The Vanishing of Betty Varian
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“Good!” Zizi cried, clapping her hands. “When Penny talks poetry, he’s in high good humor, – and when he’s in high good humor, it’s ’cause he’s on the right track, – and when he’s on the right track, – he gets there!”
Then they told Wise about the strange communication from the girl who knew lip-reading, and the detective was even more highly elated.
“Great!” he exclaimed. “Perfectly remarkable! Where’s Granniss?”
“Gone to Boston to see a moving picture concern. He may have to go on to New York. He hopes to be back by Saturday at latest.”
It was Minna who answered, and her face was jubilant at the hope renewed in her heart by Wise’s own hopefulness.
But she determined in her secret thoughts to throw the money over the cliff on Friday night, whether the detective agreed to that plan or not. What, she argued to Mrs Fletcher, whom she took into her confidence on this matter, was any amount of money compared to the mere chance of getting back her child? She urged and bribed Fletcher until she consented to help Minna get out of the house on Friday night without Wise’s knowledge.
It was now Tuesday, and after much questioning of every one in the house as to what had taken place in his absence, the detective shut himself alone in the library, and surrounded by his own written notes, and with many of Mr Varian’s letters and financial papers, he thought and brooded over it all for some hours.
At last he opened the door and called Zizi.
“Well, my child,” he said, closing the door behind her, “I’ve got a line on things.”
“I do hope, Penny, you’ll watch out for Mrs Varian. She’s going to throw the money over the cliff on Friday night without your knowledge or consent.”
“She can’t do that.”
“She can’t without your knowledge, I admit. But, she can without your consent. Her money is her own and you’ve no real authority that will let you dictate to her how to use it.”
“True, oh, Queen!”
“Oh, Penny, when you smile like that, I know something’s up! What is it?”
“My luck, I hope. Ziz, do you remember you said you had a green smear on your frock like the one on Martha’s hand?”
“Yes; why?”
“Is it there yet, or did you clean it off?”
“It’s there yet, I haven’t worn the dress since.”
“Get it, will you?”
Zizi went, and returned with the little frock, a mere wisp of light, thin material, and handed it to Pennington Wise.
He inspected the green streak, which was visible though not conspicuous, and then he sniffed at it with such absorption that Zizi laughed outright.
“Pen,” she said, “in detective stories they always represent the great detective as sniffing like a hound on a scent. You’re literally doing it.”
“Not astonishing that I should, little one, when you realize that this green smear is a beacon to light our way.”
“What is it?” Zizi’s big Hack eyes grew serious at Wise’s tone.
“The way out; the exit; the solution of the mystery of the secret passage.”
“Oh, Penny, tell me! You’ll be the death of me if you keep the truth from me! I’m crazy with suspense!”
But Zizi’s curiosity could not be gratified just then, for Fletcher came to say that Minna desired the girl’s company.
Minna Varian had come to depend much on Zizi’s charm and entertainment, and often sent for her when feeling especially blue or nervous.
Zizi had been waiting for an opportunity, and now as the nurse left her alone with Mrs Varian, she gradually and deftly led the talk around to Betty as a baby.
“Tell me what you thought when you first saw your little daughter,” Zizi said, in her pretty, coaxing way. “How old was she?”
“About an hour or so, I think,” Minna said, reminiscently. “And my first thought was, ‘Oh, thank God for a healthy, beautiful baby!’ She was so lovely, – and so strong and perfect! I had hoped she would be all right, but I never looked for such a marvel as came to me!”
“And Mr Varian was as pleased as you were!” Zizi said, gently.
“Oh, yes, – but,” Minna’s face clouded a little, “I don’t know how to express it, – but he never seemed to love Betty as he did our first children. He admired her, – nobody could help it, – but he had a queer little air of restraint about her. It lasted all through life. I can’t understand it, – unless he was jealous – ”
“Jealous?”
“Yes, of my love and adoration of the child. Silly idea, I know, but I’ve racked my brain and I can’t think of any other explanation.”
