Читать книгу The Beautiful Derelict - Carolyn Wells - Страница 5

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After a swift trip in a Coast Guard motor-boat, they reached the Nantucket Yacht Club, and took a motor over to the village of Sand Hill, where the Waynes lived.

“That’s the house,” said Dan, looking toward a long, low structure just coming into view.

It was outside the hamlet, and fronted the sea. A house remindful of an old English Inn, half-timbered on its original façade, but not on the many additions which had been made to it. A Sun Room at one end and a Flower Terrace at the other seemed anomalous but not inharmonious.

A verandah ran the full length of the front, and an old signboard on rusty hinges swung from a tall pole. A painting on it, after Landseer’s picture, justified the name of the tavern, “The Stag At Bay.”

For a tavern it was, or had been, and long ago; for many years the Waynes had spent their summers there. Then Mrs Wayne died, and after a few years more the landlord became old and ill, and decided to sell the place.

Whereupon the Wayne brothers considered the matter and concluded to buy it, and live in it summers. Barry approved the plan, having many lifelong friends on the Island, and when his father and uncle gave him their joint present of the splendid yacht he was more than willing to live in the old house.

Indeed, all three felt more at home there than in their fine apartment in New York City.

Barry was twenty-five, a Yale man, and a big, buoyant-hearted, even boisterous chap who made friends with everybody because they made friends with him.

He sailed on cruises far and wide, always, however, glad to get back to The Stag At Bay.

Fleming Stone liked the place at once; Demarest, more conservative, reserved judgment till he should see the inside of the house.

But if the outside had left him uncertain, the interior did more so. Few changes had been made, except such as would result in larger rooms. In several instances two or even three rooms had been thrown into one, for the Inn rooms were small. Low-ceilinged, too, and this had here and there been improved upon by raising a ceiling, and disregarding the useless portion left of the upper room. Elaborate plumbing replaced the old styles, and electricity was put in, though at Barry’s request the old chandeliers of bronze or crystal were left in a few rooms.

Straight through the house, from front to back, ran a wide hall, now called the Common Room, and used at any time by everybody.

Here, Vera Van Zandt, wife of the dead man found on the yacht’s deck, also Stephen Holt and his daughter Jane awaited them.

As the four men entered, Jane rose and flew to Daniel Wayne, crying out piteously, “It isn’t true, is it? Oh, tell me it isn’t!”

Wayne put an arm round her, and led her to a seat, while he said, in a low tone, “Yes, it is, dear. Be a brave girl, you know how we all love you and sympathize. We, too, loved Barry.”

“Yes, I know. Oh, I am selfish. Your grief, of course, is as deep as mine. Forgive me, we will try to comfort one another.”

She turned to her father, who drew her down beside him as he sat on a davenport.

But Pat Wayne was not to perform his errand so easily.

He took the hand of Van Zandt’s wife, and began to commiserate her on her grief.

“Don’t talk like that!” she cried, stamping her foot on the rug. “Don’t tell me you’re sorry for me! What do I care whether you’re sorry or not? Tell me of Elkins. Tell me how he died—why he died—who killed him? What with? Tell me everything! You know all about it, and I know nothing, nothing!” The last word died away in a long, low wail. She stalked across the floor and back, making despairing gestures with her hands, which would have seemed theatrical had they been less sincere. She shed no tears, but the tawny gleam in her amber eyes showed the intensity of her emotion.

The strangers saw only a woman racked with grief, for which she strove to find a physical outlet.

She paused before the older brother.

“Dan,” and her voice fell to a gentler tone, “tell me about him! Tell me who killed Elk. I must know—I must! I must!” Again she gave a wild shriek.

“Hush, Vera,” said Dan, “be more quiet. Van was not killed. He died of a stomach trouble.”

“You lie!” she screamed, and as Dan looked across at his brother Pat nodded, and Dan pushed an electric button on the wall near his chair.

In a moment appeared a matronly looking woman, with a capable, kindly air.

“This is Mrs Mingle,” Dan said, “our most efficient and highly cherished housekeeper.”

Demarest and Stone acknowledged the introduction, and then Vera screamed again.

“Don’t you try to take me away, Ming! I won’t go! You let me be!”

“Just for a few moments, Mrs Van. Come along, now. I’ve something to tell you.”

A pair of blue eyes looked straight into Vera’s, and her amber ones lost their glitter, as she quietly let Mrs Mingle lead her away.

“Mrs Van Zandt is very emotional,” Pat said, with an air of apology. “I think we may forget that little scene. Mrs Mingle has a wonderful influence over her.”

“Mrs Mingle seems to be rather a wonderful person herself,” Fleming Stone observed.

“She is,” Pat Wayne told him. “She’s the daughter of Florence Nightingale and Machiavelli. Kind as they make ’em, and clever as the devil.”

