Читать книгу Wheels within Wheels - Carolyn Wells - Страница 6

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Next morning the sun rose clear, and the October landscape was as gorgeous and beautiful as if it had not been whipped and torn by the electric storm of the night before.

The few servants earliest on duty were about and one of them opened a back kitchen door in response to a knock thereon.

Conrad Stryker, the half-wit, stood there. He was a strange looking personage. A big, strong man of about thirty, physically well built, but with a pale, vacant face and staring blue eyes, that rolled from side to side as if worked by inanimate mechanism. His head was wide across the top,—anything going in at one ear and out at the other would have farther to travel than in most cases,—but it narrowed to a point at the chin,—kite-shaped rather than coffin-shaped. His large hands were nervously restless, his fingers incessantly moving, and he spoke earnestly but incoherently.

“Mr. Howland is dead,” he said, turning round slowly, then suddenly turning back. “You want my father? I say—you want my father?”

“Go along home, Conrad,” said Charles, who was the second man of the Howland house, and who was a good-natured sort, and sorry for the idiot. “What are you doing out so early in the morning? Run home now and your granny will give you your breakfast.”

“Yes,—but Mr. Howland is dead.”

“No, he isn’t. Good-by, Conrad, go home now.”

“Wait, wait!” the fellow cried, as the door was slowly closed against him. “I tell you he is dead—dead. You must have my father,—you must! you must!”

Conrad’s father was the village undertaker, a respected citizen of Normandale, who had carried on his business for many years. The tragedy of his idiot son had saddened his life, and the harmless half-wit was the protégé of the whole community.

For old John Stryker had performed his services for every family in the village, more than once in most of them, and his gentle demeanor and unobtrusive sympathy had endeared him to all.

Charles paused a moment, the door ajar, and looked at Conrad. He knew the poor unfortunate well, for he was often about the premises, and he saw that the vacant blue eyes were steady, and the nodding head positive.

“Why do you say that?” he asked, curiously. “Mr. Howland is in bed and probably asleep.”

“No, no, no! he is not! he is not!” the voice rose to a shriek. “He is dead—in his room—his big room—by his desk—come, I will show you.” Conrad’s strong hand grasped Charles’ arm, and half unwillingly, half fearful, he let himself be led along by the idiot, who strode with him around the house to the great front verandah.

Up the steps they went, and, pausing at the open window, Conrad pointed through it.

Trembling, Charles looked in and saw his master, his head fallen sideways on his desk, his body relaxed and arms hanging down. He might be asleep in that position, but he surely had all the effect of a lifeless man.

Charles turned to stare at Conrad.

“Dead!” the half-wit crooned softly. “All dead,—dead—dead—” he chanted the word.

“Oh, shut up!” cried Charles, his nerves giving way. “Stop that infernal noise! What does it mean? I daren’t go in—”

He turned and ran back down the steps and around to the kitchens again.

Rushing in, he went at once to find his superior, Martin the butler.

That important personage was just coming down the servants’ stairway.

“Mr. Howland is in the library—” Charles began, and his wild-eyed, agonized expression startled even the calm of the imperturbable Martin.

“Well?” he asked. “What of it?”

“Come!” and beckoning the butler, Charles went toward the front hall.

The door of the library was closed, and to the amazement of Martin his subordinate unceremoniously opened it.

Then both men stood still in horror. Viewed from that side, it was plain to be seen that Ralph Howland was indeed dead.

No second glance at the staring eyes, the white face, the rigid position, was necessary to drive home the truth.

And beyond the huddled form, outside the open front window, they saw the idiot boy, his mouth open and his round blue eyes gazing at them.

“You want my father?” he repeated.

“No!” cried Charles, in utter exasperation at his persistence. “When we do, we’ll send for him. You go home.”

“Wait a minute,” said Martin, trying to pull himself together. “What are you doing here, Conrad?”

“He was wandering about when I came down,” said Charles. “Send him home. What must we do, Martin?”

“Go for Mr. Magee,” the butler ordered. “Don’t tell any one else, until he says so. He’s in charge—”

“Mr. Swift—” Charles suggested.

