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CHAPTER V
MRS. ATKINS HOLDS SOMETHING BACK
“IS Mrs. Atkins ready?” I inquired of the pretty maid. Before she had time to answer, I heard the frou-frou of silk skirts advancing rapidly towards me. The perfume I had already noticed grew still more overpowering, and the lady herself appeared. And an exceedingly pretty little woman she proved to to be, too, with golden hair and cheeks that rivalled the roses. Her large blue eyes were as innocent and, it would be hypercritical to add, as expressionless as her sisters’ of the toy-shop. A white muslin garment, slashed in every direction to admit of bands and frills of lace, enveloped her small person, and yards of blue ribbon floated around her. Her tiny, dimpled fingers were covered with glittering rings, which, however, scarcely outshone her small pink nails. She beamed coquettishly at me, showing some very pretty, sharp little teeth as she did so, and I found myself smiling back at her, completely forgetting the tragic errand I had come on.
“Oh, Doctor,” she cried, in a high treble voice, “isn’t it dreadful! They tell me that a poor man has been killed in the building, and I am so terrified at having to look at him! Must I really do so?” She wrung her hands in graceful distress.
“I’m afraid you must,” I replied, smiling down at her.
“But you will go with me, won’t you?” she begged.
“Certainly, dear Madam, and if your servants are also ready we had better get it over immediately.”
As the lady crossed the threshold of her apartment she tucked her hand confidingly into my arm, as if the support of the nearest man were her indisputable right, and, followed by the two servants, we proceeded in this fashion down-stairs. Mr. Merritt met us on the landing, and, signing to the two girls to wait outside, ushered us into the room where the body lay.
As Mrs. Atkins caught sight of the dead man a great shudder shook her whole body, and I felt the hand on my arm grow suddenly rigid. She neither screamed nor fainted, but stood strangely still, as if turned to stone, her eyes riveted on the corpse in a horrified stare.
“Mrs. Atkins?” inquired the Coroner.
She seemed incapable of answering him.
“Mrs. Atkins,” he repeated, a little louder, “do you recognise the deceased?”
This time she moved slightly and tried to moisten her grey lips. At last, with a visible effort, she slowly raised her eyes and glanced about her with fear.
“No, no,” she murmured, in a hollow voice.
“Mrs. Atkins, I must request you to look at the dead man again,” the detective said, fixing his eyes on her. “One of the elevator boys has identified the body as that of a gentleman who called on you on Tuesday evening.”
She raised her arm as if to ward off a blow, and moved slightly away from me.
“I don’t know the man,” she said.
“You deny that he called on you on Tuesday evening?”
“I do,” she answered, in a steady voice.
I saw that she was rapidly recovering her self-control, and I made up my mind that I had misjudged the little woman. Under that soft, childish exterior must lie an indomitable will.
“Do you deny that you received a man on that evening?” She glanced hastily at each of us before answering: “No.”
“Oh, you did see a gentleman? Who was he?”
She hesitated a moment: “An old friend.”
“Will you kindly tell us his name?”
“No! I won’t have him mixed up in this.”
“Madam,” said the detective, “the deceased has been murdered, and—” A shriek interrupted him.
“Murdered! Oh, no, no,” she gasped, her eyes wide with terror.
“I regret to say that there is no doubt of it.”
“But when,—how?” she demanded, in a trembling voice.
“On Tuesday night.”
She drew a deep breath. The horror faded slowly from her face, and she repeated with great composure, “Oh, Tuesday night,” with a slight emphasis on the Tuesday.
The change in her was perfectly startling. She seemed calm,—almost indifferent.
“Have you discovered how he was murdered?” she inquired.
“Yes; he was stabbed through the heart by an instrument no larger than a knitting-needle.”
“How strange,” she exclaimed; “do you know who committed the crime?”
“Not yet,” said the Coroner; “and now, Mrs. Atkins, I ask you again if you are quite sure that you have never seen the deceased before?”
“Yes,” she answered, firmly.
“And you are willing to testify to this effect?”
“Yes.”
“You are aware that the elevator boy has positively identified the body as that of your visitor?”
“I guess my word’s as good as a nigger’s,” she said, with a defiant toss of her head.
“No doubt,” replied the Coroner, politely; “but if you would tell us the name and address of your friend we could look him up and be able to assure the police of his safety, and so save you the disagreeable necessity of appearing in court.”
“In court,” she repeated, with a horrified expression. Evidently this possibility had not occurred to her, and she glanced hurriedly around as if contemplating immediate flight.
