Anybody But Anne

But I could discover nothing, except to confirm the fact that there was no possible way for an intruder to have left that room locked up as it was; and that consequently it must have been either accident or intentional self-destruction.

But I looked in vain for a weapon. There was no revolver on the desk or on the floor, near the dead man. I scrutinized carefully the soft, thick rug, and was rewarded at last by finding a clue.

Without disturbing Morland, who still sat, with hidden face, I went near to Archer, and spoke in a low voice.

“At any rate, I know what killed him.”

“What?” and Archer looked amazed.

“He was shot,” I said, trying to hide my pride in my own discovery.

“How do you know?”

“Look on the floor. There, near his chair, are five or six small shot. See them?”

Archer stared at the floor and saw the shot almost at Van Wyck’s very feet.

“But how on earth—” he began, when Doctor Mason came into the room.

His professional calm a little upset by this tragedy, the doctor’s hand trembled as he examined the body of David Van Wyck.

It took but a few moments, for the red stain on the white shirt bosom told its own story.

“Suicide?” he inquired, as he completed his task.

“Must have been,” said Archer, “as he was locked in here alone. How was he killed? What is the wound?”

“I don’t know,” said Doctor Mason, looking puzzled. “He may have been shot by a very small calibre pistol, or he may have been stabbed by some sharp instrument. You see, this small hole in his shirt-bosom is perfectly round; but there are no powder-marks.”

I called the doctor’s attention to the shot on the floor, and he looked more puzzled still.

“But he wasn’t shot with a shotgun,” he said. “In fact, I incline to the opinion that he was stabbed with some sharp, round instrument.”

“A hat-pin,” I suggested.

“No,” said the doctor impatiently; “there isn’t one hat-pin out of a hundred made that could go through a stiff shirt-bosom without bending. But something like that, only rather thicker. You see the size of the hole.”

“But mayn’t it be a bullet-hole?” said Archer.

“It may be. At any rate, we must send for the coroner. Wake up, Morland.” The doctor had crossed the room and laid his hand not unkindly on Morland Van Wyck’s shoulder. He shook him slightly, and Morland raised his white, drawn face.

“Must we have the coroner?” he asked. “Can’t we call it a stroke or something, and not have any publicity? It’s going to be awful hard on—on Anne.”

Something in his tone made me realize Morland’s feeling for his father’s beautiful young wife. Doubtless he had concealed and even tried to overcome it, but now in his hour of trial his first thoughts flew to her. This explained to my mind his sudden collapse after his earlier attitude of bravado.

I had thought he resented his father’s second marriage, but now I believed that he himself had succumbed to Anne’s irresistible fascination.

I, too, felt it would be desirable to spare Anne the horrors of publicity, if possible, so I said:

“Can the matter be hushed up, and made to appear an accident or a natural death?”

“No,” said Dr. Mason bluntly. “I could not give my professional sanction to any such course. And I think Mrs. Van Wyck should be told of this matter at once.”

Just then Anne came into the study. She had seen Doctor Mason arrive, and considered it her right to know what had happened to her husband. She wore a simple morning-gown, and her maid Jeannette hovered behind her with a vinaigrette of smelling-salts.

“What has happened?” said Anne, advancing steadily into the room. And then, as she saw the still figure of David Van Wyck, she looked at each of us in turn. Seeming to make a choice, she went to Doctor Mason, and, putting her hands on his arm, said simply, “Tell me.”

“Mrs. Van Wyck,” said the old doctor, straightforwardly, “your husband is dead. We do not know exactly the means of his death, and I’m afraid it will be necessary to put the matter into the hands of the coroner.”

Anne’s slender figure swayed a little, but she did not faint, and Doctor Mason gently steadied her, as he went on talking: “There is nothing you can do, Mrs. Van Wyck, and as your physician, I advise you to go to your room and lie down.”

“No, I will not go to my room and lie down,” Anne declared; “who killed my husband?”

She was strangely calm,—so calm, that I knew she was straining every nerve to preserve her poise, and I feared her sudden breakdown.

“That is yet to be discovered,” said Doctor Mason; “if, indeed, we do not find out that he took his own life.”

“He did not do that,” said Anne; “he never would do that!”

Her voice was almost inaudible, and her face was white as death. She still clutched the old doctor’s arm, as if unable to stand alone.

We three men stood, looking at her. I felt sure all three loved her; Archer, Moreland and I. It was a strange situation, for a subtle sense told me that we all wanted to go to her assistance, but none dared do so. We seemed, almost, to be waiting, till she should make a choice of one of us.

But she did not heed us. Addressing herself entirely to the doctor, she rambled on, not hysterically, but with a far-away look, as if only half-conscious of what she was saying.

“No; David would not commit suicide,—of that, I am sure. Somebody killed him,—murdered him,—but who? Could it have been—” her voice died away in an unintelligible murmur, and she fainted.

Doctor Mason held her in his arms, as we all sprang forward.

“Morland,” said the doctor, making his own choice, “help me carry Mrs. Van Wyck to her room. Where is her maid?”

They took Anne away, and I turned to Archer.

“Her bedroom is on this floor?” I asked.

