Kitabı oku: «Vicky Van», sayfa 2
And yet, I had a vague idea that we ought all to stay.
"I shall remain and face the music," I heard Mrs. Reeves saying. "Where is Vicky? Do you suppose she knows about this? I'm going up in the music room to see if she's there. You know, with all the excitement down here, those upstairs may know nothing of it."
"I shall remain, too" said Ariadne Gale. "Why should anyone kill Mr. Somers? Did the caterer's people do it? What an awful thing! Will it be in the papers?"
"Will it!" said Garrison, who was standing near. "Reporters may be here any minute. Must be here as soon as the police come. Where is Miss Van Allen?"
"I don't know," and Ariadne began to cry.
"Stop that," said Mrs. Reeves, gruffly, but not unkindly. "Stay if you want to, Ariadne, but behave like a sensible woman, not a silly schoolgirl. This is an awful tragedy, of some sort."
"What do you mean, of some sort?" asked Miss Gale.
"I mean we don't know what revelations are yet to come. Where's Norman
Steele? Where's the man who brought this Somers here?"
Sure enough, where was Steele? I had forgotten all about him. And it was he who had introduced Somers to the Van Allen house, and no one else present, so far as I knew, was previously acquainted with the man now lying dead the other side of that closed door.
I looked over the people who had stayed. Only a handful—perhaps half a dozen.
And then I wondered if I'd better go home myself. Not for my own sake, in any way; indeed, I preferred to remain, but I thought of Aunt Lucy and Win. Ought I to bring on them any shadow of trouble or opprobrium that might result from my presence in that house at that time? Would it not be better to go while I could do so? For, once the police took charge, I knew I should be called on to testify in public. And even as I debated with myself, the police arrived.
CHAPTER III
THE WAITER'S STORY
Doctor Remson's police call had been imperative, and Inspector Mason came in with two men.
"What's this? What's wrong here?" the big burly inspector said, as he faced the few of us who had remained.
"Come in here, inspector," said the doctor, from the dining-room door.
And from that moment the whole aspect of the house seemed to change.
No longer a gay little bijou residence, it became a court of justice.
One of the men was stationed at the street door and one at the area door below. Headquarters was notified of details. The coroner was summoned, and we were all for the moment under detention.
"Where is Miss Van Allen? Where is the lady of the house?" asked
Mason. "Where are the servants? Who is in charge here?"
Was ever a string of questions so impossible of answers!
Doctor Remson told the main facts, but he was reticent. I, too, hesitated to say much, for the case was strange indeed.
Mrs. Reeves looked gravely concerned, but said nothing.
Ariadne Gale began to babble. That girl didn't know how to be quiet.
"I guess Miss Van Allen is upstairs," she volunteered. "She was in the dining-room, but she isn't here now, so she must be upstairs. Shall I go and see?"
"No!" thundered the inspector. "Stay where you are. Search the house,
Breen. I'll cover the street door."
The man he called Breen went upstairs on the jump, and Mason continued. "Tell the story, one of you. Who is this man? Who killed him?"
As he talked, the inspector was examining Somers' body, making rapid notes in a little book, keeping his eye on the door, and darting quick glances at each of us, as he tried to grasp the situation.
I looked at Bert Garrison, who was perhaps the most favored of Miss Van Allen's friends, but he shook his head, so I threw myself into the breach.
"Inspector," I said, "that man's name is Somers. Further than that I know nothing. He is a stranger to all of us, and he came to this house to-night for the first time in his life."
"How'd he happen to come? Friend of Miss Van Allen?"
"He met her to-night for the first time. He came here with—" I paused. It was so hard to know what to do. Steele had gone home, ought I to implicate him?
"Go on—came here with whom? The truth, now."
"I usually speak the truth" I returned, shortly. "He came with Mr.
Norman Steele."
"Where is Mr. Steele?"
"He has gone. There were a great many people here, and, naturally, some of them went away when this tragedy was discovered."
