The White Room
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In compliance with her request Tracey went out to call Gerty. He was astonished by the sudden changes in Mrs. Baldwin's demeanour, and asked Gerty a question. "Say, does your momma drink?"
"No. Certainly not, Luther. Why do you ask?"
"Well, she's that queer."
"Something has upset her, I know," said Gerty quickly; "what is it?"
Mrs. Baldwin appeared at the door and answered that question. "Don't tell her," she said sharply. "Gerty dear, you are too inquisitive. I am upset by the appearance of Rufus-that's all."
"Is Luther to advertise?" asked Gerty, wondering.
"No," Mrs. Baldwin walked to the gate, "I have a better way than that-a much better way," and she opened the gate.
"Say," Tracey detained Gerty, "do you sleep in your mother's room?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"Because she's got a kind of craze about that husband of hers. You make some excuse and sleep in her room for a week or so till she forgets that the man came back. And if you see anything queer wire me, I'll be down in a shake. You catch on, Gerty B.?"
"No. What do you-"
Before Tracey could reply Mrs. Baldwin hailed them. "Here's Mr. Calvert. Gerty, come away," so the girl reluctantly had to go to her mother, but not before she whispered Tracey to write and explain.
"Can't, my dear," he whispered back uneasily. "I promised to hold my tongue. But keep an eye on your mother. Now do."
"There was no time to say any more, as Mrs. Baldwin was coming up the path with Arnold. She was telling him of her sufferings at great length, and nothing remained of the virago who had displayed such fierceness in the white room, save an unusually high colour. Tracey nodded to Calvert, who looked rather excited. Then came the toil of getting Mrs. Baldwin away, which took as long a time as it usually does to launch a ship. At last the cab drove off, and Gerty waved a farewell handkerchief to Tracey. Then the young men went into the house.
"I don't envy you Mrs. Baldwin, Tracey," said Calvert.
"I guess you've hit the bull's-eye," replied the American gloomily; "she's not such a fool as she looks, that old ma'am."
"Oh, she doesn't look a fool," said Arnold easily, "only lazy."
"And she ain't that neither. I guess there's spirit in the old party. You could have knocked me down flat when she rose on her hind legs."
"Was she-er-on her hind legs?" inquired Calvert delicately.
"Considerable! But it's private business. Only I hope I won't be mixed up with another murder case. One's good enough for me, anyhow!"
"Do you mean to say-" began Arnold startled.
"That she knows anything to the circus we're running? No, I don't. She's got her own little Sheol-sulphur, match, and all. Let her slide. I dare say it's all bunkum."
"What is?"
"Calvert, if you ask any more questions I'll chuck the case."
"Oh, beg pardon," said Arnold, astonished at seeing the usually good-tempered man so roused, "don't mind my asking questions. I forgot the business was private."
"Won't be long," said Tracey savagely, "if she's on the kind of job she's trying to carry out. Well," he raised his voice, "what's the best news with you?"
"This," replied Calvert quietly, and from his pocket produced a scrap of paper. Tracey without displaying any wonder looked at it. It was half a sheet of pink writing-paper and contained only one line written across lengthways. "If you get the money look under the coffee stain!" Tracey read and re-read this, then raised his puzzled eyes. "What's this, Calvert?"
"That," replied the young man calmly, "is a piece of paper which I received from Merry this morning!"
"Was it enclosed in an envelope?"
"Arnold handed the envelope which he was holding. It was addressed to 'Arnold Calvert' in a woman's hand of the sloping Italian kind. The writing on the paper was also in the same handwriting. I guess as Merry gave you this, and it's a woman's hand, that it comes from your dead cousin," said Tracey.
"I thought so!"
"Didn't she give it to Merry?"
"No, I went to the office this morning to look at some deeds connected with the property. They had to turn out the deed-box. It is large and hadn't been turned out to the very bottom for some time. As we searched, Merry picked up that envelope which was closed. He gave it to me. Merry says he never saw it before, so I expect poor Flora slipped it into the box one day when he was out of the room."
"But why should she do that?"
"I am as puzzled to account for her reason as I am to know what the message means."
"Can't Merry enlighten you?"
"No. I tell you he never saw the envelope till he handed it to me."
"Hold on a shake," said Tracey, handing Calvert a cigarette; "smoke this while I get my thinking-machine into order."