“She’s lovely,” Jane Holt said, “and how she did love Barry.”

“She was a second mother to him,” Dan said, with a tremor in his voice. “We couldn’t get along without Ming. I call her that, because she’s as valuable as a rare bit of Ming pottery.”

“She looks the part you give her,” Stone declared. Then, turning to Jane, he said: “We promised, Miss Holt, that we would ask of you ladies no troublous questions to-day, though we may have to, later. Would you prefer that Mr Demarest and I should talk with you as to the tragedy now, or wait until to-morrow? I need not remind you that promptness is one of the most important points in detective work, and I am assuming you want to have the man who brought about Barry Wayne’s death discovered and punished.”

Jane Holt was a spirited young thing. Of medium height, exceedingly slender, with short brown curly hair and great gray eyes, fringed with the blackest, longest lashes, she rose at once to the occasion.

“Mr Stone,” she said, “I am broken-hearted at this awful thing. I loved Barry Wayne with my whole soul. We were to have been married next month. I have no wish to spend time in grieving that might be used in tracking down his murderer. Of course I want to learn who killed him, and why. And I want to know that he suffers full penalty for his villainy. I shall have long, weary hours to indulge in sorrowful thoughts and dear memories. So, at any time, ask me anything you wish, and I will tell you, if I can.”

“I assume that includes me also,” said Demarest, “and may I begin now?”

“Certainly,” returned the girl, though her lip trembled slightly at thought of the ordeal.

“Then first, Miss Holt, did you feel deeply disappointed at not being allowed to go on young Mr Wayne’s yacht yesterday?”

“I was very deeply disappointed,” and Jane cast an indignant frown at her father. “Had I gone, all this might not have happened.”

“You have no reason to say that,” her father broke in; “you know nothing to indicate that, and you have no idea who attacked Barry.”

“Why did you object to your daughter’s going, Mr Holt?” This from Stone.

“Because it was a threatening day,” Holt responded in an ungracious tone. “Barry is—was, a young dare-devil, and after the race began he was quite capable of following a yacht out into the far seas. I am too fond of my girl to subject her to what seemed to me very real danger.”

“Yet you were willing to let her marry him.”

“That’s another matter. Once she was his wife I should have no further control of her actions. That is as it should be. But while under my protection I felt I must care for her.”

“With whom did you go, Miss Holt?” asked Demarest.

“In a large motor-boat, belonging to Mr Campion, a neighbor. He invited some of us to go with him, having room for three. So I went, and Mrs Van Zandt and Uncle Pat.”

“Yes,” said Pat Wayne, “and I nearly threw my host overboard! He knows as much about motor-craft as—as Noah! The only thing Rod Campion ought to navigate is an ark!”

“But he got you there?”

“Yes, after a fashion. I wouldn’t go out in a sailboat with him.”

“You’re quite evidently a sailor yourself?”

“More or less, in my youth. But Barry was the adventurous one of our family just now. He feared nothing, dared anything and was everlastingly getting into some sort of trouble.”

“Is there, then, a possibility that he could have incurred the ill will of some revengeful enemy, and it resulted in his death?”

“It seems to me that could be possible; not all Barry’s quarrels were of a trifling sort, though he was too good-natured to have a real enemy.”

“I wouldn’t say that, Pat,” objected his brother; “Barry was quick-tempered, but he never held malice. It was all over quickly.”

“Maybe, Dan. But we don’t know all of Barry’s affairs. While frank and willing to answer questions, he was not impulsively communicative about his own doings.”

“Then, Miss Holt,” Demarest returned to his witness, “you were not with your father on the trip over to Newport?”

“No; father went in a small sailboat with Mr Dan Wayne.”

“And you all met at the luncheon party at Newport?”

“Yes; all but Barry and Mr Van Zandt. I was alarmed from the very first, for Barry, though he was very angry because I could not go with him, said he would meet me at the Mannings’ as soon as possible. Indeed, I thought he would be there when I arrived. But the others kept saying he would turn up soon, and for me not to worry. They said such a splendid yachtsman as Barry couldn’t have gone wrong in any way, and if the yacht were disabled or anything he had a wireless, and, too, there were scores of boats all around, and he would be looked after. How do you suppose they got him?”

“Who got him?”

“Why, the people who killed him.”

“You think, then, some enemy came in a boat and killed him premeditatedly?”

“What else is there to think?”

“It is difficult to reconstruct the scene you suggest. But there was another man on board.”

“You are not accusing Mr Van Zandt!” cried Dan Wayne, in horror.

“Mr Demarest is not accusing anybody,” Stone said, a little sternly. “He is asking necessary questions, and there are a great many to be asked. Now that Mrs Van Zandt is not present, will you tell me more about her? Were she and her husband a devoted couple?”