"Humph! Then, of course, the guilty party escaped. But we are getting nowhere. Does nobody know anything of this man, but his name?"
Nobody did; but Ariadne piped up, "He was a delightful man. He told me he was a great patron of art, and often bought pictures."
Paying little heed to her, the inspector was endeavoring to learn from the dead man's property something more about him.
"No letters or papers," he said, disappointedly, as he turned out the pockets. "Not unusual—in evening togs—but not even a card or anything personal—looks queer—"
"Look in his watch," said Ariadne, bridling with importance.
Giving her a keen glance, the inspector followed her suggestion. In the back of the case was a picture of a coquettish face, undoubtedly that of an actress. It was not carefully fastened in, but roughly cut out and pressed in with ragged edges.
"Temporary," grunted the inspector, "and recently stuck in. Some chicken he took out to supper. He's a club man, you say?"
"Yes, Mr. Steele said so, and also vouched for his worth and character." I resented the inspector's attitude. Though I knew nothing of Somers, and didn't altogether like him, yet, I saw no reason to think ill of the dead, until circumstances warranted it.
Further search brought a thick roll of money, some loose silver, a key-ring with seven or eight keys, eyeglasses in a silver case, handkerchiefs, a gold pencil, a knife, and such trifles as any man might have in his pockets, but no directly identifying piece of property.
R. S. was embroidered in tiny white letters on the handkerchiefs, and a monogram R. S. was on his seal ring.
His jewelry, which was costly, the inspector did not touch. There were magnificent pearl studs, a watch fob, set with a black opal and pearl cufflinks. Examination of his hat showed the pierced letters R. S., but nothing gave clue to his Christian name.
"Somers," said the inspector, musingly. "What club does he belong to?"
"I don't know," I replied. "Mr. Steele belongs to several, but Mr. Somers does not belong to any that I do. At least, I've never seen him at any."
"Call in the servants. Let's find out something about this household."
As no one else moved to do it, I stepped to the door of the butler's pantry, and summoned the head waiter of the caterer.
"Where are the house servants?" I asked him.
"There aren't any, sir," he replied, looking shudderingly at the grisly form on the floor.
"No servants? In a house of this type! What do you mean?"
"That's true," said Mrs. Reeves, breaking her silence, at last. "Miss Van Allen has a very capable woman, who is housekeeper and ladies' maid in one. But when guests are here, the suppers are served from the caterer's."
"Then call the housekeeper. And where is Miss Van Allen herself?"
"She's not in the house," said the policeman Breen, returning from his search.
"Not in the house!" cried Mrs. Reeves. "Where is she?"
"I've been all over—every room—every floor. She isn't in the house.
There's nobody upstairs at all."
"No housekeeper or maid?" demanded Mason. "Then they've got away!
Here, waiter, tell me all you know of this thing."
The Italian Luigi came forward, shaking with terror, and wringing his fingers nervously.
"I d—don't know anything about it," he began, but Mason interrupted,
"You do! You know all about it! Did you kill this man?"
"No! Dio mio! No! a thousand no's!"
"Then, unless you wish to be suspected of it, tell all you know."
A commotion at the door heralded the coroner's arrival, also a detective and a couple of plain clothes men. Clearly, here was a mysterious case.
The coroner at once took matters in his own hands. Inspector Mason told him all that had been learned so far, and though Coroner Fenn seemed to think matters had been pretty well bungled, he made no comment and proceeded with the inquiries.
"Sure there's nobody upstairs?" he asked Breen.
"Positive. I looked in every nook and cranny. I've raked the whole house, but the basement and kitchen part."
"Go down there, then, and then go back and search upstairs again. Somebody may be hiding. Who here knows Miss Van Allen the most intimately?"
"Perhaps I do," said Mrs. Reeves. "Or Miss Gale. We are both her warm friends."
"I'm also her friend," volunteered Bert Garrison. "And I can guarantee that if Miss Van Allen has fled from this house it was out of sheer fright. She never saw this man until to-night. He was a stranger to us all."
