Anybody But Anne

When I went to my room to dress for dinner, I thought the matter over very definitely, before deciding to send for Stone. It was a somewhat radical move on my part, and I was not sure that I was entirely justified; but I felt that I must clear Anne of any possible breath of suspicion. And as I was unable to do this by myself, I wanted the best possible assistance I could find. And yet everybody was opposed to the coming of the great detective. I felt sure that Barbara didn’t want him to come, because she suspected the guilt of either her brother or the secretary. I could see this from the way in which she looked at both men, and from some slight hints she had inadvertently dropped in conversation. And since it seemed to be fairly well proven that Morland Van Wyck and Barclay Lasseter were the last two people known to be with David Van Wyck, then one was, in a way, justified in suspecting one or both of these men. And Barbara, fearful that Fleming Stone’s coming would mean disaster to her brother or her lover, naturally protested against it

Condron Archer had said frankly that he didn’t want Stone to come, lest he might implicate Anne; and when I remembered Anne’s various inexplicable actions, and especially her agitation during the search in her room, I too trembled to think what Fleming Stone’s investigations might disclose.

Markham, the detective, I knew, didn’t want Stone, but that I ascribed to a petty professional jealousy. Of course the two detectives were not to be mentioned on the same day of the week, but Markham, in his ignorance, considered himself quite the peer of Stone.

But, on the other hand, Lasseter, I knew, really wanted Stone, and only refrained from saying so out of consideration for Barbara. This to me was a fair proof of Lasseter’s own innocence. And, indeed, no breath of real suspicion had fallen on the secretary, except the general fact that he had had opportunity to steal the pearls, had he been inclined to do so.

But what had brought my inclinations to a positive decision was the fact that Morland had said to send for Fleming Stone. He said it in the heat of passion and under the influence of anger; but he had said it, and I decided to consider that as authority. So I concluded to write at once, before Morland could retract his permission.

I made a rapid toilet, and found I had time enough left before dinner to write my letter.

It was not an easy matter, for I was not one of the principals in the case, and I didn’t wish to tell Stone of my hopes regarding Anne. But I wrote a straightforward account of everything, and I begged him to come at once. I told him frankly that most of the household were opposed to his coming, but that Morland had sanctioned it, and that if there were ever any question of authority, I would assume all the responsibility of having asked him, and would also be responsible for the financial settlement. As I wrote, my mind became more firmly made up that I was doing right. I could never marry Anne while she was under this cloud, and, even should she refuse to marry me, I must free her from any taint of suspicion regarding her husband’s death. Of Archer’s hint that Stone’s coming might convict Anne of the crime, I resolutely took no notice. If I could believe such a thing of the woman I loved, I would be utterly unworthy of her.

But I wrote nothing of all this to Stone. I told him the simple facts of the case as I knew them; I told him the indications and evidences as I knew them; and I must admit that it did seem a tangle. I felt that we had been either stupid or inefficient in our endeavors to unravel the mystery; for they certainly had led nowhere. All suspicion of any person fell to the ground before the undeniable fact of that sealed room. And all suspicion of suicide fell to the ground in the absence of any weapon. Truly it was a case worthy of Fleming Stone’s attention, and I hoped with all my heart he would take it up.

With the thought of helping him to understand it all, I wrote him everything we had done. I told of Jeannette’s disappearance, of the hidden stiletto, and of her subsequent explanation. I told him of our exhaustive search for the pearls, and I told him, too, though I hated to, how nervous and agitated Anne was when we searched her book-shelves. And then I told him, though I fully realized that all these things pointed in one direction, of the last words David Van Wyck said to his wife as he left the drawing-room. How he had told her he was going to give away the pearls she looked upon as her own, and how he had said, “Now don’t you wish I were dead?” I admitted to him that Anne was very strongly opposed to the munificent gift her husband had intended making, but stated also that the disappearance of the deed was quite as favorable to the wishes of the two stepchildren as to those of the wife.

I told Fleming Stone all this, and I told him, too, that I believed Anne Van Wyck innocent; but for this belief I could give no reason.

That letter went off Wednesday night. I sent it to the permanent address in New York which Stone had given me, though of course I had no means of knowing whether he was there or not.

But by good fortune he was in New York, and he replied to my letter at once, so that late Thursday afternoon I received his reply.

To my satisfaction, he declared himself willing to undertake the case, and incidentally complimented me on the clearness of my account and the definiteness of my written details. He said he would arrive Friday morning, and he begged me to keep the room from being disturbed any further. “Though, I dare say,” he wrote, “that by this time all possible clues are removed or destroyed through ignorance or carelessness. However, lock up the room at once, and let no one enter it until I get there.”