“Yes; Van Wyck used to have his rooms on the second floor. But when he married his present wife, he had a magnificent suite of apartments furnished for them on this floor. Partly because they are beautiful rooms, and partly to be nearer this study.”

“It seems strangely appropriate that he should die in this room,” I said, glancing toward the still figure.

“It seems appropriate that he should die anywhere!” Archer muttered, in a savage undertone. And in answer to my look of surprise at this outburst, he added: “He was a brute to his wife. I’m sorry his death occurred in this horrible way, but I am not sorry he’s gone.”

I could make no reply; for, though I never should have put it into words, my feeling was the same.

But the death had occurred in a horrible way, and the exigencies and consequences of it must be met.

Doctor Mason reappeared, and in response to our inquiries, he said that Mrs. Van Wyck had regained consciousness, and was being looked after by her maid and by Mrs. Carstairs.

“I shall now telephone for the coroner,” he went on. “I assume that Morland will take charge of his father’s affairs; and I think that Miss Barbara should be told at once what has happened.”

I couldn’t help admiring the poise and practical good sense of Doctor Mason. He had been the family physician of the Van Wycks for many years, and whatever his personal feeling toward the head of the house, he now remembered only his professional responsibility and acted accordingly.

While he was telephoning the coroner, a young man came into the study, who was a stranger to me.

“Is that you, Lasseter?” said Morland, looking up. “A tragedy has occurred, and my father has been killed; by himself or another, we don’t know.” Morland spoke mechanically, almost as if he felt it incumbent upon him to explain the situation.

I soon discovered that Barclay Lasseter was Mr. Van Wyck’s secretary. He did not live in the house, but came every morning to the study. He was the tallest man I had ever seen; of slight build, with a dark, somewhat sinister face. I couldn’t help wondering if he were in any way implicated in the tragedy. Like the rest of us, he was self-possessed, and, though shocked, seemed anxious, principally, to do anything he might to help.

“Could it have been the work of burglars?” he said. “Has anything been stolen?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, as no one else spoke. “Do you miss anything?”

Lasseter glanced over the desk, and, taking some keys from his pocket, opened one or two drawers.

“Check-book and petty cash all right,” he said briefly. “Haven’t you looked in the safe?”

“No,” said Morland; but he made no move to follow up Lasseter’s suggestion.

I heard no sound at the doorway, but seeing Doctor Mason’s eyes turn from the telephone in that direction, I looked, too, and saw Mrs. Carstairs come in.

She entered noiselessly, as she always moved, and though she was wearing the same white gown I had admired earlier that morning, she appeared altogether different. No longer was the smartness of her costume its chief characteristic. But,—and it must have been owing to the woman’s wonderful dramatic ability,—her white linen garb had the effect of the uniform of a trained nurse. With a swift, comprehending glance, she looked in every one of our faces, and then, without a word glided to the chair where sat the still figure of David Van Wyck.

She betrayed no trace of self-consciousness, indeed, she seemed unaware of our presence, as she stood looking at the dead man’s face. Then she spoke.

“It was suicide,” she said, with an air of certainty. “Mr. Van Wyck was an unhappy man, and he sought refuge in death.”

For the first time, she assumed a melodramatic pose, and stood, looking at us all, as if to challenge contradiction.

“I know what you mean!” began Morland hotly; “but it is not true! My father was not an unhappy man.”

Mrs. Carstairs merely gave a Frenchy shrug of her well-formed shoulders, and said nothing. With her hanging hands lightly clasped in front of her, she stood, cool and self-possessed, while Morland went on, irately.

“Since you have said that, Mrs. Carstairs, please explain yourself. Why do you say my father was unhappy?”

“I speak of what I know,” she returned, her gaze at him not flinching. “But I deny your right to question me concerning my knowledge.”

“If you know anything that can help to throw any light on this sad occurrence, it is your duty to tell it, Mrs. Carstairs,” said Doctor Mason, speaking rather sternly.

“When I am questioned by authority, it will be time for me to speak,” she returned, calmly.

Her manner and voice,—even her words,—seemed to betoken that she was in possession of great secrets, but I had an intuitive conviction that it was only pretense. I felt sure she wanted to appear sensationally important; and I wondered if she meant, in any way to make trouble for Anne.

I think the same notion was in Archer’s mind, for he said:

“Any facts you may know, Mrs. Carstairs, must be told at the inquest. But opinions or fancies carry no weight.”

She gave him a glance that seemed tinged with mockery, but she only said: “Mine is not a nature to exploit opinions or fancies.” Then she turned to Doctor Mason, and speaking in her capacity of housekeeper, asked him concerning the removal of the body to another room.

“Not until the coroner gives permission,” he replied. “He will be here shortly; and until then, we can make no changes or definite plans.”

Barbara came to the study door, accompanied by Mrs. Stelton and Beth Fordyce. Mrs. Carstairs moved swiftly to meet them, but though she admitted Barbara, she refused entrance to the others. I did not hear her words, as she spoke with them, but they seemed willing to accept her dictum, and turned away together. I couldn’t help admiring her wisdom and tact in keeping them out, for they were emotional women, and their exclamations would have jarred the overwrought nerves of us all.