"Where's the housekeeper?" went on Fenn.
"I think she must be somewhere about," said Mrs. Reeves. "Perhaps in the kitchen. Julie is an all round capable woman. When there are no guests she prepares Miss Van Allen's meals herself. When company is present the caterer always is employed."
"And there are no other servants?"
"Not permanent ones," replied Mrs. Reeves. "I believe the laundress and chore boy come by the day, also cleaning women and such. But I know that Miss Van Allen has no resident servant besides the maid Julie."
"This woman must be found," snapped the coroner. "But we must first of all identify the body. Mason, call up the principal clubs on the telephone, and locate R. Somers. Also find Mr. Norman Steele. Now, Luigi, let's have your story."
The trembling waiter stammered incoherently, and said little of moment.
"Look here," said Fenn, bluntly, "is that your knife sticking in him? I mean, is it one belonging to Fraschini's service? Don't touch it, but look at it, you can tell."
Luigi leaned over the dead man. "Yes, it is one of our boning knives," he said. "We always bring our own hardware."
"Well, then, if you want to clear yourself and your men of doubt, tell all you know."
"I know this," and Luigi braced himself to the ordeal. "I was waiting in the pantry for Miss Van Allen to send me word to serve supper, and I peeped in the dining-room now and then to see if it was time. I heard, presently, Miss Van Allen's voice, also a man's voice. I didn't want to intrude, so waited for a summons. After a moment or two I heard a little scream, and heard somebody or something fall. I had no thought of anything wrong, but thought the guests were unusually—er—riotous."
"Are Miss Van Allen's guests inclined to be riotous?"
"No, sir, oh, no," asseverated the man, while Mrs. Reeves and Ariadne looked indignant. "And for that reason, I felt a little curious, so I pushed the door ajar and peeped in."
"What did you see?"
"I saw," Luigi paused so long that I feared he was going to collapse. But the coroner eyed him sternly, and he went on. "I saw Miss Van Allen standing, looking down at this—this gentleman on the floor, and making as if to pull out the knife. I could scarcely believe my eyes, and I watched her. She didn't pull the knife, but she straightened up, looked around, glanced down at her gown, which—which was stained with blood—and then—she ran out into the hall."
"Where did she go?"
"I don't know. I couldn't see, as the door was but on a crack. Then I thought I ought to go into the dining-room, and I did. I looked at the gentleman, and I didn't know what to do. So I went into the hall, to the parlor door, and called for help, for a doctor or somebody. And then they all came out here. That's all I know."
Luigi's nerve gave way, and he sank into a chair with a sob. Fenn looked at him, and considerately left him alone for the time.
"Can this be true?" he said, turning to us. "Can you suspect Miss Van
Allen of this crime?"
"No!" cried Bert Garrison and the women, at once. And, "No!" said I. "I am positive Miss Van Allen did not know Mr. Somers and could not have killed an utter stranger—on no provocation whatever."
"You do not know what provocation she may have had," suggested Fenn.
"Now, look here, Mr. Coroner," said Mrs. Reeves very decidedly, "I won't have Miss Van Allen spoken of in any such way. I assume you mean that this man, though a stranger, might have said or done something to annoy or offend Miss Van Allen. Well, if he had done so, Victoria Van Allen never would have killed him! She is the gentlest, most gay and light-hearted girl, and though she never tolerates any rudeness or familiarity, the idea of her killing a man is too absurd. You might as well suspect a dove or a butterfly of crime!"
"That's right, Mr. Coroner," said Garrison. "That waiter's story is an hallucination of some sort—if it isn't a deliberate falsification. Miss Van Allen is a dainty, happy creature, and to connect her with anything like this is absurd!"
"That's to be found out, Mr. Garrison. Why did Miss Van Allen run away?"
"I don't admit that she did run away—in the sense of flight. If she were frightened at this thing—if she saw it—she may have run out of the door in hysterics or in a panic of terror. But she the perpetrator! Never!"