This instruction was scarcely necessary, for the study had had few occupants since the tragedy. Everybody avoided the place, and the servants could scarcely be induced to enter it. I knew it had not been swept or dusted since the fatal night, and I hoped that Stone’s marvellous powers could find clues where we had seen none. To be sure, we had searched it thoroughly for the pearls, and no one of us had then found anything in the way of evidence. But we were not trained observers, and I had great hopes of Stone’s wizardry.

After dinner, I walked on the terrace with Anne. I had announced at the dinner-table that I had written for Fleming Stone, and that I had done this with Morland’s consent.

I glanced at Morland as I said this, but he made no response beyond a slight affirmative nod. There was a silence after my announcement, and then Mrs. Stelton began to babble, and Beth Fordyce began a rapturous eulogy of Fleming Stone and his work. But the others said nothing, either for or against the coming of the detective.

As we walked on the terrace, I tried to draw Anne out on the subject. But she only said wearily, “It doesn’t matter. It would have to come out some time, I suppose. Shall you mind, Raymond, when your friend Stone proves me a criminal?”

“I don’t think he will do that, Anne,” I said very gently, for I couldn’t think it; and yet her despairing tone alarmed me more than if she had been angry or deeply disturbed.

And then the others joined us, and the conversation became general. But, seemingly by tacit consent, the subject of the crime or the coming of the new detective was not touched upon. Even Mrs. Stelton seemed to feel the restraint that was upon us all, and for once refrained from making her usual flippant and ill-timed observations. The party broke up early, and we all went to our rooms. The men did not congregate in the smoking-room as usual, but parted on the landing with brief good-nights.

I, for one, felt heavy of heart. Anne’s definite speech had frightened me, and I wondered if in sending for Stone I had precipitated the very calamity I wished to avert. But it was too late now for regret. I had put the matter in other hands, and I must abide by the consequences. And yet though I could still hope for Anne’s innocence, though my heart still whispered, “Anybody but Anne!” I was far from having the same confidence that I had felt earlier in the day.

The next morning Fleming Stone came. The moment I saw him, I was glad I had summoned him. He looked so strong, so capable, and so resourceful, that I knew instinctively he would reach the truth. And, after all, it was the truth we wanted—or ought to want.

We congregated in the drawing-room to meet him, and his reception was more like that of an honored guest than an official detective. He greeted each one individually and with the utmost cordiality and kindness. But after a few polite commonplaces of conversation, he rose alertly and declared himself ready to begin the business in hand.

“I assume I have the freedom of the house,” he said, turning to Anne, who responded merely by a bow.

She was frightened, I could see that, and yet there was nothing in Fleming Stone’s manner to inspire alarm. Indeed, he looked at her with an intent admiration, as he had done on his former visit, and I realized that he would give her every possible benefit of doubt

“I shall go to the study first,” he said, “and I should like to be accompanied only by Mr. Sturgis and Mr. Markham. After my investigations there, I may want to ask some questions of the rest of you.”

I wanted to feel that Stone was taking me with him because I might be of some assistance, but this vain hope was quickly shattered.

“I want you with me, Mr. Sturgis,” he said, as we entered the study and he closed the door, “first, because you are my employer; and also because you are the only one of this household who cannot possibly be implicated in this crime.”

I suppose I looked my amazement, for he went on, “That does not mean that all the rest are implicated, but you are the only one who I know is not.”

“How do you know that, Mr. Stone?”

“First, from the letter you wrote me, which leaves you free of suspicion, while it leaves every one else open to the possibility of it. Second, because you had no motive for the deed.”

“But I—”

“You needn’t finish; I know you are deeply attracted to Mrs. Van Wyck, but you would not murder her husband in order to win her, and then send for me to come out here to discover the criminal!”

“No, I wouldn’t,” I replied, almost smiling at the way he put it. “And now, Mr. Stone, if I can help you in any way, I shall be only too glad.”

“I think I shall not require help, thank you; I ask only freedom from interruption, and, possibly, answers to occasional questions.”

If the words were a trifle curt, the tone was not at all so, and I willingly sat down, content to watch the great man at his work.

Mr. Markham, also, watched Stone intently, and even offered suggestions now and then. But these, Stone dismissed with a mere word or two,—often with only a wave of his hand.

As I had surmised he would do, he scrutinized every part of the room; at first with sweeping glances, and then focussing his attention on various details. I had told him in my letter of the security with which the room was locked and bolted on the inside, and he examined all the fastenings of doors and windows with utmost care and interest.

“I think I can safely say,” he remarked, “that I have never seen a room apparently so absolutely impossible of ingress. And yet some one entered and left while it was thus bolted and barred.”

“It was not a suicide, then?”

“Certainly not. It was a case of wilful murder.”

“Committed by an intruder?”

“Yes; by an intruder of exceeding cleverness, of marvellously cool nerve, and—”

“And of great physical strength?” I prompted.

“Not necessarily,” said Stone, looking sharply at me. “I don’t deduce especial strength.”

I felt ashamed, for I realized in a sudden flash that I had said that hoping to learn that his thoughts were not directed toward Anne.