“Mrs. Atkins,” said the detective, earnestly, “I do not think that you realise certain facts. A man has been murdered who has been identified, rightly or wrongly, with your visitor. Now, no one saw your friend leave the building, and it is our business to ascertain that he did so. Can you tell us what became of him?”
A hunted expression came into her eyes, but she answered in a steady voice: “My friend left me at a little after eleven; he was going to take the midnight train to Boston.” She paused. “His name is Allan Brown—there, now!”
“Thank you, madam, and what is Mr. Brown’s address in Boston?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was his address in New York?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Was he in any business?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, sullenly, with a glance at the door.
“Mrs. Atkins, you seem singularly ignorant about your friend,—your old friend.”
“Well, I hadn’t seen him for some years. He’s a stranger in the city.”
“Where is his home?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, impatiently.
“Are you a New Yorker, Mrs. Atkins?” inquired the detective.
“No.”
“Ah, I thought not! And where do you come from?”
“Chicago.”
“Chicago? Indeed! I’ve been there some myself,” Mr. Merritt continued, in a conversational tone. “Nice place. How long is it since you left there?”
“Six months,” she answered, curtly.
“So it was in Chicago you knew your friend?”
“Yes,” she admitted, with a slight start.
“And you are sure he didn’t belong there?”
“Yes; but look here: why are you asking such a lot of questions about him? I’ve told you his name and where he’s gone to, and if you can’t find him that’s your lookout.”
“The consequences of our not being able to find him would be much more serious for you than for me,” remarked Mr. Merritt, quietly.
“Now, Mrs. Atkins,” resumed the Coroner, “can you say in what particular Mr. Brown differs from this dead man?”
“Oh, they’re a good deal alike,” she replied, fluently,—but I noticed that she did not look in the direction of the corpse,—“only Mr. Brown’s younger, and not so heavy, and his nose is different. Still, the man does resemble Mr. Brown surprisingly. It gave me quite a shock when I first saw him.” It certainly had, only I wondered if that were the true explanation.
“Please tell us what you did yesterday.”
“I went out in the morning and I came home at about half-past five.”
“What were you doing during all that time?”
“Oh, several things; I called on some friends and did some errands.”
“Your husband has been out of town, I hear?”
“Yes.”
“When did he leave the city?”
“On Tuesday morning.”
“When did he return?”
“Last night.”
“At what time?”
“Half-past one.”
“Where did he come from?”
“Boston.”
“But surely the Boston train gets in a good deal earlier than that!” the Coroner exclaimed.
“Yes, there had been a delay owing to a slight accident on the line,” she reluctantly explained.
“Is Mr. Atkins often away?”
“Yes; he’s out of town every week or so, on business.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Atkins, that is all,” the Coroner concluded, politely. But the lady was not so easily appeased, and flounced out of the room without deigning to glance at any of us.
The detective slipped out after her—to call the maids, as he explained, but it was five or six minutes before he returned with the waitress.
After answering several unimportant questions, the girl was asked whether she had ever seen the deceased before. “No, sir,” she replied, promptly.
“Did anyone call on your mistress on Tuesday evening?”
“I can’t say, sir; I was out.”
“At what time did you go out?”
“At about a quarter to eight, sir.”
“Where did you go to?”
“We went to a party at me sister’s.”
“Who do you mean by ‘we’?”
“The cook and me, sir.”
“Ah, the cook went out, too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you usually go out together?”
“No, sir.”
“How did it happen that you did so on Tuesday?”
“Mr. Atkins, he was away, so Mrs. Atkins she said we might both go out.”
“Mr. Atkins is often away from home, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How often?”
“About once a fortnight, sir.”
“Has Mrs. Atkins ever allowed you both to go out together before?”
“No, sir.”
“Where does your sister live, and what is her name?”
“Mrs. Moriarty, 300 Third Avenue.”
The Coroner paused to scribble down the address, then resumed:
“At what time did you get back from the party?”
The girl tugged at her dress in some embarrassment. “It might have been after eleven,” she reluctantly admitted.
“How much after—quarter past, half-past?” he suggested, as she still hesitated.
“It was almost half-past, sir.”
“And when you returned, did you see your mistress?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Was she alone?”
“Yes, sir,” the girl answered, with some surprise.
“Did you notice anything unusual about her?”
“Well, sir, she’d been crying, and I never see her cry before.”
“What did Mrs. Atkins say to you?”
“She scolded us for being so late,” the girl answered shamefacedly.
“Was that all she said?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where was your mistress when you saw her?”
“She was lying on the sofy in her bed-room, tired like.”
“What did Mrs. Atkins do yesterday?”