Mrs. Carstairs was charming. She told Barbara in a few words, all that we knew, and clasped her arm in an unobtrusive, but helpful sympathy.

But Barbara shook her off, almost rudely, and going straight to her father’s side, looked at him long and silently. Then she went over and sat down by Morland and they conversed in whispers.

Mrs. Carstairs was apparently not at all offended by Barbara’s manner, and placidly continued her role of general director of affairs. She straightened a small rug, emptied an ash tray into a waste basket, and was about to tidy up the desk, when Condron Archer said:

“It would be wiser, Mrs. Carstairs, not to move anything, before the coroner arrives. He must see the room as it is. There may be clues to the—the intruder.”

“There was no intruder,” said the housekeeper, in a tone of quiet assurance. “Mr. Van Wyck died by his own hand.”

But she ceased fussing among the desk appointments, and sat down near the door. She leaned her head back, and closed her eyes, looking the picture of sphinx-like inscrutability.

But she was alert enough to be at the door, as the coroner entered a moment later. She ushered him in, and seemed about to lead him toward the desk, when Doctor Mason rather peremptorily took matters in charge, himself.

The coroner, whose name was Mellen, was a brisk and somewhat aggressive man. He went at once to the body of the dead man and began his examination. He agreed with the doctor that it was difficult to tell what had caused death, except by an autopsy, but he at once began a search for the weapon. At his request, Archer and I joined him, but in the whole great room we could find no pistol nor any instrument of the nature of a stiletto.

“Then, it must be the work of an intruder,” declared the coroner, “who took the weapon away with him.”

“But that’s impossible,” I said; “for this room was absolutely secure in its locks and bolts against any intruder. Nobody could possibly have gotten in.”

“But it is equally impossible that a man could have killed himself and left no trace of the weapon,” said Mr. Mellen doggedly.

“Could he have stabbed or shot himself and then thrown the weapon far from him?” asked Archer, looking deeply thoughtful.

“Death was almost instantaneous,” said Doctor Mason; “but I suppose that by a spasmodic muscular effort he could have done that. However, the relaxed position of his hands and arms does not make it seem probable.”

“But it is the only explanation,” said I eagerly. “Come on, Archer, let us make a more thorough search. Perhaps Mr. Lasseter will help us.”

Barclay Lasseter agreed, though he seemed rather half-hearted about it

Barbara and Morland looked at us, but made no offer of help.

The search was fruitless. Neither floor nor walls showed any bullet holes or powder-marks. There was no weapon to be found; though I produced the few small shot I had found on the floor, they seemed meaningless in the absence of any gun.

“The very absence of a weapon precludes all idea of suicide,” said Coroner Mellen, at last; “and, though I’m not prepared to say how the murderer got in or out of this room, I believe that he did do so, and that David Van Wyck did not die by his own hand. Has anything been stolen?”

Lasseter opened the safe door, and I expressed surprise that it was unlocked.

“Often is,” returned the secretary carelessly. “Most of the valuable things are in inner compartments, with complicated locks of their own. And, too, there never are burglaries in this peaceful village, and a man grows careless. But I can’t see that any securities are missing. All these papers seem undisturbed.”

“The pearls!” cried Morland, starting up suddenly. “Are they there?”

“Here is the box,” said Lasseter, handing a jewel-case to Morland. “Open it yourself.”

Morland opened it and gave a cry of despair, for the satin-lined case was empty.

“The pearls gone!” said Barbara, with an awe-stricken look. “Then, it was a burglar, after all.”

“But it couldn’t be,” I began, when the coroner cut me short.

“If pearls have been stolen, of course it was a burglar,” he said; “and a professional cracksman, if he could get into this room and out again.”

“But he couldn’t!” I declared emphatically, glancing at the windows and doors.

Still the coroner refused to heed me, and said abruptly, “What were they worth?”

“They were practically priceless,” Morland stated. “My father had been collecting and matching them for years. It was a triple necklace composed of three strands of the finest and largest pearls he could procure. One hundred thousand dollars would be a conservative estimate of their value.”

“And a man kept such jewels as that in an unlocked safe?” said the coroner incredulously.

“They must have been there temporarily,” said Morland, as if puzzling the matter out himself. “And, too, I’ve no doubt my father intended to lock the safe before he left the study. But he was murdered first.”

“Have you any theory, Mr. Van Wyck, how a murder could have been effected?”

“No,” said Morland; “I haven’t. I know, even better than the rest of you, how absolutely this room is protected against forcible entrance. And that is one reason why my father was sometimes careless about locking the safe. He knew no one could get into this room from outside. Of course, upon leaving it at night, he always locked the door that communicates with the house, and kept the key himself.”

“There is no duplicate key?” asked Mr. Mellen.

“None,” said Morland positively. Then Barbara Van Wyck made a suggestion. “If Father did—did kill himself,” she said hesitatingly, “possibly he himself had taken the pearls from the case and hidden them.”

I realized at once what she meant. If David Van Wyck had taken his own life, it would have been quite in keeping with his cruel nature to hide the pearls where his family might not easily find them.