Читать книгу The Door of Death - Samuel Shellabarger - Страница 8

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Francis Ballion: what kind of man he was, where he had been during that last night of October—this had become the supreme issue. To Norse and myself, except for his portrait downstairs, he was still merely a name. There was nothing, it seemed to me, we could do but wait for his arrival.

On this score, however, Norse held a different opinion.

“I don’t know when he’ll be here,” observed the detective, “but I hope later than sooner, because that will give us time.”

“For what?” I asked.

“For two things: first, to look at his collection; and secondly, to talk about him with Carl, if he’s willing, and Miss Graham, if she’s able, and Señor Hasta.”

I felt cynical.

“It’s an early hour to admire antiques.”

“I’m sorry,” returned Norse sweetly, “that I can’t advance the sun for you. But am I wrong, Doctor, in assuming that you, for instance, when examining a patient, do not content yourself with thermometer and stethoscope, but are curious as to what he thinks, what his habits are, and the like? The same applies to my own less eminent profession.”

“Oh, I see,” I answered, “you think then...”

He cut me short. “I’m not thinking; I’m absorbing. And I beg of you and everybody else to do the same. Thinking will come in time. Absorb!” He added incisively: “Above all, feel! And now let’s go down, get Hasta to bring us some coffee, and we’ll look at Mr. Ballion’s museum.”

We drank our coffee in the dining-room, where only last evening Celia had welcomed me with her wistful, old-fashioned courtesy. Now, invaded by the gray morning light, it seemed, if possible, emptier and more forbidding. Her words relative to Greyhouse recurred echo-like: “built in evil days, when there was no God.” Unconscious prophecy, keen-eyed delusion! I felt once more pass through me the whisper of her fear.

As it happened, Norse was elaborating a theory which oddly enough harmonized with my own reflections.

“What I mean,” he was saying, “is the necessity of catching the undertones and overtones of a man’s personality in order to understand him. Naturally at present on the bald surface of facts, your brother is implicated. A jury should be guided only by fact. I,” he went on, sipping reflectively, “can and should allow myself the luxury of impressions, so as to reach new and more significant fact. Presently I shall be meeting Mr. Ballion under abnormal circumstances. In simple justice I must know what he’s like normally, and avoid snatching at conclusions. You understand.”

“I do,” said Carl, “and I’m grateful. Francis is ten years older than I, and we’ve never been intimate—he had scholarly interests, and I’ve been mixed up in practical affairs—but I could vouch personally for his innocence.”

“No doubt,” interrupted Norse with a shrug of the shoulders, “naturally!”

“A man of fine taste,” continued Carl, “wide reading, and quick sentiment.”

“Obviously,” agreed the other; “this house proves it. Have you observed, Ames, that everything in it from hall to attic is, in some aspect or other, Italian? Before even examining Mr. Ballion’s library, I’m certain I shall find a number of Italian books there. But not only this is true; the style reflects a rather short period—to hazard a guess, I should say the latter half of the fifteenth century. Mere decorators don’t succeed like that—it takes a scholar.”

“Doubtless,” murmured Carl, but he seemed absorbed in his own thought. Then with contrasting alertness of manner, he sprang up. “Well, gentlemen, shall we be looking at the collection?”

My earlier visits to the great room, more nearly associated than any other with the master of Greyhouse, had been in haste and for a definite purpose. I now had leisure to admire its size and the richness of its contents. Moreover, daylight gave an increased definiteness. I should say it was about fifty feet long and twenty wide. In height it was certainly not under thirty feet. Book-shelves lined most of the walls, and above these were hung at intervals silken pennons, gonfalons, battle standards, shredded and frayed by conflict or time. Along the center of the room was arranged what even a layman could recognize as a priceless collection of armor inlaid and skilfully decorated, together with weapons of various sorts—the double-handed sword, the mace, the spear, the rapier, the broad-sword, the stiletto. These, coupled with the flags above, gave the impression of some old armory—an impression strengthened by the stone flooring of the room, although here and there rugs preserved it from bareness.