"You'll find it difficult to guess what it is," said Calvert, lighting up. "Merry and I were an hour over it this morning. He doesn't know what it means, and I'm sure I don't."
"You must be a couple of thick-heads," snapped Tracey, whose temper was not improved by Mrs. Baldwin's visit; "the way it's worded shows that Mrs. Brand expected to be killed."
Arnold started to his feet. "What do you say?"
"Mrs. Brand expected to be killed," said the American, with great distinctness; "she says, 'if you get the money'-well, you couldn't get the money till she was dead."
"No, but what does the message mean?"
Tracey laid the paper on his knees and looked across Calvert's shoulder with his bright eyes dancing. "Oh, I guess it's panning out all square," said he quietly; "I came here as you know in the hope of finding some papers overlooked by that man-or woman-I guess it was a woman-who made hay while the house was deserted. Evidently the idea was to destroy all trace of your cousin's past life. Well, sir, I hunted everywhere without success. Now we'll look for the coffee stain, and under it we will find some papers which will give the whole show away. We're on the verge of learning the truth, sir."
"Then you think that, expecting to be murdered, she hid certain papers giving a clue to her probable assassin?"
"Yes I do, and the poor soul dared not put the message plainer, lest it should fall into other hands than yours."
"Whose hands, seeing that I am the heir?"
"You forget that Bocaros was the heir for a time. He might have got hold of the deed-box, and then" – Tracey shrugged his shoulders-"It's as plain as day to me!"
"But do you suspect Bocaros of knowing anything of this crime?"
"No. He talked too much nonsense at the outset for that. He gave himself away-always supposing he was guilty. Said that he lived in the neighbourhood-that the money was coming to him-that he could easily have gone to the villa and killed Mrs. Brand and would not be able to prove an alibi by reason of living alone. No! A man who is guilty doesn't give himself away like that. But Bocaros, had he found this message, might have torn it up so as to let sleeping dogs lie."
"Still I don't understand."
"Well, you see he might have fancied-as I do-that a discovery of the papers may lead to the implication of the husband in this matter."
"You think Brand killed his wife?"
"No. It was a woman, and I believe Mrs. Fane for choice. But Brand may have loved Mrs. Fane and so the whole trouble may have arisen. I guess Mrs. Brand was glad to see her husband start for Australia, for I'm certain from this message that he threatened to kill her. Bocaros having got the money, and thinking of his living near Ajax Villa, might have torn it up. Now Mrs. Brand if she was murdered-as she was-wished the assassin to be brought to justice. The concealed papers will give the clue." Tracey rose and looked round the room. "Where the deuce are they, anyhow?"
"Under the coffee stain," said Arnold, not rising, "and I think instead of hunting we had better reason the matter out. A coffee-stain would naturally be on a table-cloth."
"A white dinner table-cloth," assented Tracey sitting, "but she couldn't conceal papers there. I've lifted every cloth in the house white and otherwise-there's white ones here as you see-but I couldn't find anything. You needn't look at the roof, Calvert. The coffee-stain won't be there."
"No," said Arnold looking down, "it may be on the wall.
"Not unless Brand threw a cup at her head." Tracey glanced round the walls; they were all spotless and white. "Maybe on the carpet."
"Have you examined the carpets?"
"I haven't lifted them, if that's what you mean."
"Then I dare say the papers are hidden under the carpet of this room."
"Why here? It may be the dining-room, or-"
"No," replied Arnold rising, "a coffee-stain would show only on a white carpet, and it was the peculiar furnishing of this room which gave her the idea of the hiding-place" – he looked carefully at the floor-"but I can't see any stain."
"A woman like Mrs. Brand," suggested Tracey, "proud of the smartness of this room, would hide any stain. Let's move all mats and furniture."
Calvert thought this was a good suggestion, and they set to work. The piano was moved, but needless to say nothing was found there. The various draperies were pulled aside. A book-case was shifted. All the mats were flung out of the door. When they moved everything, still no stain appeared. Then they came to a thick wooden pedestal bearing a plaster-of-paris Venus. It was screwed to the floor near the window and surrounded by mats. "This is the last chance," said Tracey.
A few minutes' work sufficed to overturn the column. There, beneath it, and concealed by the base, was the coffee-stain spoiling the purity of the carpet. Tracey produced a large knife, and ripped up the carpet. Thrusting in his hand he pulled out a slim green book rather large in size, and thereon in gilt letters were the words "My Diary!"