"Never!" echoed Mrs. Reeves. "The poor child! If she did come out here—and saw this awful sight—why, I think it would unhinge her mind!"
"Who is Miss Van Allen?" asked Fenn. "What is her occupation?"
"She hasn't an occupation," said Mrs. Reeves. "She is a young lady of independent fortune. As to her people or immediate relatives, I know nothing at all. I've known her a year or so, and as she never referred to such matters I never inquired. But she's a thorough little gentlewoman, and I'll defend her against any slander to my utmost powers."
"And so will I," said Miss Gale. "I'm sure of her fineness of character, and lovely nature—"
"But these opinions, ladies, don't help our inquiries," interrupted
Fenn. "What can you men tell us? What I want first, is to identify
this body, or, rather to learn more of R. Somers, and to find Miss Van
Allen. I can't hold an inquest until these points are cleared up.
Mason, have you found out anything?"
"No," said the inspector, returning from his long telephone quest. "I called up four clubs. Norman Steele belongs to three of them, but this man doesn't seem to belong to any. That is, there are Somerses and even R. Somerses, but they all have middle names, and, too, their description doesn't fit this Somers."
"Then Mr. Steele misrepresented him. Did you get Steele, Mason?"
"No, he wasn't at any of the clubs. I found his residence, a bachelor apartment house, but he isn't there, either."
"Find Steele; find Miss Van Allen; find the maid, what's her name—Julia?"
"Julie, she was always called," said Mrs. Reeves. "If Miss Van Allen went away, I've no doubt Julie went with her. She is a most devoted caretaker of her mistress."
"An oldish woman?"
"No. Perhaps between thirty-five and forty."
"What's she look like?"
"Describe her, Ariadne, you're an artist."
"Julie," said Miss Gale, "is a good sort. She's medium-sized, she has brown hair and rather hazel eyes. She wears glasses, and she stoops a little in her walk. She has perfect training and correct manners, and she is a model servant, but she gives the impression of watching over Miss Van Allen, whatever else she may be engaged in at the same time."
"Wears black?"
"No; usually gray gowns, or sometimes white. Inconspicuous aprons and no cap. She's not quite a menial, but yet, not entirely a housekeeper."
"English?"
"English speaking, if that's what you mean. But I think she's an
American. Don't you, Mrs Reeves?"
"American? Yes, of course."
CHAPTER IV
SOMERS' REAL NAME
Detective Lowney, who had come with the coroner, had said little but had listened to all. Occasionally he would dart from the room, and return a few moments later, scribbling in his notebook. He was an alert little man, with beady black eyes and a stubby black mustache.
"I want a few words with that caterer's man," he said, suddenly, "and then they'd better clear away this supper business and go home."
We all turned to look at the table. It stood in the end of the dining-room that was back of the living-room. The sideboard was at the opposite end, back of the hall, and it was directly in front of the sideboard that Somers' body lay.
Lowney turned on more light, and a thrill went through us at the incongruity of that gay table and the tragedy so near it. As always at Vicky Van's parties, the appointments were dainty and elaborate. Flowers decorated the table; lace, silver, and glass were of finest quality; and in the centre was the contrivance known as a "Jack Horner Pie."
"That was to be the surprise," said Mrs. Reeves. "I knew about it.
The pie is full of lovely trinkets and little jokes on the guests."
"I thought those things were for children's parties," observed Fenn, looking with interest at the gorgeous confection.
"They're really for birthdays," said Mrs. Reeves, "and to-day is Vicky's birthday. That was part of her surprise. She didn't want it known, lest the guests should bring gifts. She's like a child, Vicky is, just as happy over a birthday party as a little girl would be."
"What does Miss Van Allen look like?" asked the detective.
"She's pretty," replied Mrs. Reeves, "awfully pretty, but not a raving beauty. Black hair, and bright, fresh coloring—"
"How was she dressed? Giddy clothes?"
"In an evening gown," returned Mrs. Reeves, who resented the detective's off-hand manner. "A beautiful French gown, of tulle and gold trimmings."