In aisles between book-shelves and weapons appeared other objects of different kinds, here a case of rich manuscripts, or another of coins, of seals, of ivories and curios of the sort. Rendered attentive by Norse’s earlier remark, I noticed that all of these belonged practically to a single epoch—presumably mid-Renaissance—and I guessed that most of them had been derived from Italy. The result was a harmonious blending of otherwise incongruous things; they were given an evasive unity by the spirit of their age, so that silken banners, burnished steel, and parchment-covered books joined in a single effect. Therefore, while actually a museum of a certain period, it avoided the chaos of a museum and remained also a splendid apartment.

The end of the room was reserved for a separate collection, the nature of which appeared at first glance obscure. I supposed it to be a number of kitchen utensils rudely fashioned of wrought iron, and vaguely wondered that these should be brought into contrast with the exceedingly rare and beautiful objects near by. There were several metal pitchers, a brazier with iron rods of various lengths, a chopping knife, a large wooden block with a handle, such as is used in pounding meat, three or four small hammers, a cartwheel, some contrivances of wood and leather, and the like. Near-by stood a strangely shaped bench covered with a rug, and against it, as if mislaid from the center of the room, leaned a two-handed sword. I could make nothing of all this, and would have passed on, had I not seen Norse’s usually serene face harden to a look of intentness not unlike that of a dog at the first scent of his quarry.

“Perhaps you,” he said to Ballion, “can explain the use of several among these tools that I’m not familiar with—for example, the brass basin there?”

Carl smiled, and I was drawn to imitate him upon what seemed to me so idle a question. But the smile froze to my lips.

“Why,” he answered, “after being heated to the proper shade, it was passed in front of the eyes of the victim—with the natural result.”

His matter-of-fact words shook me like a blow. Also the truth began to dawn, that these things—

“And that square bar yonder?” asked Norse.

Again Ballion smiled. “Was for breaking the limbs of anyone strapped to the wheel. Francis assures me that death at times did not ensue for several days.”

And I understood that these things were the equipment of a torture room.

I believe that a goodly part of what ingenuity has devised for the infliction of pain on wretched human carcasses was represented there. Ballion continued his hideous catalogue: an iron flaying whip, exceedingly rare; a band for compressing the forehead, a beam for dislocation by the cord, iron spits of unmentionable purpose, the Spanish boot, knives of a curious pattern...

I felt my gorge rise. Norse himself turned away.

“That’s enough. I can imagine the value of such an assortment.”

“My brother,” said Carl, “has a partial history at least of everything in his collection. It interests him to know where and how they have been used.”

In Norse’s phrase, I was “absorbing” at the moment more than I could stand. And imagination, pitiless enough, evoked a scene where by the side of her husband a shrinking woman listened as he “explained” these things—“the aids to eloquence”—his irony, bitter as steel. From that moment, I had no further doubt as to the guilt of Francis Ballion. And I think that even Norse’s equanimity was shaken.

“Of course,” I heard him mutter, “it’s possibly a clear case after all.” And to Carl Ballion, “Perhaps in view of these other oddities you can explain to us that door at the corner of the room.”

“I suppose you mean what Francis calls the porta del mortuccio.”

“The Door of the Dead Man or of Death,” translated Norse, “but what does that mean?”

“You will have observed,” returned Carl, “how thorough an antiquary my brother is. There appears to have been a superstition in certain Italian families that by the same way Death once has passed he is apt to reënter, and hence they reserved a door for burial purposes no wider than would permit the passage of a coffin. It was always locked. When Death returned, he found the access narrow and barred. Perhaps he would then go on to some less difficult house. Except on funeral occasions, it was fatal to open that door.”

“Ah,” murmured Norse, “and the woman’s face carved inside?”

“A Medusa’s head, as additional safeguard. Francis tells me that this entire tradition was confined to the city or contado of Perugia. I’m merely repeating him.” There was a note of lightness in Carl’s voice which indicated that he agreed with us in considering the whole thing grotesque. “A scholar’s hobby,” he added.

