Читать книгу The Huddle - Carolyn Wells - Страница 7

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REACHING his home, Stone sat down to think things over. He congratulated himself on having an interesting case this time. Not but that he was always interested in his cases, but this promised some unusual features, and perhaps a chance for his ingenuity.

He was tormented by a subconscious wish that Miss Rosella Allenby could be transported, in the words of the old song, ‘far beyond the Northern Sea.’ But he realized that without her, he would not be on the case at all, and, too, though now an unknown quantity, she might develop into a principal and he must watch her step.

The problem itself was one of those deceptively simple-looking affairs that seem so easy of solution and then present little, unexpected bothers that quickly expand into appalling obstacles.

Viewed superficially, one would say that the murderer of Robert Allenby was, necessarily, one of his three colleagues or the hypothetical intruder who came into his bedroom ‘the back way.’

Yet that was a slipshod decision. There was equal chance of any of the servants having done the deed. Or any person admitted by the servants, either innocently or in connivance. Or a tenant of one of the other apartments in the house. Or someone who had been concealed in the bedroom for hours, awaiting his victim.

Any consideration of motive was futile, until some hint of the identity of the criminal could be found. If connected with Allenby’s wealth, it might be someone who would benefit under his will. His daughter? Not likely, but possible. The servants? Probably not. Game not worth candle. The secretary? Conventional routine, but improbable time for a reasoning murderer to choose. Tenants of the house? All guess work and waste of time.

Determining to begin his methodical search the next morning, Stone let his thoughts drift to the heiress of Allenby’s great wealth.

With a certain reluctance he admitted to himself that he didn’t quite get her. She showed no signs of grief, but he fully believed that was because of her natural reserve which shrank from exposing her emotions to a stranger. She evinced a surprising haste in the matter of investigation, and her immediate call for him, before any other details of the tragedy were attended to, was a gesture hitherto unknown in his experience.

Did such an extraordinary performance point to her own guilt, or any participation in the crime?

Fleming Stone had long passed the stage where any assumption, however shocking, could be classed as impossible, unless material facts denied it.

Girls had been driven to crime because of a thwarted love affair, or other grave injustice, and to put it mildly, Rosella was an odd sort.

She was nobody’s fool, that was patent, but what was she?

Like all detectives, Fleming Stone considered motive and opportunity of primary importance in blocking out an investigation.

Yet he had encountered occasions when motives were so complicated and opportunities so obscure, that he had come to recognize when he met it a case calling for quick attention to its own presentation of evidence.

Here, he had a man killed, with three other men in the next room. The three had gone in, singly, to speak to him, and each returned in a few minutes. This cleared the first two, leaving the third a possible suspect. But the third was Davis, the somewhat colorless Davis, the one least likely to commit a crime.

Naturally, Stone knew that by all the laws of the Medes and Persians, the least likely man is your proper suspect. But, he also knew that nine times out of ten this rule fails to work.

Far more likely the unknown intruder, who was not one of the happy hopeful, high-spirited trio, working in harmony with their patron and leader. A rank outsider, of course, who had his own reasons for wanting to rid the world of the well-known financier. Or a more personal acquaintance of Allenby’s with a long-nursed private grievance that had just now broken bounds.

Well, his part was to hunt and search and ferret and pry, until some tiny spark, some half-caught sound should give him a hint which way to look.

Next morning he went first to see Grant, the secretary of the murdered man. He found him in the many-roomed office suite that held Robert Allenby’s various business interests.

Grant had already been apprised by the early-rising Rosella that she had engaged Mr. Stone’s services, and also that she looked to him to give the detective any and all assistance he possibly could.

“I am so glad to see you, Mr. Stone,” the secretary said. “I feel like the lone survivor of a stranded ship, and I don’t know which way to turn.”

“Mr. Allenby was singularly alone in all his business interests, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, but that was all right so long as he was here himself. Now, it seems everything must drop to pieces and fall apart, without his personal presence.”

“But he had three partners—”

“Three partners! He had no partner.”

“Mr. Curtis—”

“Oh, you mean the Fair proposition. That is a thing by itself. Those three men are connected with Mr. Allenby only in that one matter. Not at all in any other way.”

“But, of course, he left his affairs in order? His lawyer will know all details?”

“To a certain limit, yes. But there are new matters claiming immediate attention that the lawyer knows nothing about.”