"This solves the mystery," said Tracey quietly, "now we'll learn the truth."
CHAPTER XVII
THE PROFESSOR'S TRUMP CARD
Inspector Derrick called to see Fane with rather a downcast expression of countenance. The meaning of this was explained in his conversation.
"I've done my best, sir, and there's nothing to be discovered."
"You mean as regards the murder of this woman Brand?" asked Walter.
"What else would I mean!" replied Derrick dismally. "I have no call to see you about anything else, sir!"
"The two men were seated in the morning-room where Mrs. Fane had conversed with Laura. Walter, seated near the window, did not look well. There were dark circles under his pale eyes, which hinted at sleepless nights. Also there was a smell of ether in the room as though he had been taking drugs. Derrick delicately ascribed his looks to the fact of the unpleasant occurrence which had taken place in the house.
"I suppose you've come to think it haunted, sir?" he suggested.
"No, I don't like the idea of living in a house in which a murder has been committed. But I don't believe in the supernatural. For the sake of my wife and child I am giving up the villa, and we intend to live abroad for a time. But I should like the mystery solved, and the assassin of that poor woman brought to justice before I go."
"Derrick shook his head. It's not to be done, sir."
"Suppose I offer a reward?"
"Not even then, Mr. Fane. I can't find a single clue. When I discovered that white room in the Hampstead house, I thought something would come of it. But the assassin was clever enough to go there and remove all evidence of the past life of Mrs. Brand-books, papers, photographs, and those sort of things. It is true I found a photograph of the dead woman, but we knew her looks already. Now had it been a portrait of the husband-"
"Ah! Do you suspect the husband?"
"Yes and no," replied Derrick thoughtfully. "Certainly I learned that the man went to Australia some time before the death. I found his name in a passenger-list of an Orient liner."
"Then he can have nothing to do with the crime."
"Well, I don't know. A man may start for another country to make things safe for himself, and then can come back secretly. Besides, if it was not the husband who removed the things, how did he enter the cottage? and why should he make such a point of destroying his own photographs had he no aim?"
"I can't guess. But it is equally mysterious how the woman managed to enter this house."
"Yes. I can't learn anything about the key being duplicated. Yet it must have been, seeing we have the second key which was dropped by the man who talked to Mulligan."
"Have you found him?"
"No; nor am I likely to. I tell you, Mr. Fane, the case is hopeless. I believe Mr. Calvert, who came in for the money, has placed the matter in the hands of a private inquiry-agent called Jasher. But if I can't learn the truth, Jasher can't."
"Is he a clever man?"
"Well, he is. I did work with him at one time, and he appears to have his wits about him. But this case will be beyond his wits as it is beyond mine. I dare say Mr. Calvert would offer a reward, and I should like to earn it. But" – Derrick rose and shook his head-"there's nothing to be done."
Fane thought for a few minutes, his eyes on the ground. Then he went to his wife's desk and wrote out a cheque. "You deserve something for your trouble," said he, handing this to Derrick. "All I ask in return is that you should give me the photograph of the dead woman. I have a fancy to try and learn the truth myself."
"Oh, I'll do that," replied the Inspector, taking the cheque with thanks; "and I'm sorry, sir, that nothing can be done. But you'll hear no more of the case. The woman is dead and buried, and the thing is forgotten. There is only one chance."
"What is that?" asked Fane curiously.
"The husband may return to the Hampstead house from Australia. If so, we may learn something of Mrs. Brand's past, and in her past will be found some clue leading to the detection of the assassin."
"But if the husband is guilty, as you think, he will not return."
"True enough. Should he return, I will take it as a proof of his innocence. Well, good-day, sir."
"Wait," said Fane, passing through the door along with his visitor, "I will walk a little way with you. Tell me if you intend to have the house watched."
"The house at Hampstead, sir?"
"Yes. Brand will come back there if he comes at all."
"If you like I can have it watched, Mr. Fane; but it will cost money."
"You can rely on me for the expense," said Fane eagerly. "I am most anxious that no stone should be left unturned. Watch the house, and when the man returns there let me know."
"You can depend upon my doing that, Mr. Fane."