“Well,” remarked Norse, “there remain the books.” And for a while he walked up and down in front of the shelves, like a person in a flower-garden, examining titles and now and then plucking out a volume to look at it more closely. Occasionally I heard him grunt as if interested in something; but I confess it seemed to me a waste of time, and I stood idly, turning over no very pleasant thoughts as we waited. Carl Ballion also was silent, and appeared, as he had good cause to be, depressed. Recalling the portrait, I could not but admit that the Ballions were an unusually handsome pair. Ten years ago Carl’s name, as the foremost athlete of his university, had been on everybody’s lips. He was not, however, of the burly, square-faced type, but inclined rather to height, speed, and agility. Moreover, his record since then had been one of continued success, as journalist, editor, active in politics, in society, wherever men assembled, an honorable name for clear thought as well as energy. I could easily imagine what was in his mind as he paced back and forth across the width of the room. And in connection with him I thought of Eleanor. Well for me that I cherished no illusions about myself in comparison with Ballion. He had known her for years and possessed in manner and presence everything that women admire. I was a lanky, graceless person, wrapped up in my practice, a misfit with women who eyed me critically. I worked hard at my trade, and that was all. It had been a mistake to flatter myself with even the shadow of a hope. And thereupon I resolved not to think of Eleanor again, that is, no more than I could help, or as one beyond my reach. As a resolve, it was well intentioned.

“And now,” said Norse, rejoining us, “I’d like some further information; but I’ll be fair with you, Carl—you don’t have to testify against your brother.”

“And I should not,” returned the other. “I’m willing, though, to tell anything you could find out elsewhere. Besides, all I know is perfectly innocent.”

Considering it the part of discretion to withdraw, I was detained by Norse.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll ask you to stand by during these interviews. Carl,” he added bluntly, “would probably be of more use to me on account of his training. But he’s naturally partizan. You’re an outsider and neutral.” He seated himself at a great desk loaded with books and motioned us to draw up chairs. “Now,” he continued, “what I want to know first, if possible, is the state of Mr. Ballion’s fortune. I remember that his wife inherited large means. Did he have property of his own independent of hers?”

“Certainly,” replied Ballion. “About ten years ago, he made several millions in oil lands.”

“Do you know anything in regard to your sister-in-law’s holdings? When her father, Gordon Graham, died, I recall that he left his two children a fortune rated at about five millions. Is that true?”

Carl shrugged.

“I know nothing definite about it.”

“What I am getting at,” said Norse, “is this: Could your brother have reached a point where Celia Ballion’s death would have benefited him financially? I have to be inconsiderate, you see.” He threw out a hand in a gesture of apology, and I noticed how deceptively delicate it looked, the nervous hand of a writer or musician. “His collections here,” continued Norse, “doubtless involved a great expenditure—not to speak of the house. And there is one collection which every one has heard of and of which I find no trace—namely, his collection of precious stones. Now it’s conceivable that even his resources have been drained.”

“It’s conceivable,” admitted Carl.

“Was Celia Ballion’s property in her own name?”

“It was, but I believe Francis managed it as her agent.”

“At her death, I suppose a part would revert to him and a part to Eleanor Graham?”

“I believe it would.”

Norse leaned forward.

“In addition, do you know of anything further—personal property, jewels, life insurance—by which her husband would be the beneficiary at her death?”

Carl Ballion hesitated and looked away.

“I don’t know,” he said, “that I...” And then, as if aware that silence on this point would be useless, “There was,” he admitted slowly, “life insurance for a large amount taken out by Celia not long ago. It was in favor of Francis. I know this because he consulted me on the company, and mentioned the fact. He believes in insurance and carries a considerable policy himself.”

“Ah,” breathed Norse, it seemed to me, with an accent of regret. I was becoming fairly impatient with his reluctance in accepting what I thought grew momently more obvious.

“And this amount?” he asked.

“Was for two hundred thousand, I believe.”

Norse sighed again.

“That’s all for the present, then—except this: You did not know where your brother was at three o’clock this morning; but had you seen him perhaps last evening?”

“I had not. I was at the Press Club banquet, which was over very late. Then I came home.”

A knock at the door interrupted us, and a man whom I had not seen before, but evidently one of Norse’s subordinates, entered.

“Mr. Ballion and I have just arrived, Captain” (it was always hard for me to remember that Norse was a captain), “and he insists on speaking with you at once.”