“She went out after breakfast and didn’t come back till nearly six.”
“How did she seem when she returned?”
“She’d been crying awful, and she just lay quiet and wouldn’t eat no dinner.”
“Do Mr. and Mrs. Atkins get along well together?”
“Oh, sir, they’re that loving,” she answered with a blush and a smile.
Again my curiosity got the better of my discretion, and I asked: “Did you hear any strange noises during the night?”
The Coroner glared at me, but said nothing this time.
“Well,” replied the girl, “me and Jane did think as we’d heard a scream.”
Ha, ha, thought I, and I saw Mr. Merritt indulge in one of his quiet smiles.
“So you heard a scream,” said the Coroner.
“I don’t know for sure; I thought so.”
“At what time did you hear it?”
“I don’t know, sir; some time in the night.”
“What did you do when you heard it?”
“Nothing, sir.”
This was all that could be got out of her, so she made way for the cook, who, after being cross-questioned at some length, did no more than corroborate the waitress’s statement, only she was more positive of having heard the “screech” as she called it.
“Could you tell whether it was a man or woman who screamed?” inquired the Coroner.
“It was a woman’s voice, sir.”
Mr. Stuart, who was next admitted, proved to be a small, middle-aged man, extremely well groomed, and whom I recognized as one of the members of my Club, whose name I had never known. On being asked if he had ever seen the dead man before, he solemnly inserted a single eye-glass into his right eye, and contemplated the corpse with the greatest imperturbability.
“So far as I can remember, I have never seen the man before,” he answered at last. After replying satisfactorily to a few more questions, he was allowed to retire, and his cook took his place. She was a large, stout woman about thirty years old, with a good deal of that coarse Southern beauty, which consists chiefly in snapping black eyes, masses of dark hair, and good teeth. On catching sight of the corpse, she threw up her hands and uttered a succession of squeals, which she seemed to consider due to the horror of the occasion, and then turned serenely towards the Coroner, and with a slight courtesy stood smilingly awaiting his questions.
“What is your name?” he inquired.
“Jeanne Alexandrine Argot,” she replied.
“You are in the employ of Mr. Stuart?”
“Yes, sar. I ’ave been with Mr. Stuah, six a years, and he tell you–”
“Please look at the deceased, and tell me if you have ever seen him before?” the Coroner hastily interrupted.
“No, sar.”
After answering a few more questions with overpowering volubility, she withdrew, and her husband entered. He was a tall, vigorous man, with large hawk-like eyes, apparently a good deal older than his wife. He bowed to us all on entering, and stood respectfully near the door, waiting to be spoken to.
“What is your name?” inquired the Coroner.
“Celestin Marie Argot.”
“You work for Mr. Stuart?”
“Yes, sar; I am Meester Stuah’s butlair.”
“Look at this corpse, and tell me if you can identify it as that of any one you know, or have ever seen?”
He now glanced for the first time at the body, and I thought I saw his face contract slightly. But the expression was so fleeting that I could not be sure of it, and when he raised his head a few moments later he seemed perfectly composed and answered calmly: “I do not know ze man.”
Apparently the Coroner was not completely satisfied, for he went on: “You know that this man has been murdered, and that it is your duty to give us any information that might lead to his identification. Have you seen any suspicious persons about the building during the last few days?”
“No, sar; nobody,”—but I thought he had hesitated an instant before answering.
“You must see a good many people pass up and down the back stairs,” the detective remarked; “especially in this hot weather, when you must be obliged to leave the kitchen door open a good deal so as to get a draught.”
The man cast a hurried, and I thought an apprehensive, glance at Mr. Merritt, and replied quickly: “Yes, sar; ze door is open almos’ all ze time, but I ’ave seen nobody.”
“Nobody?” repeated the detective.
“Yes, sar,” Argot asserted, still more emphatically. “No vone, excep’ ze butchair, ze bakair, and ze ozer tradesmen, of course.”
“How early are you likely to open the kitchen door? To leave it open, I mean?”
“Oh, not till eight o’clock, perhap—Madame Argot, she stay in déshabille till zen.”
“What time do you go to bed?”
“At ten o’clock generally, but some time eleven o’clock—even midnight—it depens.”
“What time did you go to bed on Tuesday?”
“At eleven, sar.”
“What had you been doing during the evening?”
“I had been at a restaurant wiz some friends.”
“And when did you return?”
“At about half-pas’ ten.”
“Did you come in the back way?”
“Yes, sar.”
“How did you get in?”
“My wife, she open ze door.”
“And you saw nobody as you came in?”
He paused almost imperceptibly. “No, sar,” he answered. But I was now convinced that he was holding something back.