“No; get Mr. Magee first.”

So Charles went quickly upstairs and tapped at the secretary’s door.

“Well?” was the response, as Magee opened the door.

“Please come down to the library, sir,” Charles said; “don’t wait to dress,—put on a bathrobe—”

But quick-witted Austin Magee had already sensed an emergency and had swiftly got himself into most of his clothes.

Collar and tie were omitted, but as he was on his way down the stair he was pulling on his coat.

He had wasted no time on questions and reached the library door to see the butler bending over the body of his dead master.

“Don’t touch him, Martin,” he cried sharply. “What has happened?”

“He’s dead, sir,” said Martin, solemnly.

“Dead, dead,” chanted Conrad, from the window. “You want my father?”

“He can’t be dead!” said Magee, closely scanning the white face; and then, as he felt of the still wrist and the cold flesh, he added, “but he is!”

“Yes, sir,” and Martin bowed his head.

For a moment Magee stood staring,—unseeing,—but thinking quickly.

Then he said, “Charles, go and get Mr. Swift. Tell him to hurry down. And Martin, you go about your work. Serve breakfast as usual. You must tell the other servants, I suppose, but don’t allow any noisy excitement or hysterics. We have Mrs. Howland to consider first of all. Don’t let her be told of this by a servant.”

“Very good, sir,” and Martin disappeared.

Alone with the lifeless body of his employer, Magee gave it no glance, but with swift, efficient movements, went straight to the safe, opened it, and rapidly selecting various papers and bundles of papers, transferred them to his own desk, which he closed and locked.

He stood in thought a moment, then, listening for footsteps on the stairs and hearing none, he opened a drawer in Ralph Howland’s desk. The position of the dead body made this difficult, but Magee managed it, and extracting more papers therefrom, put those also in his own desk and again locked it.

When Swift entered, the secretary stood, with folded arms, gazing at his one-time employer.

Leonard Swift, with tousled hair, dressing-gown over his pajamas and shuffling bath slippers, stopped short as he entered the room.

“My God!” he exclaimed, “he—he isn’t—”

“Yes, he’s dead,” and Magee stood without moving.

“What—what from? Heart disease?”

“How do I know? He had no heart disease that I ever heard of.”

“But what else could it be? He wasn’t—wasn’t—” Swift’s teeth chattered and he could not bring out the dreaded word.

“Murdered,” said Magee, coldly. “I don’t see any sign of it, but I think we must call a doctor at once.”

“Yes,—yes,—of course. You do it, will you, Magee? I—I must dress.”

“Yes,—but, wait a minute, Swift. I’ll call the doctor,—and he’ll know what to do,—but what about Mrs. Howland? Who will tell her?”

Swift considered.

“I can’t,” he said, at last. “Oh, I couldn’t do it. Get,—why, get Mrs. Peters to tell her. It’s a woman’s job, seems to me.”

“Either Mrs. Peters or Nurse Lane,” Magee said; “both of them, I should say. Go on up, Swift, and dress yourself. I’ll send somebody for Amy Lane.”

There was time enough to move slowly, Magee reflected.

Since Mary Howland didn’t already know of the tragedy, it was probable that she would not be anxious for an hour or so, at least.

If awake, doubtless she thought her husband in his own room; if asleep, she was secure for the moment.

So Magee sent a message to Nurse Lane to come to him in the living-room as soon as she could do so.

Then he closed the library windows, and going out, closed the door.

To Conrad, still on the verandah, he issued curt orders to go home, which the half-wit obeyed no more than he had his similar previous ones.

“Has something happened?” asked Amy Lane, as, fully dressed and composed of manner, she came to Magee.

“Yes; Mr. Howland is dead.”

“Oh, my poor lamb!” and Lane’s thoughts flew to her mistress. “Oh, how can I tell her? What killed him?”

The instant acceptance of the situation was characteristic of Lane; she had concern only for her beloved mistress, and was already planning how best to break the news.

“I don’t know. I’m about to call Doctor Avery. He died in the night,—he was still down in the library—”

“Bless us, Mr. Magee, was he murdered?”