Something of the game-cock showed itself in the detective’s manner.

“He insists, does he? Please ask him to be patient. And, by the way, Redsby, if he should make any move to leave the house, you would detain him. Tell Hasta, the butler, that I want him here.” And to Carl: “You’d better see Mr. Ballion; be perfectly frank with him if you wish.”

When the door opened, I heard a voice angry and powerful beyond; it was cut off entirely by the closing latch.

“Humph!” remarked Norse. “And now for Hasta.”

It would be prolix to record in detail our interview with the butler. He had regained his suave inscrutability of last evening, which remained proof against what seemed to me Norse’s bullying tactics. He testified that his name was Jacob Hasta, that he had been by trade a printer and only a printer until about a year ago, when, unable longer to stand the confining work of the presses, he had, on Carl Ballion’s recommendation, been given his present position, to which he had adapted himself readily enough, and with which he had thus far every reason to be satisfied. He was a native of Cuba and had worked at his trade in various cities of Spanish America. In the United States he had been employed only at the press of Carl Ballion’s newspaper and another which he mentioned.

“You speak English well enough,” observed Norse.

“My mother was American.”

He declared that Francis Ballion had been an indulgent employer, but admitted that he was subject to moods of depression, or again of anger, and volunteered that he was very angry now. It took a good deal of ruffling and threatening on Norse’s part to get him to concede that Mr. Ballion had recently seemed disturbed about something.

Was this only an impression, Norse inquired, or had he definite grounds for thinking so?

“Well, sir, it was yesterday morning, before Mr. Ballion left, that I caught some words between him and Mrs. Ballion.”

“Where were you?” asked Norse, sarcastically.

“I was in Miss Eleanor’s room, mending one of her window ropes. She was there too and can bear me out. They were in the hall.”

“What then?”

“I heard Mr. Ballion say—but really, sir, it’s only his way. He doesn’t mean anything. And it’s none of my business.”

“But it’s my business,” rapped out Norse; his eyes narrowed over a harsh face. “I’m here to listen, and believe me it will be healthier for you to speak.”

“Well, sir, if you will have it, I heard Mr. Ballion say this: ‘For all the life in you, for all the good you are to yourself and any one, you might be in your grave.’ And she said, ‘I am in my grave.’ ”

“Did you hear anything else?”

“I think they were having a dispute.”

“About what?”

“I believe, sir, about money. There was something to do with a check she didn’t want to sign. Miss Eleanor closed the door.”

Norse sat for a moment tapping his pencil against his teeth. Then taking an ink-pad from his pocket, he demanded Hasta’s fingerprints, which the latter stamped on a piece of paper without hesitation.

“That’ll be enough,” said Norse. “If Miss Graham is able, tell her that she’ll greatly oblige me by coming down. If not, I’ll see Mr. Ballion.”

Once more we heard the sound of voices in the hall which were cut in two by the closing door.

Tossing his pencil on the desk, Norse stirred uneasily.

“The devil!” he said. “I feel as if a noose were tightening on my own neck. And yet that fellow Hasta’s a scoundrel—I’ll vouch for it. Somehow or other, his face haunts me, but I can’t recall where...” His voice trailed off.

Not knowing Eleanor Graham as well then as I do now, it surprised me when a few minutes later she came in, looking very white but equally poised and determined. That it surprised Norse as well was evident from his manner of receiving her. Having acted the bully a moment past, he was now a courtier abounding in solicitude and delicacy.

“You’re a very rare person,” he murmured. “I had scarcely hoped... But I shall not detain you long—there are merely one or two matters ...”

“There is one matter,” she interrupted levelly, “that I believe no one knows as yet about this affair. I concealed it deliberately. It seemed to me that I had no right to cast suspicion on an innocent man—that is, as long as I believed him innocent. It’s a struggle even now.” She made an effort to steady her voice, looking with strangely troubled eyes at her examiner. “As it is, I am giving you simply what impressed me at the time. It’s probably imagination, only I feel that nothing should be kept back which would help to punish whoever committed that dreadful thing last night.”