"The two men were by this time at the door. As Fane opened it, he found a man on the step just raising his hand to ring the bell. The stranger was tall and dark, and unknown to Fane. Is there anything I can do for you?" asked the master of the house.
"I wish to see Mrs. Fane on business," said Bocaros, for it was he.
"Ah! something to do with the office, no doubt," replied Fane, and beckoned to the footman, who now stood ready to close the door. "Take this gentleman's card to your mistress. She is in the White Room."
The footman did as he was bidden, and Bocaros waited in the hall. Fane went out with the Inspector, and walked along Achilles Avenue talking eagerly. Bocaros sat down with rather a bewildered look, and passed his lean hand across his face. It seemed to him that he knew Fane's face, yet he was unaware of having met him before.
"But his face seems familiar," muttered Bocaros. "Where can I have seen him?" And he searched his memory vainly.
Before his brain would respond to the demand on it, the footman returned with an intimation that Mrs. Fane would see him. Bocaros followed the man upstairs and into the White Room. Here sat Mrs. Fane, cold and statuesque as usual, and alone. Minnie was out with her nurse, and Laura was paying a visit to Gerty. Beside Mrs. Fane stood a small wicker table on which a book lay open. But she was as usual engaged in knitting, and apparently preferred her own thoughts to those of the popular author whose book was beside her. When the professor entered, she rose gracefully, and looked at him keenly.
"May I ask what you have to see me about?" said Mrs. Fane, putting her remark purposely in this way, so as to impress Bocaros with an idea that he was favoured.
The professor bowed, and took the chair she pointed to. He had never seen Mrs. Fane before, and thought her a singularly lovely woman, as she decidedly was. Also from her stern lips and piercing eyes he judged that she was a woman who would ruthlessly carry out any scheme which she had formed, and would press forward dauntlessly in the face of all dangers. A clever woman, a dangerous woman, and a foe worthy to be met and conquered. That he would conquer even this Amazon the professor did not doubt. He knew too much for her to deny, and since his interview with Emily Doon he had spent the time in getting certain proofs together.
Mrs. Fane might be clever, but she would not be able to defend herself in the face of the facts he proposed to place before her.
Bocaros, feeling his way carefully, did not reply at once to her question. "You will see my name on the card," he said quietly.
"Professor Bocaros," read Mrs. Fane. "I never heard of you."
"Did not Miss Mason mention me?"
"I don't recall her having done so."
"Strange," said the man. "I am a tenant of Mrs. Baldwin."
"My sister is a friend of Mrs. Baldwin," replied Mrs. Fane, "but it is not to be thought that she interests herself in Mrs. Baldwin's private affairs."
"I live in the little house across the fields."
"That is very interesting," said Mrs. Fane sarcastically, and wondering why the man kept telling her things of no note; "and you are a foreigner-a Greek. Bocaros-"
"Constantine Bocaros." Then the Professor, feeling nettled by this behaviour, resolved to startle her. "I am the cousin of the woman who was murdered in this room," he said abruptly.
But Mrs. Fane merely raised her eyebrows. "And you have no doubt come to gratify your morbid curiosity by seeing the place where she was struck down. Yonder it is, near the piano. Pray look, sir, and then leave me. I do not show my house for this purpose to chance visitors."
"Bocaros, meeting her on her own ground, sauntered to the piano with a kind of cool insolence that made Mrs. Fane observe him attentively.
"I suppose you know that Mr. Calvert comes in for ten thousand a year by the death of Mrs. Brand?" said Bocaros, returning to his seat.
"I have heard so."
"And he is engaged to marry your sister?"
"Mrs. Fane could not stand any more of this intrusion into her private affairs, and rose. Will you please to state your business and go!"
"There is no need to speak to me like that, madame," said Bocaros, keeping his seat. "My cousin left me the money-afterwards she changed her mind and made a new will, leaving it to Calvert."
"Well, sir, and what has this to do with me?"
"A great deal, as you will find. I want to learn who killed this woman, Mrs. Fane."
"And you come to me. I fear I cannot assist you."
"Oh yes, I think you can."
"Sir, you are insolent!" Mrs. Fane, drawing herself up to her full height, was about to press the button of the bell. Bocaros stopped her.
"Wait a little," he said; "you can help me by explaining how you came to be in this room on the night of the murder."
Mrs. Fane's hand fell, and she stared at the man. "I was not."
"You were! Your voice was heard-you sang a favourite song."