“What—what did this intruder do with the weapon he used?” I stammered, partly to hide my confusion.

“He left it behind him, in plain view of every one. I fear, Mr. Sturgis, you are unobservant.”

“Wait a moment,” I cried, stung by his evident scorn of what we had done, or, rather, what we had failed to do. “Do you mean to tell me that the weapon is even now in this room?”

“It is; and in plain sight.”

“Don’t tell me where; let me find it for myself,” I cried, gazing wildly around.

“Find it if you can, but as you have overlooked it all these days, how can you expect to see it now?”

“I’m completely mystified,” I said. “We searched this room so carefully for the pearls, that I would have sworn we must have found a weapon, had there been any to find. Show it to me, Mr. Stone.”

“There it is;” and Fleming Stone pointed quietly to a bill-file which stood on the desk. It was of the ordinary type, with a heavy bronze standard and a long, sharp, upright spike. The bills and papers on it reached nearly to the top, but as soon as my attention was drawn to it, I realized that with the bills removed it would indeed be a deadly weapon, and would correspond in every way to the weapon which the doctor declared must have been used.

“I can only suppose,” I said, “that it escaped our attention because of its very obviousness.”

“Not only that,” said Stone, “but it was inconspicuous, being nearly covered with the bills; and, moreover, you looked only for a definite weapon, and not for an ordinary implement used as one.”

“How did you come to notice it so quickly?”

“Because you had told me no weapon could be found, with the exception of the possible stiletto. And that did not greatly impress me, for no one would leave evidence of a crime in so simple a hiding-place. Even now I believe that bill-file to be the criminal’s weapon, only because I can discover no other. But let us look at it. If we find a particle of blood-stain on the papers, I think we may have no further doubt.”

Fleming Stone carefully lifted the bills from the metal rod that pierced them. Drawing a lens from his pocket, he examined the bill-file and several of the papers. “It was used to kill Mr. Van Wyck,” he declared. “It was carefully wiped off and the bills returned to it The particles of blood remaining on it are scarcely perceptible to the naked eye, but may clearly be seen through the magnifying-glass. You may perceive, also, some faint stains around the holes in the papers where they slid down the spike. As this is vital evidence, I will put it safely away.” Fleming Stone put the file with its papers in a small cupboard of the desk, which he locked and then took out the key.

After that, for a long time, Markham and I sat silently watching him as he proceeded with his scrutiny of the room. Occasionally he examined something through his glass, occasionally he picked up a scrap of something from the floor and put it in his notebook or pocket. At last I could contain myself no longer, and I burst out with, “Mr. Stone, do you know how the murderer got in and out?”

“I do not,” he replied. “I haven’t the faintest idea. But since a human being did do so, another human being may discover how.”

I felt that he was avoiding the masculine pronoun on purpose, and again my heart sank, as I feared for Anne.

After an hour or so, though it seemed ages, Fleming Stone declared his investigation of the room completed, and announced his desire to see next some of the servants. I took him across the house to the kitchen quarters, and in the butler’s pantry we found a footman and two maids.

After a quick glance at the faces of the trio, Mr. Stone interrogated the more intelligent-looking of the maids. “When express packages arrive,” he said to her, in his pleasant way, “who attends to them?”

“A footman, sir,” said the girl, with an air of proud importance at being questioned.

“What footman? This one?”

“Yes, sir. That’s Jackson, sir. He ‘most always takes the express parcels.”

“Ah, then you can speak for yourself, Jackson. On the day of your master’s death, did any express parcels arrive?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Jackson. “I remember there were three came that morning.”

“What was in them?”

“Supplies for the pantry, sir. Mostly bottles and jars, sir.”

“And what were they packed in—excelsior?”

“Yes, sir; excelsior and straw.”

“And was there no other parcel, containing china or glass?”

“There was another, sir, but not by express. Mr. Sturgis brought it. That was glass, and it was taken to Mrs. Van Wyck’s room.”

Fleming Stone turned to me. “What was the packing, Mr. Sturgis?” he said.

“I don’t know,” I replied, greatly mystified at this turn of affairs. “I brought a glass vase as a gift to Mrs. Van Wyck, but she opened the box when I was not present.”

“I emptied the box, sir,” volunteered Jackson, “and it was full of tissue paper cut into little scraps.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Stone. “That is what a fine piece of glass would naturally be packed in. That is all. Thank you, Jackson.”

Slowly and thoughtfully, Stone walked back through the house. He detained me a moment as we passed through the dining-room. “You want me to go on with the case, Mr. Sturgis,” he said, “wherever the results may lead?”

I shuddered at this question, coming right on top of his discovery of Anne’s glass vase. I could see no possible connection between my innocent gift and the Van Wyck tragedy, but there must have been one in Stone’s mind.

However, I replied “Yes,” knowing that I must know the truth, whatever it might be.