“That doesn’t explain the Varian pearls – ”
“No; nothing can explain that! Oh, nothing explains anything! Zizi, you’ve no idea what I suffer! I wonder I keep my mind! Just think of a woman who never had to decide a question for herself, if she didn’t want to, – who never had a care or responsibility that she didn’t assume of her own accord, – who had a husband to care for her, a daughter to love her – ”
The poor woman broke down completely, and Zizi had her hands full to ward off the violent hysterics that attacked her at times.
Meantime, Pennington Wise, convinced of the origin of the green smear on Zizi’s frock, was starting forth to prove his conviction.
Armed only with a powerful flashlight and a good-sized hammer, he went out to the kitchen and through that to the cellar.
There, he went straight to the old well, and testing the rope as he did so, he let the bucket down as far as it would go. Then, with monkey-like agility he began to clamber down, – partly supported by clinging to the rope, partly by getting firm footholds on the old stones that lined the well.
Scarcely had he started, when he experimentally drew his hand across the stones, and by his flashlight perceived a green smear, the counterpart of that on Zizi’s frock. Also, the counterpart of that on Martha’s hand.
Yet, the dead girl could scarcely have been in the well! So, – her assailant must have been.
However, he went on investigating.
He noted carefully the walls as he descended, and it was not until he almost reached the bottom of the dried-up old well, that he noticed anything strange.
All of the wall was very rough and uneven but here was what appeared to be a distinct hole, roughly filled in with loose stones.
Standing now on the bottom of the well, slippery with moisture but no water above his shoe soles, he used his hammer to dislodge these stones, working carefully and slowly, but with a certainty of success.
“Fool that I was,” he chattered to himself, “not to come down here the very first thing! To trust to Zizi was all right, – the kid couldn’t notice this place, – but I had no business to trust that half-baked sheriff or his man!”
His work soon disclosed the fact that the loose stones apparently closed the mouth of a deep hole.
When all that were loose had been either pulled out or pushed in, he found there was an aperture large enough to permit a man’s body to pass through, and without hesitation, he scrambled through it.
His flashlight showed him that almost from the start the hole widened until it became a fair-sized tunnel. Crawling along this for a hundred yards or so, he heard the splash of water, and soon he no longer needed his flashlight, as daylight streamed in through a narrow fissure in the rock.
It was fortunate for Wise that it did, for just ahead the tunnel descended sharply, and at the bottom, what was evidently the surf was surging in from the ocean.
It was quite dark below, and being unable to progress further, Wise backed out of the tunnel, it wasn’t wide enough to turn around in, and reaching the well again, he ascended to the surface.
He went to his room, looked with satisfaction on the numerous smears of green and brown that disfigured his suit, – which he had taken care should be an old one.
No one knew what he had done, nor did any one know his destination when, half an hour later, he set off for the village.
He went to the inn and inquired where he could get the best motor boat that could be hired.
A suitable one was found and its owner agreed to take Wise on an exploring expedition at the next low tide. This would not be until the following morning, so the detective went back to Headland House.
Then, he concentrated all his efforts and attention on the subject of the moving picture film that had been said to portray Betty Varian.
“Rod Granniss vows it was really Betty,” Zizi insisted.
“He ought to know,” said Wise. “A man in love with a girl doesn’t mistake her identity. Besides, it’s quite on the cards, Ziz. Say Betty is confined somewhere, – say she is let out for a little exercise in care of a jailer, of course, – say there’s a M. P. contraption taking a picture of a crowd, – they often do, – pick up stray passers-by you know, and say, Betty somehow got into the picture – ”
“Oh, the jailer, as you call him, wouldn’t let her!”
“More likely a woman in charge of her. And, maybe a woman not averse to taking the few dollars those people pay to actors who just make up a crowd. Well, say that happened, and then Betty, not daring to speak aloud, made her lips form the words ‘I am Betty Varian,’ in the hope that among a few thousands of lip readers in the country one might strike twelve!”
“Nobody could be so clever as all that, Pen!”
“She might be on a chance inspiration. Anyway, how else can you explain it?”
“Why, anybody might have said that, who wasn’t Betty at all.”
“But why? What would be the sense of it? and why would such a thing occur to anybody but Betty?”
“If it’s true, – then you can find her! Surely you can track down a moving picture company!”
“Oh, it isn’t that! It’s tracking down the place where Betty is confined, – and – doing it while she is still alive. You see, Zizi, those ransom letters are true bills, and the villains have nearly reached the end of their patience.”