“What have you to tell us?” said Norse. “Believe me, no one is more eager for justice than I am; and no one would be less inclined to accept a notion for fact. At this stage, we are trying merely to understand, and reticence of any sort is stupid, if not criminal.”

“It was this,” replied Eleanor. “When I called Doctor Ames to my sister’s room, I told him that I fancied I had heard footsteps. As a matter of fact, I had not only heard, but I had seen.”

She paused for a second, as if in search of words. There was absolute silence. I saw Norse’s lips drawn to a line.

“Standing at my bedroom window, I saw on the driveway a man’s shadow cast by the driveway light beyond the corner of the house. I could not see him. The shadow was magnified; it stood motionless a second, and then disappeared. Not long afterward I heard in the distance the starting of a motor.”

“But may I ask,” said Norse, “why you should have been unwilling to communicate this fact until now?”

“It was because I thought—because I imagined I recognized that shadow, but could not be sure.”

“And you imagined it as whose?”

Our intentness at the moment was well-nigh painful. It seemed to us that everything turned on her answer.

“As the shadow,” she whispered, “of Francis Ballion.”

I heard Norse’s sharp breath as if in token of finality.

“He wears,” she went on, “a black felt hat of peculiar shape, not unlike those you see in the Paris Latin Quarter. And it was distinctly the form of this which appeared in the shadow.”

“Did you,” I asked, struck by a certain idea, “see this before or after you heard the footsteps?”

“Afterward,” said Eleanor. “I imagine he was then leaving the house.”

Thus obviously had come the end of whatever mystery was connected with the case. For me it had long ceased to offer any mystery at all, and I considered a good many of Norse’s questions and hesitancies utterly pedantic. I set it down as an effect of his training that he preferred a corkscrew to a straight line and contrived a problem to display his skill in solving it. These gestures over, he could now arrest Francis Ballion for as sordid and brutal a crime as any one ever perpetrated. But for all that, he remained apparently unsatisfied.

“Hasta spoke of a dispute yesterday, an altercation,” he began.

“That’s true,” said Eleanor; “we could not avoid hearing it.”

“Was there, to your knowledge, any friction between your sister and Mr. Ballion with regard to money?”

“There was,” she answered. “He had spent on Greyhouse and his collections here much more than he could afford. Celia had been generous; but recently, believing that there was no limit to his extravagance, she attempted to refuse appeals for additional sums. I say ‘attempted’ because it’s not easy to refuse him. This led to very painful scenes.”

“I can well understand,” murmured Norse. “I shan’t need to detain you any longer, Miss Graham. Your testimony has helped greatly.” He accompanied her to the door, her dark, slender figure taller than his own.

At the threshold she turned, looking back at me. “I’m very sorry to have brought you into this, Richard, but I’m more grateful still for all your kindness.”

I could only falter a word or so; but in spite of Carl Ballion and my own resolve, I knew then that I loved her, loved the beauty and courage of her, and the strange, vivid eyes. I knew this and realized also its futility. But after all, one is rather helpless in these matters. And if I chose in secrecy to light an altar, I alone would be harmed by the flames.

These reflections were cut through by the shriek of a police whistle, and I looked up in amazement to see Norse blowing with might and main. It struck me that he had taken leave of his senses, and this impression was strengthened when upon removing the whistle, and having waited a moment in silence, he smiled.

“Your form of amusement,” I observed, “seems to me rather untimely.”

“Perhaps it is,” he admitted, “but I wanted to satisfy myself on a certain point. You noticed that when the doors close, any voice outside is cut off as if in a telephone. Redsby is in the hall not thirty feet away. The room’s absolutely soundproof.” Then, dropping the subject, “Well, what do you think about all this?”

“Why, there’s only one way to think,” I answered impatiently. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Oh, certainly,” he exclaimed, “certainly! But I wish I had your confidence. Somehow, with every new proof I feel less convinced, and if your mind were not already shut like a trap, I’d attempt to show you why. But I’ll admit it’s an instinct, a sort of mental undercurrent. And I’ll admit besides that if ever the breadth of a hair stood between any one and the gallows, it’s now in the case of Francis Ballion.

“Well, we’ll have to see him; and if I know anything of men I imagine the interview will be something of a strain.”