“You’ll have to have expert assistance, I assume. Now, Mr. Grant, I am engaged by Miss Allenby to try to find her father’s murderer, and I am starting my inquiries right here. I want you to tell me anything you can that may have a bearing on the case, but first explain to me the exhibition to be shown at the World’s Fair. Is that to redound to Mr. Allenby’s benefit, financially, or is it of a philanthropic character?”

“Oh, it is planned as an enormous money-making proposition. Mr. Allenby is the originator, and he asked men he knew to help him because they were just the ones for the parts he assigned them.”

“Did he propose to add to the number?”

“That I don’t know. Few knew Mr. Allenby’s plans in advance. He was a powerful man, and he could get concessions and permissions from the heads of the Fair committees with ease. His plans were progressing surely, if not rapidly, and yet he had things so arranged that if the scheme fell through, little harm would be done.”

“I see. Now, these men. Will you give me a brief and merely superficial description of them.”

“Surely. Mr. Curtis is the salt of the earth. He’s not a well man, at present, and his illness has somewhat impaired his disposition. But Mr. Allenby consulted with him on all subjects, and he was just about the first Gold-stick-in-waiting, where the show was concerned.”

“Who came next in Mr. Allenby’s estimation?”

“Oh, they weren’t definitely graded. Barton is a wide-awake sort of jack-of-all-trades. He was ready to do anything to further Mr. Allenby’s plans, and made good ones of his own. Also he is a good financier. Mr. Allenby took up the money matters with him, because of his quick appreciation of the commercial value of this or that and the probability of gain or loss it offered.”

“And Davis?”

“Munson Davis was the brake. Whenever the other three lost their heads, and planned to import the Sultan of Sulu or Mussolini, Davis just turned a stopcock and made them see that they were going ridiculous. Oh, they were a fine quartet, with Mr. Allenby keeping everything happy and peaceful, putting up more and more money as it became necessary, and getting anything he asked for from the Powers That Be.”

“So we can’t look upon any of the three as a suspect?”

“No more than the King of Siam. I suppose you have to take such things into consideration, unthinkable as they are. Must you suspect the house servants? Rosella? Me? The other employees here? Get through with them as fast as you can, and get down to brass tacks. Maybe I can help you.”

“You’ve sized it up about right. I do have to consider the servants, also Miss Allenby, also yourself. But granting them cleared of suspicion, who is in your mind that will be of help to me? Who is your brass tack?”

“Nobody, for certain. But there are two or three of Mr. Allenby’s friends—so-called—who have such an enmity against him that it would not be at all surprising to learn that they had lost their heads and gone the limit.”

“That is an interesting statement, and I shall be glad to learn more about it. Just a minute, first. Had Mr. Allenby no relatives that he cared for? No kin, however distant?”

“A few persons, yes. But so really distant, so nearly unknown, that they cannot be considered. And why would they kill their far-removed cousin? What would that get them? There was nothing in his will for them. Better come here and try to curry favor with him.”

“But we have to consider some such individual, who might think he could do away with his rich cousin and then contest the will, or make some claim for recognition.”

“Not likely. But possible, I suppose. Has he shown up?”

“Not to my knowledge. Now, back to the Fair Show for a minute. You know the business side of it, is it a Stock Company, or just a group of four private citizens?”

“More like that, but not either, exactly. There’s an agreement drawn up, of which each holds a copy. They promise nothing more than general fealty and honor to the enterprise and to one another. It provides that should one of the four die, the three survivors would carry on; if another died, or in any way fell by the wayside, two should stick it; if a third was removed, the sole survivor could do whatever he liked with the whole business and with whatever money remained.”

“Fair enough.”

“Oh, yes; they didn’t bother much about the terms, they knew anything Robert Allenby was at the head of would be above criticism.”

“And they anticipated big returns?”

“They did that! You see, Mr. Allenby had always been sort of fond of the Freaks in the circus sideshow, but he hated anything coarse or illiterate. And you know yourself, the usual Fat Lady is seldom a genuine Vere de Vere. Well, sir, that man was so intensely absorbed in this game of his that he planned to educate a Fat Lady, to find a living skeleton who is also a highbrow, and a clown who is a gentleman.”

“Marvelous ingenuity! I wish I might have known Robert Allenby.”

“He was a One-er! Aside from anything else, he had a gentle, kindly nature. He’d do anything for anybody, unless they offended him and then he’d see that they got what was coming to them. I say, Mr. Stone, do you—er—do you know Rosella’s plans?”

Not being entirely dense, Stone grasped the situation.