“Then why don’t you approve of Mrs Varian’s throwing the money over the cliff?”
“I may advise her to do it by Friday night, – if nothing happens in the meantime.”
“But look here, Penny,” Zizi said, after a thoughtful moment, “if your theory is the right one, why didn’t Betty scream out, ‘I am Betty Varian!’ and take a chance that somebody in the crowd would rescue her?”
“It would seem a natural thing to do, unless the girl had been so cowed by threats of punishment or even torture if she made any outcry when allowed to go for a walk. I’m visualizing that girl as kept in close confinement, but not in any want or discomfort. She is most likely treated well as to food, rooms and all that, but is not allowed to step out of doors except with a strict guard and under some terrible penalty if she attempts to make herself known. With Betty’s love of fresh air and sunshine she would agree to almost anything to get out of doors. Then, too, if she merely formed those words without sound, the chance of their being read by a lip reader was really greater than the chance of doing any good by crying out aloud.
“Had she done that, whoever had her in charge would have whisked her away at once, and no one would have paid any attention to the slight disturbance.”
“It’s all perfectly logical and, oh, I hope Rodney gets some clue to the place where the picture was taken.”
“I hope so, Ziz, but they’ve probably moved Betty away from there by now.”
“Did you find out, Penny, what that stain on my frock was?”
“I did.”
“Well?”
“Yes, my dear, you’ve struck it! You got that stain while you were down the well.”
“Oh,” Zizi’s eyes lighted up; “of course I did! Those damp, mossy stones. And, then, oh, Wise one, just how did the same stain get on Martha’s hand?”
“That, Zizi,” Wise spoke almost solemnly, “is part of the solution of the whole great mystery.”
CHAPTER XVIII
The Trap
In a small but powerful motor boat Wise went on his voyage of exploration. The man who managed the craft was a stolid, silent person who obeyed Wise’s orders without comment.
But when the detective directed that he go round the base of the headland, and skirt close to the rocks he grumbled at the danger.
“Be careful of the danger,” Wise said, “steer clear of hidden reefs, but go close to the overhanging cliff, there where I’m pointing.”
Skirting the cliff, at last Wise discovered what he was looking for, a small cave, worn in the rock by the sea. The floor of this cave rose sharply and it was with difficulty that Wise managed to scramble from the boat to a secure footing on the slippery wet rocks.
“Look out there,” said the imperturbable boatman, “you’ll get caught in there when the tide comes up. I never noticed that hole in the wall before, it must be out o’ sight ’ceptin’ at low tide.”
“Stay where you are and wait for me,” Wise directed, “if I’m not out here again in half an hour, go on home. But I’ll probably be back in less than that.”
“You will, if you’re back at all! The tide will turn in fifteen minutes and in half an hour it’ll be all you can do to get out!”
Disappearing, Wise began his climb up the floor of the cave, and at a point just above high water there was a fissure in the cliff which admitted air and some light. At this point the cave ran back for some distance, though still on a rising level. During the winter storms the ocean evidently had worn this tunnel in the rock.
Wise at once realized that this nature-made tunnel ran on for some distance until it ended in the old well.
Using his flashlight when necessary, he made his way, until he reached the pile of stones which he himself had pushed out from the well and found to his satisfaction that he had indeed come to the well, and that his solution of the mystery of a secret passage into Headland House was accomplished.
But what a solution! The difficulty and danger of entrance or exit by means of that rock tunnel and that old well could scarce be exaggerated!
Moreover, all such entrances or exits must be made at the lowest ebb of the tide. But the cave was roomy, not uncomfortable, and the tunnel, though cramped in places, was fairly navigable.
There was plenty of room in the cave quite above reach of the highest tide, and the whole matter was clear and simple now that he saw it all, but he marveled at the energy and enterprise that could conceive, plan and carry out the various attacks.
Whoever the criminal, or the master criminal, might be, he had come up through that tunnel and well on the several occasions of the kidnapping of Betty, the murder of Martha, the abduction of North, – yes, – and Wise remembered the letter that had been mysteriously left on the hall table, – also the night the library had been entered, – clearly, the man came and went at will!