“Not that I know of—” Magee looked at her thoughtfully. “Now, Nurse, it’s an awful situation, in any case. I’m going to depend on you to do your part, which is, of course, looking after Mrs. Howland. But, also, I want you to keep the servants in order. The women, particularly. I don’t want a lot of talk and gossip and curious speculation. We only know the one fact,—Mr. Howland is dead. For further information we must wait. Understand?”

“I understand, sir,” and Lane looked at him gravely. “Am I to tell nobody?”

“You are to tell Mrs. Peters. Go to her at once, tell her and she will tell her husband. Then, when you tell Mrs. Howland, you may ask Mrs. Peters to be present, or not, as you think wisest. Tell me, Lane, what do you think? Will Mrs. Howland be hysterical, or will she take it quietly?”

“Hard to say. She’s more likely to be struck dumb,—yet, again, she may go into violent hysterics. You know, there’s been nothing like this since little Angela died.”

“I know. That nearly unseated her reason,—this may entirely do so. Do you want me to be present,—or, or Mr. Swift?”

“No, not at first. I can do best alone. Of course, you’ll see her after.”

Lane stalked from the room, but her usual militant bearing was gone. She was trembling, almost limp, yet with a realization of her duty, and a determination to do it as best she might.

After calling Doctor Avery on the telephone, Magee remained in the hall, and shortly the Peterses joined him there.

Sally’s round face, devoid of its usual smiles, and Peters’ inquiring expression put the question they did not need to voice.

“Yes,” Magee said, briefly, “Mr. Howland is dead. He must have died in the night,—while seated at his desk.”

“But how—what—” Rob Peters began.

“I don’t know, Mr. Peters,” and the secretary looked at him blankly; “it may have been a stroke or heart disease—”

“But Ralph was a well man,” Peters asserted; he had no heart trouble,—he’s too young for a stroke—”

“What about Mary?” asked Mrs. Peters. “Does she know?”

“I’ve told Nurse Lane to use her discretion about telling her,” Magee returned. “Perhaps you’d better go up and see her,—I mean, see Lane—”

“I will,” and Sally Peters went quickly upstairs.

“What does it mean?” Peters asked of Magee. “Any chance of—of foul play?”

“I don’t know,” Magee replied, in his calm, noncommittal way. “Go in and look at him yourself.”

“No,—I think I won’t,” and Peters shuddered as he glanced toward the closed door of the library. “There’s no sign—of—of violence?”

“None that I saw, but of course I made no examination.”

“Why not? Why don’t you—”

“I think it wiser not to, Mr. Peters. Mr. Howland is positively dead, of that I am sure, so I have sent for Doctor Avery, and he will make the investigation.”

Peters looked curiously at the imperturbable secretary and was about to reply, when a hasty step was heard on the stairs and Miss Mills appeared.

She was dressed in white, and the one-piece slip of serge was both short and scant. Her low-cut neckline and short sleeves, her white silk stockings and suede pumps gave her an air of distinction as her graceful, dainty figure hurried toward them.

Always pale, her face was ghastly as she cried, “Oh, Mr. Magee, is it true—is it true?”

“Yes, Miss Mills,” and Magee looked at her coldly; “it is quite true. Mr. Howland is dead.”

“Where is he? I want to see him!” Her gray eyes filled with tears and her red lips quivered.

“Go into the library if you wish,” Magee said, a little more gently. “Of course, do not—do not touch him.”

“No,” and without another word, Edith Mills went into the library and closed the door behind her.

“Oh, I don’t know about that!” Rob Peters said, staring at the closed door. “There may be—evidence, you know,—clews—”

“You imply crime, Mr. Peters.” Magee’s tone was accusing.

“Well,—well—” Peters stammered, “you never can tell, you know.”

“But I can’t think Miss Mills could do anything wrong. She was devoted to Mr. Howland, she is very emotional,—she—”

A suppressed shriek sounded from the library, and Miss Mills rushed hastily out.

“Oh!” she cried, “oh, that awful boy,—that horrid idiot! Make him go away!”