“By fits and starts,” said Pat, as no one else vouchsafed an answer. “I mean, sometimes they were all affection and devotion, and again, they disagreed to the point of quarreling. That right, Dan?”

“Yes; but I think they meant the affection, and the quarreling was an outburst of Vera’s quick temper and Elk’s slow, even sluggish intellect. For he had intellect, of a high class, but he was slow-witted; and that irritated Vera, always. Now, I can’t see a little man like Elk attacking a big, burly chap like Barry, and getting away with it. But if he did do such a thing, the reason can be guessed at. Van Zandt had a strong streak of jealousy, and of late, Vera has been making up to Barry. I think she did it mostly to tease Jane—”

“Yes, she did!” broke in the girl; “Barry and I both saw it, and we were amused by it, that’s all. It didn’t really tease us, but it did tease Mr Van Zandt. He is a funny little chap, and he thinks every man who sees Vera falls in love with her. Some of them do. But, my good Lord, he wouldn’t kill Barry for that, and he couldn’t have done so! To think of Elky Van whacking Barry hard enough to kill him is too ridiculous!”

“Mrs Van Zandt might feel glad to be rid of her husband?” Demarest asked, candidly.

“Not she!” returned Dan Wayne. “Vera knows too well which side her bread is buttered. She has lots of admirers, but few of them will seek to marry her. She’s a cute little devil, but just about as extravagant as they come.”

“Was her late husband a rich man?”

“He was before he married her,” said Pat, dryly. “Not so much so since.”

“How does his death affect her financially?”

“You mean insurance?” Pat continued to give out information; “well, he held large policies, but I rather think he had borrowed somewhat on them, and their value is a little shrunken.”

“Tell me this,” Stone asked; “did you know that Mr Van Zandt had this serious stomach trouble?”

“He complained a good deal of indigestion,” Dan said, “and occasionally had a slight attack of acute indigestion; but we had no reason to think he had what might prove a fatal malady. That is, I hadn’t. His wife may have known.”

“Stomach ulceration is a very painful disease,” Stone said, slowly; “if Mr Van Zandt had had successive attacks of that, you must all have known of it. You could scarcely have mistaken them for acute indigestion. At least, a doctor could not have done so. Was a doctor summoned on these occasions?”

“No,” Dan said, “I think not. Mrs Mingle would take care of him with ordinary household remedies and always brought him round.”

“Have the Van Zandts been here long?”

“On this visit? About a month. They came the middle of August.”

“They’re your long time friends?”

“Well, yes; we’ve known them about four or five years, eh, Pat? They turn up here once or twice every summer, without waiting for an invitation. Lots of our friends do that.”

“Your son liked Van Zandt?”

“Well, no! he didn’t. Barry was annoyed when Jane wasn’t allowed to go with him in the Hotspur, and he was annoyed again when Van invited himself to go instead.”

“The two men were at odds?”

“Oh, no; Barry was too good a host to show his displeasure at Van’s company. They started off chummily enough.”

“About what time?”

“I don’t know. Right after breakfast. About nine or ten, I suppose.”

“Let me answer for a while,” said Pat, noticing his brother’s sad weariness. “Yes, Barry and Van started off about nine-thirty, saying they would go straight to Newport, leave the yacht at the Club and be at the Mannings’, where we were to gather, before we were. The plan was for a large party of us to go out in the Mannings’ big yacht, or in our own boats, take care of the races and be back for luncheon at two. Of course, if any one didn’t want to come back so early that was all right, and when our men didn’t show up, they all thought the Hotspur had followed the yachts, ’way out, and lost her way in the fog. But I didn’t think that, because while Barry was daring enough for any escapade, he wanted to get back to where Jane was.”

“Yes,” Jane agreed, “he told me he’d go straight to the Mannings’ and then he would try to sneak me away in his boat.”

“He did, did he?” exclaimed Holt, but a warning glance from Pat made him stay the speech that would have pained Barry’s father.

Fleming Stone looked round the group.

“We are at one,” he said, “in our desire to solve the mystery of these two deaths, and while I have hope and belief that we shall do so, yet I am willing to state that I have never been faced by a more seemingly unsolvable problem. It is absurd to suspect either of the two men on the yacht of being the murderer. If Barry had killed Van Zandt, and then went down to start the engine, who killed Barry? And if, on the other hand, Van Zandt killed Barry, how could he expect to reach land himself? He could not sail a boat, I am told; he would then be at the mercy of storm or shipwreck, drifting out to sea and to certain death. If he killed himself by some poison not discovered at the autopsy, why choose that peculiar setting in which to stage his taking-off? And if he killed Barry, down in the hold, where did he leave his weapon? Whatever it was, it was large and very heavy. Can you imagine that small, timid man lugging a great weight down the stairs, throwing it at his victim, who apparently put up no fight, killing him, and, picking up his unwieldy weapon, going up the stairs again, and sitting down in a chair to bring about his own death?”