“Very well; you can go,” said the Coroner. The fellow bowed himself out with a good deal of quiet dignity.
“I kinder fancy that man knows something he won’t tell,” said the Coroner. “Now, we’ve seen every one but the workmen,” he continued, wearily, mopping his forehead. “I don’t believe one of them knows a thing; still, I’ve got to go through with it, I suppose,” and going to the door he beckoned them all in.
There were five of them, including the foreman, and they appeared to be quiet, respectable young men. After looking at the dead man intently for some minutes, they all asserted that they had never laid eyes on him before.
“Now have any of you noticed during the three days you have been working here anybody who might have taken the key, kept it for some hours, and returned it without your noticing it?” inquired the Coroner.
“We’ve seen no strangers,” the foreman replied, cautiously.
“Who have you seen?” The foreman was evidently prepared for this question.
“Well, sir, we’ve seen altogether six people: Jim, and Joe, and Tony, Mr. McGorry, Miss Derwent, and the Frinchman,” he replied, checking them off on his fingers.
“When did the Frenchman come up here?”
“Yistidy morning, sir; he said he come to see the decorations, and he come again about three; but he didn’t stay long. I warn’t a-going to have him hanging round here interfering!”
“Did any of his actions at the time strike you as suspicious?”
“No, sir,” acknowledged the foreman.
“And Miss Derwent; when did you see her?”
“I didn’t see her myself in the morning, but he”—with a nod towards one of the men,—“he saw her look in as she was waiting for the elevator, and in the afternoon she come right in.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Yes, sir; she said the paint and papers were mighty pretty.”
“When you saw Miss Derwent,” said the Coroner, addressing the man whom the foreman had pointed out, “what was she doing?”
“She was standing just inside the hall.”
“Was her hand on the door knob?”
“I didn’t notice, sir.”
“Did the young lady say anything?”
“When she saw me a-looking at her, she just said: ‘How pretty!’ and went away.”
“Have any of you seen Mr. or Mrs. Atkins, or either of their girls, since you have been working here?” They all replied in the negative.
The Coroner’s physician turned up at this juncture, with many apologies for his late arrival, so, having no further excuse for remaining, I took my leave. The lower hall swarmed with innumerable reporters, trying to force their way upstairs, and who were only prevented from doing so by the infuriated McGorry and two or three stalwart policemen. On catching sight of me they all fell upon me with one accord, and I only managed to escape by giving them the most detailed description of the corpse and professing complete ignorance as to everything else.
CHAPTER VI
A LETTER AND ITS ANSWER
WHEN I got back to my diggings I was astonished to find that it was only ten o’clock. How little time it takes to change the whole world for one! All day long I forced myself to go about my usual work, but the thought of May Derwent never left me.
It was the greatest relief to find that in none of the evening papers did her name appear. How McGorry managed to conceal from the reporters the fact that she had been in the building remains a mystery to this day—but how thankful I was that he was able to do so! Already my greatest preoccupation was to preserve her fair name from the least breath of scandal. Not for an instant did I believe her to be connected with the murder;—on the other hand, I felt equally sure that she was in some great trouble, the nature of which I could not even guess. I longed to protect and help her, but how was I to do so, ignorant as I was of everything concerning her. I didn’t even know where she was at that moment. At her mother’s, perhaps. But where was that? Suddenly I remembered that my great friend, Fred Cowper, had mentioned in one of his recent letters that Mrs. Derwent and his mother were near neighbours in the country. To think that that lucky dog had been spending the last month within a stone’s throw, perhaps, of her house—had seen her every day probably, and had been allowed these inestimable privileges simply because he had broken an old leg! And I, who would gladly have sacrificed both legs to have been in his place, was forced to remain in New York because—forsooth!—of an apoplectic old patient—who refused either to live or die! Well, as I couldn’t go to her, it was at any rate a comfort to be able to get news of her so easily—so seizing a pen, I hastily scratched off the following note:
New York,August 10, 1898.
Dear Fred:
You know me pretty well and know therefore that I’m not a prying sort of fellow—don’t you? So that when I ask you to tell me all you know about Miss May Derwent—I hope you will believe that I am animated by no idle curiosity. A doctor is often forced to carry more secrets than a family solicitor, and is as much in honor bound. Through no fault of my own, I have come into the possession of certain facts relating to Miss Derwent which lead me to believe that she is in great trouble. Furthermore, I am convinced that I could help her, were I not handicapped by my very slight personal acquaintance with her, but more than that by my entire ignorance regarding certain details of her life. I might as well acknowledge that I am interested in the young lady, and am anxious to serve her if I can. But if I am to do so, I must first find out a few particulars of her life, and these I hope you can give me.