"Low-necked, and all that? Jewels?"
"Yes," I said, as Mrs. Reeves disdained to answer. "Full evening costume, and a necklace and earrings of amber set in gold."
"Well, what I'm getting at is," said Lowney, "a woman dressed like that couldn't go very far in the streets without being noticed. We'll surely be able to trace Miss Van Allen. Where would she be likely to go?"
"I don't know," said Mrs. Reeves. "She wouldn't go to my home, I live 'way down in Washington Square."
"Nor to mine," chirped Ariadne, "it's over on the west side."
"I don't believe she left the house," declared the coroner.
"Tell us again, Luigi," asked Lowney, "just where did the lady seem to go, when you saw her leave this room?"
"I can't say, sir. I was looking through a small opening, as I pushed the door ajar, and I was so amazed at what I saw, that I was sort of paralyzed and didn't dare open the door further."
"Go back to the pantry," commanded Fenn, "and look in, just as you did."
The waiter retreated to the post he had held, and setting the door a few inches ajar, proved that he could see body by the sideboard, but could not command a view of the hall.
"Now, I'll represent Miss Van Allen," and Lowney stood over the body of Somers. "Is this the place?"
"A little farther to the right, sir," and Luigi's earnestness and good faith were unmistakable. "Yes, sir, just there."
"Now, I walk out into the hall. Is this the way she went?"
"Yes, sir, the same."
Lowney went from the dining-room to the hall, and it was clear that his further progress could not be seen by the peeping waiter.
"You see, Fenn," the detective went on, "from here, in the back of this long hall, Miss Van Allen could have left the house by two ways. She could have gone out at the front door, passing the parlor, or, she could have gone down these basement stairs, which are just under the stairs to the second story. Then she could have gone out by the front area door, which would give her access to the street. She could have caught up a cloak as she went."
"Or," said Fenn, musingly, "she could have run upstairs. The staircase is so far back in the hall, that the guests in the parlor would not have seen her. This is a very deep house, you see."
It was true. The stairs began so far back in the long hall, that Vicky could easily have slipped upstairs after leaving the dining-room, without being seen by any of us in the living-room, unless we were in its doorway, looking out. Was anybody? So many guests had left, that this point could not be revealed.
"I didn't see her," declared Mrs. Reeves, "and I don't believe she was in the dining-room at all. I don't care what that waiter says!"
"Oh, yes, Madame," reiterated Luigi. "It was Miss Van Allen. I know her well. Often she comes to Fraschini's, and always I take her orders. She came even this afternoon, to make sure the great cake—the Jack Horner, was all right. And she approved it, ah, she clapped her hands at sight of it. We all do our best for Miss Van Allen, she is a lovely lady."
"Miss Van Allen is one of your regular customers?"
"One of our best. Very often we serve her, and always she orders our finest wares."
"You provide everything?"
"Everything. Candles, flowers, decorations—all"
"And she pays her bills?"
"Most promptly."
"By cheque?"
"Yes, sir."
"And there are no servants here but the maid Julie?"
"I have often seen others. But I fancy they do not live in the house. Madame Julie superintends and directs us always. Miss Van Allen leaves much to her. She is most capable."
"When did you see this woman, this Julie, last?"
"A short time before—before that happened." Luigi looked toward the body. "She was in and out of the pantries all the evening. She admitted the guests, she acted as ladies' maid, and she arranged the favors in the pie. It was, I should say, ten minutes or so since she was last in the pantry, when I peeped in at the door."
"Where was Julie then?"
"I don't know. I did not see her. Perhaps upstairs, or maybe in the front of the hall, waiting to bring me word to serve supper."
"Tell me something distinctive about this maid's appearance. Was she good-looking?"
"Yes, a good-looking woman. But nothing especial about her. She had many gold fillings in her teeth—"
"That's something," and Lowney noted it with satisfaction. "Go on."
But Luigi seemed to know nothing else that differentiated Julie from her sisters in service, and Lowney changed his questions.