Magee rose quickly and entered the library.

Conrad was outside, his face pressed against the glass of the window.

“I’ll settle him,” said Peters, who had followed Magee.

Out through the front door Peters strode.

“Conrad, you must go home at once,—right now,—and stay there! Go,—go along.”

By way of emphasis, Peters took hold of his arm and started the idiot toward the gate. “Go on, now!”

Reluctant but obedient, Conrad went, muttering as he slowly shuffled his way through the fallen autumn leaves.

An entering motor car passed him, and in a moment Doctor Avery entered the house.

With the briefest nod of greeting, Austin Magee conducted the physician at once to the library.

Also in silence, Doctor Avery approached the still figure and began his examination.

Magee stood by with folded arms; Miss Mills, coming near him, watched the doctor, while her long white fingers twisted nervously.

Rob Peters came to the doorway, from which he was hastily pushed aside as Leonard Swift came through.

“What is it, doctor?” he asked, loudly. “What killed him? Was it a stroke?”

Swift drew near and, ignoring the others, took upon himself the mantle of authority then and there.

“Make your report to me,” he said, importantly; “now Ralph is gone, I’m at the helm. What was it, doctor?”

“I confess I’m puzzled,” and Doctor Avery turned a perplexed face toward his questioner. “I know Ralph Howland’s physical condition as well as I know my own, and he had no tendency toward heart disease, no trouble of that sort whatever. He had no affection of any sort that could have brought about this sudden death.”

“Then was he—was he—”

It was Edith Mills who spoke, her eyes big with terror, her face agonized and her whole body quivering with nervous fear or excitement.

“I don’t know—” Again the doctor gave that baffled look. “There is no evidence of a crime, “He scrutinized again the dead face,—he bent closer and sniffed at the lips, he peered into the open, staring eyes. “It is the most mysterious thing I ever saw! I must call in Mason.”

“Shall I do it?” asked Magee, helpfully.

“Yes. Ring up Doctor Mason, the county medical examiner. Get him to come at once,—and—but he’ll know what to do. Tell him I can’t make out what killed Howland.”

Still pondering, the doctor again examined the body, looked about the desk, and glanced over the room.

“Where’s the bird?” he asked, suddenly.

The others followed his eyes to the gilded cage of Ralph Howland’s pet canary. The door was slightly open and the cage empty.

“Queer!” Leonard Swift said, “that bird was the apple of Ralph’s eye. Who could have left the cage unfastened?”

“What about Mary?” asked Doctor Avery, uninterested further in the bird. “Does she know?”

“Not yet,” Swift told him. “I just saw Nurse Lane, and she said she should wait until Mary had eaten her breakfast before she told her.”

“Good,” Avery commented. “Then, let us have breakfast, I’ve had none, and we could all do with a cup of coffee.”

It was Mrs. Howland’s custom to breakfast in her room, so the others went to the dining-room where the table was in readiness.

“Guess I’d better tell Mary myself,” said Doctor Avery, after he had made a hearty meal. “No telling what she’ll do.”

He lumbered up the stairs, he was no longer a young man, and he had cared for Mary Howland’s physical well-being for many years, and without ceremony he tapped at the door of her boudoir.

“Why, Doctor Avery, what are you doing here?” she exclaimed, as Nurse Lane let him in.

“How are you this morning?” and the doctor looked at her intently.

“All right,” she returned, brightly, but the eyes that looked up at him, across her untouched breakfast tray were moving restlessly about, and her wandering gaze was unintelligent and uncertain.

“She won’t eat,” complained Lane; “she won’t touch her coffee.”

“Never mind, put it away for the present,” and the doctor sat down beside his patient and took her hand.

“Mary,” he said, watching her closely, “where is Ralph?”

“Where is Ralph?” she repeated, “yes,—that’s so; where is Ralph?”

“Do you know?”

“Do I know? No,—I don’t know—do you know? Does anybody know?”

“Mary,” he spoke with a quiet emphasis, “Ralph is dead.”

“Yes,” she said, “I know that. Have you seen the will?”