A Mysterious Disappearance

The same care had not been taken in the disposition of the articles. They had been dumped down anyhow, without taste or regard for suitable position. The carpet had not been bought for this special apartment like the carpets elsewhere. A handsome ebony cabinet stood in the wrong place. The blue china ornaments obviously intended to fill its shelves were littered about the mantelpiece or on small tables, while the Satsuma ware meant for the over-mantel was stiffly disposed on the cabinet.

Small matters these, but Bruce thought them more fruitful of accurate theory than the detective’s hunt for a written history of the crime!

So, as he smoked, he mused and examined.

“The drawing-room was the last place to be furnished,” he thought. “The usual course. It remained empty for some time probably. The rest of the flat was arranged by a woman – Mrs. Hillmer in all likelihood – before the arrival of her brother. Then he came and tackled the vacant room. The history of the place is as plain as though I were present. More than that, a woman – Mrs. Hillmer again, let us say – fixed upon these latter purchases, but without measurements. She did not personally see to their adaptability, and she certainly did not supervise their final arrangement. Now, why was that? Again, these things are more worn than those in the other rooms. Were they bought second-hand? If so, why? A woman thinks most of her drawing-room. It is the last place in which she would economize.”

Mr. White entered, anxious and puzzled.

“Found anything?” inquired Claude, without looking at him.

“Not a rag, not a piece of old newspaper with a date on it. A lot of papers were burned in the kitchen grate, but from the remnants I judge that they were mostly bills.”

“The place has been systematically cleared, eh?”

“It looks like it.”

“Going to hunt here?”

“Yes. You don’t seem to take much interest in the premises, Mr. Bruce, though you persuaded me to do a bit of house-breaking in order to get here.”

“I find the quietude good for thought, Mr. White. Be good enough not to make more noise than is absolutely necessary.”

The other sniffed. He was disappointed. He hoped for something tangible from this visit, and the outlook was far from promising.

“This room appears to have been lived in a good deal,” he growled.

“That is one way of looking at it.”

“Is there any other way?” His voice snapped out the question as if he held the barrister personally responsible for his failure to gain a clue.

“No, Mr. White, I should have guessed your point of view exactly.”

“My point of view, indeed! Do you want me to draw up another chair and light a pipe? Should we be enlightened by tobacco smoke?”

“I cannot trust your tobacco. Try a cigar.”

The detective angrily thumped a Chesterfield lounge to see if it betrayed aught suspicious.

At that instant Bruce’s glance rested on the fireplace. The grate contained the ashes of a fire, – a fire not long lighted. This, combined with the undrawn blinds, argued a departure early in the morning.

“He went to Monte Carlo by the day Channel service,” mused Bruce. “He may have departed a few hours after Lady Dyke’s death, as Mrs. Hillmer was not certain as to the exact date.”

Somehow the few cinders attracted him. They had, perchance, witnessed a tragedy.

Suddenly he stopped smoking. He was so startled by something he had seen that the policeman must have noticed his agitation were not the detective at that instant intently screwing his eyes to peer behind the back of the elaborate cabinet.

On the hearth was a handsome Venetian fender. Into each end was loosely socketed a beautifully moulded piece of ironwork to hold the fire-irons. That on the left was whole, but from that on the right a small spike had been broken off.

By comparison with its fellow the missing portion was identical with the bit of iron found imbedded in the skull of the murdered woman. Of this damning fact Bruce had no manner of doubt, though the incriminatory article itself was then locked in a drawer in his own residence.

He did not move. He sat as one transfixed.

What a weapon for such a deed! Was ever more outlandish instrument used with murderous intent? The entire bracket could easily be detached from the fender, and would, no doubt, inflict a terrible blow. But why seize this clumsy device when it actually supported a heavy brass poker?

The thing savored of madness, of the wild vagary of a homicidal maniac. It was incomprehensible, strange beyond belief.

Yet as Bruce pictured the final scene in that tragedy, as he saw the ill-fated lady stagger helplessly to the ground before a treacherous and crushing stroke, a fierce light leaped into his face, and his lips set tight with unflinching purpose.

Had Mensmore been within reach at that moment he would assuredly have been lodged in a felon’s cell forthwith. No excuse, no palliation, would be accepted. The man who could so foully slay a gentle, kindly, high-minded woman deserved the utmost rigor of the law, no matter what the circumstances that led to the commission of the crime.

It was not often that Bruce allowed impulse to master reason so utterly.

In strange altruistic mood he asked himself why he did not spring from his chair, and, tearing the bracket from its supports, exhibit it to his fellow-worker, while he gave, in a few passionate sentences, the information that would set the French police to scour the Mediterranean littoral until they found the White Heather. Of what matter to him was the suffering of a sister or sweetheart? Did the man who killed Lady Dyke reck of these things? Yes, he would do it —

But a cry of triumph from the detective arrested the fateful words even as they trembled on his lips. “Here’s a find!” was the shout. “Thinking is all very well, Mr. Bruce, but hard work is better. What do you make of that?”

“That” was a letter, which, in the manner known to many a puzzled householder, had slipped down behind a drawer in the cabinet, to be crushed against the wardrobe at the back, and lie there forgotten and unnoticed.

Even in his perturbed state the barrister could not help glancing at the crumpled document, first noting the date, October 15th of the year just closed, with the superscription, “Mountain Butts, Wyoming.” There was no envelope.

It was addressed to “Dear Bertie,” and ran as follows:

“Your welcome note and its draft for fifty dollars came to hand last week. My sisters and I can never forget your generosity. We know you are hard up, and that you can ill spare these frequent gifts, or loans, as you are pleased to call them. You and I have been in many a tight place, old chap, and I never knew you to fail either with hand or heart. And when we drifted into this ranch, on my advice, and nearly starved to death, it was you who were bold enough to cut yourself adrift so that you might make something to keep the pot boiling.

“But the tide is turning. You know my failing; this time I will try not to be too sanguine. There have been big gold discoveries in this country. It is now firmly believed that all our land is auriferous, and the scoundrel who sold us this beggarly ranch has tried to upset our title. Thanks to your foresight, he was knocked out at the first round. So I may soon have big news for you. By Jove, won’t it be a change if we both become rich! And won’t we all have a time in Paris! However, I must not promise too much. I have been taught caution by repeated failures. Write by return, and say if this reaches you all right.

    “Your faithful friend,
    “Sydney H. Corbett.”

“What do you think of that?” cried the detective, when Bruce had slowly mastered the contents of the letter.

“Think! I am too dazed to think.”

“We can now learn all about him from America.”

“About whom?”

“About Corbett, of course.”

“Then did Corbett travel by the same mail as this letter in order to murder Lady Dyke? It is dated October 15th, and she was killed November 6th. It takes twelve days, at the quickest, for a letter to come here from Wyoming. And Corbett, the writer of it, not the receiver, must have travelled in the same steamer, or its immediate successor.”

Mr. White’s face fell, but he stuck to his point:

“Anyhow, Corbett was here about that time. I have seen the secretary to the company that owns these flats. Corbett took the rooms for six months from September first. When asked for references he gave his sister’s name, and as she banks with the National – and she has always paid her rent for five years – it was good enough. Still, I must confess that Corbett could hardly be in Wyoming in October if he lived here in September and in November.”

The barrister answered between his set teeth: “Yes, it is rather puzzling.”

“Perhaps the letter was left there as a plant.”