“No,” he said, “I don’t. But I do think she should have someone to look after her. She’s a fine young woman, but too young to be left so absolutely on her own.”

“Oh, I don’t know. The younger generation isn’t too young for anything. They can put over what older and wiser people would balk at. Rosella Allenby can swing more than a murder mystery and a big fortune. I’m mighty glad she called you in, though I’m greatly surprised. It’s a wonder she didn’t insist on doing her own sleuthing. I’m in love with her, of course. Probably she knows it, but it won’t bother her any. And I shan’t bother her. I know better then to blink at a star of her magnitude. I am willing to do all I can in the way of settling up Mr. Allenby’s affairs, and then raise my hat and walk off down the path. Now, if I can be of any help to you, just say so, and if not—well, yes, I am busy.”

Stone smiled but refused to act on the hint.

“Can’t let up on you yet,” he said; “a few words more about the Enterprise—what do they call it?”

“Oh, just the Fair Show, now. They’re going to invent a name.”

“Then the three will carry on?”

“Can’t say for sure, but that’s the understanding. I rather think they will.”

“Who will be at the head of it?”

“Dunno. Maybe Curtis. He’s a big man.”

“But ill?”

“Yes, that is true, though I don’t notice it much. It’s a weird illness, you know.”

“I don’t know. Tell me.”

“Ask Rosella, or better still ask Curtis himself. Personally, I think the Fair racket a fool business. Only the genius of Robert Allenby could have pushed it across. But it’s not my affair. My salary pays for work in this office and I’ll do it as long as required.”

“This death will make a stir in lots of circles.”

“Oh, yes. The stock market will wobble around, but it will get its balance again. The funeral will require some engineering, the Insurance people will soon begin to buzz around, and the trustees or executors will soon have troubles of their own with death duties and inheritance taxes. Everything must be referred to Rosella, there’s no one else, but she can swing it. What bothers me is her going in for detective work. Talk it out of her if you can. She has good sense, but in her zeal she may stop at nothing and maybe go too far.”

“I’ll do my best to restrain her and I doubt if she raises any very great ructions. As a first move I’m going to interview the three partners. Give me their addresses, will you? My first port of call will be Curtis.”

“Handle Curtis gently. He’s a fine chap, but touchy of late. Jump all over Davis, he needs it. Milquetoast, you know. Just talk sense to Barton. He’s set in his way, but open to conviction. Going? Good-by for now. Glad to see you again when you can make it convenient.”

Fleming Stone went away with a question mark in his mind about Mr. Grant. He seemed all right, probably was all right, but he showed a sort of satisfaction in his suddenly attained duties that lacked any visible sign of an accompanying sadness or regret. One couldn’t expect him to weep over the loss of his friendly employer, but Stone rather resented the eagerness with which the secretary was sorting out his duties and getting busy about them.

He hailed a taxi and went to see Curtis, who lived several blocks away. The apartment was an older one than the Allenby’s and had a warmer, cosier air.

Stone was shown into the library, where his host joined him, greeting him with a grave, almost solemn, expression.

Charles Curtis was a tall, thin man. Thin, not in the sense of slender and gracile, nor yet scrawny and emaciated, but lean and gaunt with big bones that seemed insufficiently padded under his dark, leathery skin.

He didn’t look really ill, and Stone wondered what Grant had meant by speaking of a weird illness.

The two men were soon talking earnestly about the possibilities of discovering the murderer.

“We’ve got to find him,” Curtis continually repeated. “I’m glad you’re on the job, but I want to help. I—am a bit on the occult side, you see. I’ll bet that shunts you off me, but if I can help you, you won’t balk at my methods, will you?”

“Not if it’s real help. Now, as a starter, tell me exactly what you saw when you went into Mr. Allenby’s bedroom. You went in first, didn’t you, after he went in himself?”

“No—Barton went in first. He’d just heard of the death of one of their mutual friends and wanted to tell Allenby about it alone. We other chaps didn’t know the dead man.”

“All right. Then Barton came out and you went in?”

“Yes. The door was a trifle ajar and I walked in. Allenby sat at a small table, near an open filing cabinet and was engrossed in his search for the missing paper.”

“How did you know that?”

“I didn’t know just that, but I could see what he was doing. Then, too, Barton had told us he was doing that.”

“What did you want to see Mr. Allenby about?”

“I had a new idea for one of our stunts and I wanted to ask him about it before I told the others. It meant an expensive equipment.”