A master mind, Wise concluded, he had to deal with, and he set his own best energies to work on his problems.
The way between Headland House and the outer world was not easy of negotiation, but it was a way, and it was passable to a determined human being.
Wise was back inside the prescribed half hour, and the uninterested boatman took him back to the Harbor without question or comment as to his enterprise.
That afternoon, Wise called Minna and Doctor Varian into the library and closed the door.
Zizi was also present, her black eyes shining with anticipation, for she knew from Wise’s manner and expression that he was making progress, and was about to disclose his discoveries.
“I have learned a great deal,” the detective began, “but not all. At least, I have found the so-called secret passage, which we all felt sure must exist.”
He described the cave and the tunnel as he had found them, and the outlet into the old well, so carefully piled with loose stones that it would escape the observance of almost any searcher.
He told briefly but graphically of his exit from the well for a distance, and of his later entrance from the cave and his procedure to the well.
Zizi nodded her bird-like little head, with an air of complete understanding, Doctor Varian was absorbedly interested and profoundly amazed, while Minna looked helplessly ignorant of just what Wise was talking about.
“I can’t understand it,” she said, piteously, “but never mind that, I don’t care, if you say it’s all so. Now, where is Betty?”
“That we don’t know yet,” Wise said, gently, “but we are on the way at last to find out. As I reconstruct the crime, now, that day that Betty returned for her camera, she must have done so under one of two conditions. Either her errand was genuine, in which case, she surprised the criminal here at some nefarious work, – or, which I think far more probable, she came back pretending it was for her camera, but really because of some message or communication which she had received purporting some good to her, but really a ruse of the criminal, who was here for the purpose of abducting the girl.”
“For ransom?” asked Doctor Varian.
“Yes, for ransom. Now, he would naturally attack her in the hall. Perhaps she threw herself on the sofa, clung to it, and was carried off, still holding that yellow pillow, either unconsciously, or he may have used it to stifle her cries. There were two men involved, of that I am sure. For, when they had partly accomplished their purpose, Mr Varian appeared at the door and one of the men had to intercept his entrance.
“I rather fancy the killing of Mr Varian was unintentional, – or possibly, self-defence, for these ruffians did not want to kill their blackmail victim. They may have parleyed with the father to pay them to release the girl, and when he showed fight, as he would, they did also, and as a result, Mr Varian met his death.
“However, that is mere surmise. What we know is, that Betty was carried through the kitchen where the pillow fell, – still holding one of her hair-pins, probably caught during the struggle, – and she was carried down the cellar stairs. During this trip her string of beads broke, and were scattered about. As we never found but a few, and those were under furniture or cupboards, I gather the villains picked up all they could see, lest they should be found as evidence.”
“Which they were!” said Zizi.
“Which they were,” Wise assented. “Then, they carried that girl whether conscious or chloroformed I can’t say, down to the cellar, down the old well, through the tunnel to the cave. There they could wait any number of hours until the tide served, and take her away in a boat without attracting the notice of anybody.”
“Most likely at night,” Zizi put in.
“Most likely. Anyway, Mrs Varian, that’s my finding. It’s all very dreadful, but horrifying as it is, it opens the way to better things. To go on, there can be no doubt that this same villain, and a clever one he is, returned here at night for plunder and on other errands.
“He came and left the letter found so mysteriously on the hall table. He came to rob the library safe, thinking the ransom money was in it. And he was spied upon and discovered by the maid, Martha, so that he ruthlessly strangled the poor thing to death, rather than face exposure.”
“And then he abducted North!” Doctor Varian cried; “and it’s easy to see why! North had doubtless also spied on him, and somehow he forced North to go away with him, – perhaps at pistol’s point.”
“Now our question is, – ”
“Two questions!” Zizi cried; “first, who is the criminal, – and second where is he keeping Betty all this time?”
“Yes, and we know a great deal to start on.” Wise spoke thoughtfully. “We know, almost to a certainty, that it is the man whom we call Stephen, because he wrote threatening letters signed ‘Step.’ We know he is diabolically clever, absolutely fearless, and willing to commit any crime or series of crimes to gain his end, which is merely the large sum of money he has demanded from Mrs Varian, and which he had previously demanded from Mr Varian, as blackmail.”