"How could Miss Van Allen get that knife of yours?" he asked.
"I don't know, sir. It was, I suppose, in the pantry, with our other knives."
"What is its use?"
"It is a boning knife, but doubtless one of our men used it in cutting celery for salad, or some such purpose."
"Ask them."
Inquiry showed that a man, named Palma, had used the knife for making a salad, and had left it in the butler's pantry an hour or so before the crime was committed. Any one could have taken the knife without its being missed, as the salad had been completed and put aside.
"In that case, Miss Van Allen must have secured the knife some little time before it was used, as Luigi was in the pantry just previously," observed Fenn. "That shows premeditation. It wasn't done with a weapon picked up at the moment."
"Then it couldn't have been done by Miss Van Allen!" exclaimed Mrs. Reeves triumphantly, "for Vicky had no reason to premeditate killing a man she had never seen before."
"Vicky didn't do it," wailed Ariadne. "I know she didn't."
"She must be found," said Lowney. "But she will be found. If she's innocent, she will return herself. If guilty, we must find her. And we will. A householder cannot drop out of existence unnoticed by any one. Does she own this house?"
"I think so," said Mrs. Reeves. "I'm not positive, but it's my impression that she does. Vicky Van never boasts or talks of her money or of herself. But I know she gives a good deal in charity, and is always ready to subscribe to philanthropic causes. I tell you she is not the criminal, and I don't believe she ever left this house in the middle of the night in evening dress! That child is scared to death, and is hiding—in the attic or somewhere."
"Suppose, Mrs. Reeves," said the coroner, "you go with Mr. Lowney, and look over the house again. Search the bedrooms and store-rooms."
"I will," and Mrs. Reeves seemed to welcome an opportunity to help. She was a good-hearted woman, and a staunch friend of Vicky Van. I was glad she was on hand to stand up for the girl, for I confess things looked, to me, pretty dubious.
"Come along, too, Mr. Calhoun," said Mrs. Reeves. "There's no telling what we may find. Perhaps there's further—tragedy."
I knew what was in her mind. That if Vicky had done the thing, she might have, in an agony of remorse, taken her own life.
Thrilled with this new fear, I followed Lowney and Mrs. Reeves. We went downstairs first. We examined all the basement rooms and the small, city back yard. There was no sign of Vicky Van or of Julie, and next we came back to the first floor, hunted that, and then on upstairs. The music room was soon searched, and I fell back as the others went into Vicky's bedroom.
"Come on, Mr. Calhoun," said Lowney, "we must make a thorough job of it this time."
The bedroom was, it seemed to me, like a fairy dream. Furniture of white enameled wicker, with pink satin cushions. Everywhere the most exquisite appointments of silver, crystal and embroidered fabrics, and a bed fit for a princess. It seemed profanation for the little detective to poke and pry around in wardrobes and cupboards, though I knew it must be done. He was not only looking for Vicky, but noting anything that might bear on her disappearance.
But there was no clue. Everything was in order, and all just as a well-bred, refined woman would have her belongings.
The bedroom was over the dining-room, and back of this, over the pantry extension, was Vicky Van's dressing-room.
This was a bijou boudoir, and dressing-table, chiffonier, robe-chests, and jewel-caskets were all in keeping with the personality of their owner. The walls were panelled in pale rose color, and a few fine pictures were in absolute harmony. A long mirror was in a Florentine gilt frame, and a chaise longue, by a reading table, bespoke hours of ease.
Ruthlessly, Lowney pried into everything, ran his arm among the gowns hanging in the wardrobe, and looked into the carved chests.
Again no clue. The perfect order everywhere, showed, perhaps, preparation for guests, but nothing indicated flight or hiding. The dressing-table boxes held some bits of jewelry but nothing of really great value. An escritoire was full of letters and papers, and this, Lowney locked, and put the key in his pocket.
"If it's all right," he said, "there's no harm done. And if the lady doesn't show up, we must examine the stuff."