"Indeed!" Mrs. Fane thought for a moment, but without losing her colour or self-possession in the face of this accusation. Then she returned to her seat, resolved to give this strange man a hearing. "I was at the seaside when the crime was committed."
"So I believe-your husband also?"
"My husband also," said Mrs. Fane calmly. "Will you be so kind as to tell me what you mean by these questions?"
"I want to prove the guilt of Calvert."
"I cannot help you to do so," she said impatiently.
"Yes, you can," persisted Bocaros. "Calvert was the young man who left this house while you were singing. You assisted him to escape. You met him here. He used the dagger to kill Flora Brand!"
"What dagger?"
"The stage weapon which the cook found in the dustbin, and which you said belonged to you."
Mrs. Fane leaned her chin on the tips of her fingers, thinking. "You are a gentleman," said she gravely.
"I am, madame. I am a Greek noble-the Baron Bocaros."
"The curled lip of Mrs. Fane showed that she thought very little of a foreign title, but she went on quietly, watching the man all the time like a cat. And, indeed, she did not look unlike a magnificent white cat, sleek and feline and treacherous. Bocaros, hard as he was, winced at the regard of her narrow eyes. Well, then, Baron Bocaros," said Mrs. Fane in her low sweet voice, "I will be plain with you. I said that the dagger was mine, to shield Mr. Calvert-"
"I know. You are in love with him," burst out the professor.
"What do you mean, sir?" demanded the woman, a tide of crimson flushing her face. "I detest the man."
"But I thought-"
"Then do not think, if your thoughts lead you into such follies. What? I love Arnold Calvert-that doll of a man who-"
"Madame," interrupted Bocaros, wondering if this indignation was feigned. "Calvert is my enemy, yet I say he is a manly and handsome young gentleman. Be just!"
"Just! I am indignant. Are you not aware I am a married woman-that I have a child? How dare you. But that I insist upon an explanation, I would have you turned out of the house!"
"Bocaros arose. There is no need; I will go."
"No. You will speak out," said she imperiously.
"I will go," insisted the professor, "and I will take my information to the police."
"It is a pity you were not earlier," sneered Mrs. Fane. "Inspector Derrick, who had charge of the case, was with my husband."
"I met them going out of the door," replied Bocaros serenely. "Had I known the gentleman with Mr. Fane was a police officer, I might have been tempted to speak. But I was resolved to give you a chance to exculpate yourself."
"From what?" demanded Mrs. Fane angrily.
"From participation in the murder of this poor-"
"How dare you come and accuse me," she burst out furiously. "You must be mad!"
"I have proofs which will prove my sanity," said Bocaros, moving to the door. "But I can show them to Derrick."
Mrs. Fane intercepted him. "Stop where you are," she said sharply. "This matter must be sifted to the bottom. Afterwards I shall go with you myself to the police-station. If you cannot prove what you have said, I shall have you arrested for threatening language."
"Oh, I can prove everything," said Bocaros, returning to his seat. "And since we now understand one another, we can proceed."
"You will proceed," retorted Mrs. Fane, sitting down also, to answer my questions, "or you will get into trouble, my good man. You say that Mr. Calvert was in this room on the night of the murder?"
Bocaros nodded, sure of his ground. "He left this house at eleven. He was in his stage dress and spoke to the policeman. He dropped the latch-key, and murdered-"
"Stop. You can't be sure that he did. The woman was murdered earlier. During the evening Mr. Calvert was at the theatre."
"No. His part was played by his understudy up till half-past nine. He then played in the last act and came here. He came here earlier," insisted the professor, "and murdered the woman to get the money."
"It might be so," muttered Mrs. Fane. "The dagger was a stage one, and I knew from Laura that he wore one in the second act of the play."
"He used the dagger and then threw it away into the dustbin."
"Nonsense," said Mrs. Fane, with a shrug. "How could he get to the dustbin when the back of the house was locked up?"
This was a puzzle to Bocaros, but he faced it boldly. "Calvert entered the house by your connivance, and could easily have unbarred the back door to conceal his weapon."
"Oh!" Mrs. Fane looked sharply at her visitor. "So you accuse me of admitting the man?"
"I do. You had your husband's latch-key, or had a copy made. You expected Calvert, and admitted him. Afterwards you gave him the key to let himself out while you averted suspicion by singing."