“Why should he blackmail my husband?” Minna asked, tearfully, and Wise said, “There is not always a sound reason for blackmail, Mrs Varian. Sometimes it is an unjust accusation or a mistaken suspicion. Any way, as you have often declared, Mr Frederick Varian was a noble and upright man, and his integrity could not be questioned.”
“Now, then,” said Doctor Varian, “to find this master hand at crime. I am astounded at your revelations, Mr Wise, and I confess myself utterly in the dark as to our next step.”
“An animal that attacks in the open,” Wise returned, “may be shot or snared. But a wicked, crafty animal may only be caught by a trap. I propose to set a trap to catch our foe. It is a wicked trap, but he is a wicked man. It will harm him physically, but he deserves to be harmed physically. It is a sly, underhand method, but so are his own. Therefore, I conclude that a trap is justified in his case.”
“You mean a real, literal mantrap?” asked the doctor.
“I mean just that. I have already procured it and I propose to set it tonight. This is Thursday. As matters stand now, our ‘Stephen’ is assuming or at least hoping that Mrs Varian means to accede to his last request and throw the money over the cliff tomorrow, Friday night. Now, I feel pretty positive that Stephen is not so confident of getting that money safely as he pretends he is. He must be more or less fearful of detection. I’m sure that he will return to this house tonight, by his usual mode of entrance, and will try to steal the money. Then he will disappear and he may or may not give up Betty.”
“You think he’ll come here? Tonight?” Doctor Varian was astonished.
“I do.”
“Then we’ll be ready for him! I fancy between us, Mr Wise, we can account for him and his accomplice.”
“Too dangerous, Doctor. He would kill us both before we knew it. No, I’m going to set my trap. If he comes he deserves to be trapped. If he doesn’t come, there is certainly no harm done.”
“Where shall we hide the money?” asked Minna, nervously.
“It doesn’t matter,” and Wise’s face set sternly. “He will never get as far as the money.”
Hating his job, but fully alive to the justice and necessity of it, Wise set his trap that night.
It was a real trap, and was set up in the kitchen in such a position that it faced the cellar door. It consisted of a short-barreled shotgun which was mounted on an improvised gun carriage, made of a strong packing box.
This contrivance was fastened carefully to the kitchen wall about twelve feet in front of the cellar door, and when the door should be opened, the trap would be sprung and the shotgun discharged.
A steel spring fastened to the trigger, and a strong cord running to a pulley in the ceiling, thence to another, and finally to a pulley in the floor, and on to the door knob completed the deadly mechanism.
The tension of the spring was so carefully adjusted that an intruder might open the door a foot or more before the strain was carried to the trigger. This insured a sure aim and a clear shot.
Wise tested his trap thoroughly, and finally, with a grim nod of his head, declared it was all right.
He had sent the servants and the women-folks to bed, before beginning his work, and now he and Doctor Varian seated themselves in the library to await developments.
“As I said,” Wise remarked, “‘Stephen’ may not come at all, he may send an accomplice. Yet this I expect the most surely, – he will come himself.”
“Have you no idea of his identity, Mr Wise?” the doctor asked.
“Yes; I have an idea, – and if he does not come tonight, I will tell you who I think he is. But we will wait and see.”
They waited, now silent and now indulging in a few low toned bits of conversation, when at two o’clock in the morning the report of the gun brought them to their feet and they raced to the kitchen.
The roaring detonation was still in their ears as they strode through the hall, and the smell of powder greeted them at the kitchen door.
The cellar door was open, and on the floor near it lay a man breathing with difficulty.
Doctor Varian dropped on his knees beside him, and his professional instinct was at once in full working order, even as his astonished voice exclaimed:
“Lawrence North!”
“As I expected,” Wise said, “and well he deserves his fate. Will he live, Doctor?”
“Only a few moments,” was the preoccupied reply. “I can do nothing for him. He received the full charge in the abdomen.”
“Tell your story, North,” Wise said, briefly; “don’t waste time in useless groaning.”
North glared at the detective.
“You fiend!” he gasped, gurgling in rage and agony.
“You’re the fiend!” Varian said; “hush your vituperation and tell us where Betty is.”