you may use this money for--something for your own children."

  Her tired, faded face lighted up, and I saw her glance at the littleTates' small feet. Shoes, I divined--the feet of the genteel poorbeing almost as expensive as their stomachs.

  As we went back Mr. Jamieson made only one remark: I think he waslaboring under the weight of a great disappointment.

  "Is King's a children's outfitting place?" he asked.

  "Not especially. It is a general department store."

  He was silent after that, but he went to the telephone as soon as wegot home, and called up King and Company, in the city.

  After a time he got the general manager, and they talked for some time.When Mr. Jamieson hung up the receiver he turned to me.

  "The plot thickens," he said with his ready smile. "There are fourwomen named Wallace at King's none of them married, and none overtwenty. I think I shall go up to the city to-night. I want to go tothe Children's Hospital. But before I go, Miss Innes, I wish you wouldbe more frank with me than you have been yet. I want you to show methe revolver you picked up in the tulip bed."

  So he had known all along!

  "It WAS a revolver, Mr. Jamieson," I admitted, cornered at last, "but Ican not show it to you. It is not in my possession."