On we went to the third floor of the house. The rooms here were unused, save one that was evidently Julie's. The furnishings, though simple, were attractive, and showed a thoughtful mistress and an appreciative maid. Everything was in order. Several uniforms of black and of gray were in the cupboard, and several white aprons and one white dress. There were books, and a work-basket and such things as betokened the life of a sedate, busy woman.
We left no room, no cupboard unopened. No hall or loft unsearched. We looked in, under and behind every piece of furniture, and came, at last, to the unescapable conclusion that wherever Vicky Van might be, she was not in her own house.
Downstairs we went, and found Coroner Fenn and Inspector Mason in the hall. They had let Doctor Remson go home, also Garrison and Miss Gale. The waiters, too, had been sent off.
"You people can go, if you like," Fenn said, to Mrs. Reeves and myself. "I'll take your addresses, and you can expect to be called on as witnesses. If we ever get anything to witness! I never saw such a case! No criminal to arrest, and nobody knows the victim! He must be from out of town. We'll nail Mr. Steele to-morrow, and begin to get somewhere. Also we'll look up Miss Van Allen's credits and business acquaintances. A woman can't have lived two years in a house like this, and not have somebody know her antecedents and relatives. I suppose Mr. Steele brought his friend here, and then, when this thing happened he was scared and lit out."
"Maybe Steele did the killing," suggested Lowney.
"No," disagreed Fenn. "I believe that Dago waiter's yarn. I cross-questioned him a lot before I let him go, and I'm sure he's telling what he saw. I'll see Fraschini's head man to-morrow—or, I suppose it's to-morrow now—hello, who's that?"
Another policeman came in at the street door.
"What's up?" he said, looking about in amazement. "You here, Mr.
Fenn? Lowney? What's doing?"
It was Patrolman Ferrall, the officer on the beat.
"Where you been?" asked the coroner. "Don't you know what has happened?"
"No; ever since midnight I been handling a crowd at a fire a couple blocks away. This is Miss Van Allen's house."
"Sure it is, and a friend of hers named Somers has been bumped off."
"What? Killed?"
"That's it. What do you know of Miss Van Allen?"
"Nothing, except that she lives here. Quiet young lady. Nothin' to be said about her. Who's the man?"
"Don't know, except named Somers. R. Somers."
"Never heard of him. Where's Miss Van Allen?"
"Skipped."
"What! That little thoroughbred can't be mixed up in a shootin'!"
"He isn't shot. Stabbed. With a kitchen knife."
"Let's see him."
The coroner and Ferrall went toward the dining room, and, on an irresistible impulse of curiosity, I followed.
"Him!" exclaimed Ferrall, as he caught sight of the dead man's features. "That ain't no Somers. That's Randolph Schuyler."
"What!"
"Sure it is. Schuyler, the millionaire. Lives on Fifth Avenue, not far down from here. Who killed him?"
"But look here. Are you sure this is Randolph Schuyler?"
"Sure? Of course I'm sure. His house is on my beat. I see him often, goin' in or comin' out."
"Well, then we have got a big case on our hands! Mason!"
The inspector could scarcely believe Ferrall's statement, but realized that the policeman must know.
"Whew!" he said, trying to think of a dozen things at once. "Then Steele knew him, and introduced him as Somers on purpose. No wonder the clubs didn't know of R. Somers! R. S. on his handkerchiefs and all that. He used a false name 'cause he didn't want it known that Randolph Schuyler came to see Miss Van Allen! Oh, here's a mess! Where's that girl? Why did she kill him?"
"She didn't!" Mrs. Reeves began to cry. "She didn't know it was Mr. Schuyler. She doesn't know Mr. Schuyler. I'm sure she doesn't, because we were making lists for bazar patrons and she said she would ask only people she knew, and we tried to find somebody who knew Randolph Schuyler, to ask him, but we didn't know anybody who was acquainted with him at all. Oh, it can't be the rich Schuyler! Why would he come here?"