In the first place I want to know whether she has any young male relative who is tall, with good figure? I remember hearing that she is an only child, but has she no cousin with whom she is on terms of brotherly intimacy?
Secondly, Is she engaged, or reported to be engaged, and if so, to whom?
Thirdly, What are the names of her most favored suitors?
Fourthly, What lady does she know intimately who has very dark hair, and is also slight and tall?
I don’t need to tell you to treat this letter as absolutely confidential, nor to assure you again that only the deepest interest in Miss Derwent, and the conviction that she is in need of help, induce me to pry into her affairs.
More than this I cannot tell you, so don’t ask me.
Good-night, old chap! Hope your leg is getting on all right.
Affectionately yours,Charles K. Fortescue.
Hope Farm, Beverley, L. I.,Friday, August 11.
Dear Charley,—You may imagine how exciting I found your letter when I tell you that I have known May Derwent since she was a tiny tot, and that their country place is not half a mile from here. She is exactly my sister Alice’s age, and I have never known her very well till she came out last winter, for eight years make a big barrier between children. I like and admire May extremely, for not only is she a very beautiful girl, but an extremely nice one, as well. Difficult as it may be to explain certain things, I am sure that, whatever the trouble she is in, if you knew the whole truth, you would find it only redounded to her credit. She is an impulsive, warm-hearted and rather tempestuous child—generous, loyal, and truthful to a fault. I have just been discreetly sounding Alice about her, and asked why I had not seen May since I had been down here this time, as on former occasions she used always to be running in and out of the house. And Alice tells me that for the last three months May has been a changed being. From a happy, thoughtless girl, overflowing with health and spirits, she has become a listless, self-contained, almost morose woman. She refuses to go anywhere, and spends most of her time either in her own room or taking long solitary walks or rides. The doctor talks of nervous prostration, but do you think it likely that a vigorous, athletic young girl would develop nerves solely in consequence of a few months’ gaiety during the winter? It seems to me incredible, and so I am forced to believe that May has something on her mind which is reacting on her body, causing her to shun all the things she used to delight in. Now, when a young, rich, beautiful, and sought-after girl suddenly takes to avoiding her species, and becomes pale and melancholy, the usual explanation is—an unhappy love affair. And, of course, that may still turn out to be the truth in this case; but in the meantime I have another hypothesis to suggest, that seems to me to fit in with the known facts even better than the other.
May Derwent is not an only child, but has, or at any rate had, a brother about ten years older than herself who, I confess, was one of the heroes of my childhood. Only a little older than the rest of us boys, he was much bigger and stronger. He was the leader of all our games, and the instigator of our most outrageous exploits. He was the horror of all parents and the delight of all children. Cruel, vindictive, untruthful, leaving others to pay the penalty for his faults whenever it was possible, he was not a nice boy even in those early days, but then he was so handsome, so bold and unscrupulous, so inspired in devising new crimes for us to commit, that it is hardly to be wondered at that he was at the same time our terror and our idol. His school record was bad; his college record was worse, till one fine day he suddenly and mysteriously disappeared from Harvard, and has never been heard of since. What had occurred I never could find out; that it was something very disgraceful I am sure, for his mother, whose pride and hope he had been, never again mentioned his name.
Now, don’t you think it quite possible that he may have returned and been bothering his sister in some way? She may be either trying to shield him from still greater disgrace, or be endeavouring to spare her mother the further knowledge of his misdeeds. Mind you, these are all merely the wildest conjectures.
As for May’s lovers, their name is simply legion, including young Norman, the millionaire, Sir Arthur Trevor, Guy Weatherby and a painter chap—Greywood, I think his name is. Mère Derwent, I believe, favors Norman’s suit, having (sensible woman!) a great faith in American husbands, but there is a rumour that May, with the perversity of her sex, is inclined to smile on the young artist, who, I am told is an affected chap, just back from Paris, without either money or talent. But no doubt he strikes her as a more romantic lover than good old Norman, who is the best of fellows, and absolutely eligible in every way.
Alice tells me that May has appeared quite eager for her Bar Harbor visit, notwithstanding that she has refused all other invitations, and Mrs. Derwent has had great hopes that the change would do her good.
What you have told me is no small tax on my discretion, but what you have refrained from telling taxes my curiosity far more. But notice—I ask no questions!!
By the way, why don’t you come down and spend next Sunday with us? You might see the lovely May again,—who knows?
Affectionately yours,Fred.