“He could not have done it,” Dan declared. “You didn’t know Van Zandt alive, Mr Stone, but he was incapable of the deeds you describe. In a word, we sometimes called him Caspar Milquetoast, because he looked and acted like that familiar cartoon. But he had not the stamina, moral, mental or physical, to put over such a deed. You all agree?”

He looked round the group and his brother and the two Holts nodded their heads.

“Perfectly true,” declared Steve Holt. “I never cared much for Van, though he was an accommodating sort; I often marvelled at his timidity, and his disinclination for any exertion. Nor do I believe he would kill himself or any one else. He was a most unnecessary man, in every way. I don’t know what Vera ever saw in him.”

“His money,” said Pat, laconically. “He lost a lot, but he had a lot left. No, Elky would never have killed himself.”

“It seems to me quite clear,” Stone went on, “that neither of those men could have been the murderer. To my mind, they had neither weapon nor opportunity; and so far as I know, no sufficient motive. We have no hint of any third man who may have come to the yacht, committed the crimes and gone away again, leaving no trace. I assume you know of no such person, who desired the life of either?”

Stone looked at Dan, but Jane spoke up in reply.

“Nobody could have wanted to kill Barry!” she exclaimed, her cheeks red with indignation at the idea. “I know everything about his affairs, he always told me everything. Don’t dream for a moment he was the principal target. Somebody wanted to kill Van, and did, and Barry, hearing Van call out, ran up the steps and was bashed on the head by the murderer and fell back down the hatchway.”

“Good reconstruction, Miss Holt,” and Stone looked at her with a little smile. “Now, if we can prove it. And have you any idea who this enemy of Mr Van Zandt could be?”

“No, I haven’t. Ask Vera, she ought to know.”

“She has many admirers among the men?”

“Slathers of ’em. Poor Van had to accept the situation, and like it. But he wouldn’t kill any of ’em; he wasn’t the killing sort.”

“We don’t admit a killing sort,” Demarest said, looking at Jane’s pert, pretty little face.

“Why not?” and the big gray eyes looked at him earnestly.

“We think any one can be a murderer, whatever sort of man he may be otherwise.”

“What amazes me,” Stone said, musingly, “is the absence of any weapon. There is nothing down in the hatch against which Barry might have hit his head, accidentally. There is nothing that could have dropped down on his head from the ceiling, nor is there height enough for such a drop to be fatal. Beside, he was killed instantly, and the projectile, whatever it was, must have been removed by some one. I can’t get away from a third man.”

At that moment Vera returned. Mrs Mingle came with her to the door, and then left her, as she entered the room by herself.

“I am quite calm again, now,” she said, in a gentle voice. “I will not lose my hold on myself any more. Are you going to find out who killed my husband, Mr Stone?”

“Working with Mr Demarest, I hope to do so,” Stone said, without definite interest. He did not like this siren-like beauty. Ladies with glittering topaz eyes always repelled him. Yet he must accept her as she was, must even cultivate her, for it already seemed to him she stood for a lot in this strange Wayne case.

“You have no further information for us?” he went on, and to his surprise, she answered:

“Ah, but I have,” and she gave him a sorrowful smile; “I have what you call a—a clue—isn’t that it? Or do you say evidence?”

“It doesn’t matter, Mrs Van Zandt,” Stone was getting annoyed at her, “tell me what you have discovered.”

“A letter! A terrible letter, that will lead you straight to the murderer.”

“Very well,” Stone said, showing but slight interest. “Give it to Mr Demarest.”

“I thought you had the case,” she pouted a little, but handed the letter over to the Attorney, as bidden.

Unfolding the sheet, Demarest read it aloud.

“Great Cæsar, man! Don’t think I’m intrigued by your wife! Though she is a lovely woman. If I seemed to flirt with her last evening, it was just to rouse a spark of jealousy in the heart of the girl I am trying to win. Don’t be silly, forget it. B.”

“Do you know the writer of this?” Demarest asked her.

“No. It might have been one of several men. But I thought you detectives could find out from typing as well as handwriting who wrote a note.”

Demarest had handed the document to Stone, who put it in his pocket, saying:

“Thank you very much, Mrs Van Zandt. It may prove a valuable clue. Let us hope so.”

A messenger from the Coast Guard Station appeared then, with an important letter for Attorney Demarest.

After reading the document in silence, Demarest said, “I have here important information. I do not propose to read this message aloud, just now, but I will tell you its intent. Mr Van Zandt did not die from stomach ulcers, he was murdered.”