“What did Mr. Allenby say?”

“He only listened absent-mindedly. I don’t believe he sensed what I was talking about. He just said, ‘I see,’ and ‘Unh-huh,’ in a vague way. I came away because I saw it was no use trying to discuss my new idea then.”

“And you left him. Where?”

“Just where I found him. Sitting beside the filing cabinet, pulling papers out and pushing them back again.”

“And then you rejoined the others in the office?”

“Yes. And we sat there so long it got on my nerves.”

“You’re a nervous man, anyway, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I suppose no man likes to admit he’s nervous, but I am and I own right up to it.”

“Any definite reason for it?”

“Well, yes. I think so. But we won’t talk of that now.”

“All right. Well, then, Davis went in to Mr. Allenby’s room?”

“Yes. He knew we had all been in, and he ought to have an equal privilege.”

“What did he want to see Mr. Allenby about?”

“Well, you see, Davis is always hard up. And he’s always trying to sell his pictures. He can’t do it, but he keeps on trying. Every once in a while he has an exhibition and works off a few that way. He’s planning one now and he wanted to ask Allenby for a little help. Allenby was a generous chap, and he liked Davis, and ordinarily he would have offered to pay for the rent of a gallery for the exhibition, or something like that. But Davis says he was so absorbed in hunting for some paper—a contract or something—that he scarcely paid any attention to Davis’ plan for selling his pictures, and so Davis left him and came back to us.”

“Davis look upset, or anything like that?”

“Well, yes, he did; but by that time we were all rather upset by Allenby’s long absence.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing, just sat there. Davis drew some scraps of sketches, I got up and walked round the room—couldn’t sit still. Barton drummed on the table with his fingers—that always drives me frantic! So at last, at the limit of my patience, I went in to drag Allenby out.”

“And found?”

“Found him lying on the couch.”

“Did you know at once that he was dead?”

“There was a red splotch on his shirtfront, but I think I should have known anyway. His eyes were staring; one hand hung limply down, and the red stain—well, I called out—”

“In fright?”

“I can’t say I was frightened, so much as shocked, stunned—well, flabbergasted.”

“The others came right in?”

“Yes, and I recovered my wits partially. I realized what had happened and what we had to do. For some reason they put the brunt of the situation on me. I was willing, God knows, but it was all so awful—”

“I understand,” Stone said kindly. “Never mind yourself. What did the others do?”

“Oh, I don’t know. We called the servants and they called the police—”

“At your direction?”

“Yes, I think so. It all seems vague to me.”

“I’m sorry to have to prod you, Mr. Curtis, but these questions must be asked and answered. Did either of your companions seem uneasy or frightened?”

“As if they were implicated, do you mean?”

“Yes, that is what I mean.”

“Then, no, sir. They did not. They acted as any two very much surprised men would, in the same circumstances.”

“I see. So, there seems no possibility but that some enemy came into the bedroom after Davis left it, and swiftly stabbed Mr. Allenby and disappeared. I know you were knocked silly by the dreadful discovery you made, and at first could scarcely pull yourself together, but you quickly recovered, didn’t you?”

Curtis looked up sharply.

“Are you doubting any part of my story?”

“Yes,” Stone said, “I am. But go on. You can probably make all clear. Then when the police came, they addressed themselves to you?”

“They did.” Curtis had put on an added dignity. “As the oldest of the quartet, and as a longtime friend of Mr. Allenby, they seemed to think me the best one to take the helm.”

“Quite right. It seems that way to me. It was brave of you to conquer your nervousness sufficiently to take charge of things. Shall you three continue the plans for the Fair Exhibition?”

“I hope we can do so, but I do not want to be at the head of it. I am willing to work, but not to assume the primary responsibility.”

“No, you are hardly well enough for such an undertaking.”

“I’m not ill!” and Curtis bristled as if he had been affronted. “I’m perfectly well, save for this slight nervousness.”

“It isn’t slight. Tell me how you acquired it.”

At will, Stone could show a winning sympathy that almost always made a man confide in him. Moreover, a man of Charles Curtis’ temperament is usually pleased and proud to discuss his own indisposition.

“It’s a curse,” he said solemnly.

For once, Stone was startled out of his calm.

“A what!” he said.

“A curse. A heathenish, diabolical, Oriental curse.”

“Wished on you?”

“Not exactly that. I brought it on myself.”

“How?”

“You’ll laugh at me, if I tell you.”

“Perhaps I shall, but tell me all the same.”