The Deep Lake Mystery

“How did it wind up?”

“By his leaving my house – he was calling on me – in a rage. I admit it was a foolish thing to quarrel about, but I was determined to have my way in the matter, and I did.”

“When was this affair?”

“It was Monday night.”

“And to-day is Thursday. You didn’t see him again?”

“No. He sulked Tuesday and Wednesday. I called him on the telephone yesterday and asked him if he was going to the Moores’ dinner party, and he said ‘No,’ very shortly and hung up the receiver.”

“He was really angry, then?”

“Yes, but I fancy more with himself than with me. Mr. Ames told me that Mr. Tracy was sorry about it all, and that he kept my scarf near him all the time. I know Mr. Tracy’s ways, and when he keeps any of my belongings near him, he isn’t really angry at me.”

“You are speaking of the crimson scarf that was found on Mr. Tracy’s bed?”

“Yes, that one.” And then, the calm of Katherine Dallas broke down and she burst into a piteous flood of tears.

I was not surprised. I had noticed her clenching fingers and her tapping foot, and I knew she was striving to keep a grip on her feelings.

It was Inspector Farrell who opened the door for her, and as she stumbled through, we saw Alma Remsen awaiting her, and knew she would be duly cared for.

Farrell returned into the room and closed the door, and went slowly back to his seat.

“What about it?” he said, including both Hart and Keeley Moore in his glance of inquiry.

“Whoever killed that man, it was not Mrs. Dallas,” Kee declared. “I don’t suppose anybody thought she did, but there’s no slightest reason to suspect her.”

“What about the girl?” asked Farrell, with brooding eyes.

“Drive a nail in her uncle’s head!” Moore exclaimed. “I can’t see her doing that! Can you, Norris?”

“No,” I said, and it was God’s truth. That lovely girl connected with a brutal, inhuman deed, – no, nobody could believe that!

“Well, then, where are we at?” Farrell asked.

“At Harper Ames,” said the coroner, and we realized that he was sticking to his first impressions.

“All right,” Farrell sighed. “Get him in here next, then.”

But just then, Sally Bray came to the door. Farrell let her in and asked the result of her investigation of Mr. Tracy’s belongings.

“There’s nothing missing as Griscom and I can see,” she reported, “except two things – I mean, three.”

“What are they?” and Farrell placed a chair for her and spoke in a kindly tone.

“One is the Tottum Pole.”

“The what?”

“She doubtless means the Totem Pole,” said Moore, quietly. “Is that it, Sally?”

“Yes, sir, that’s what I said, the Tottum Pole. It was one of Mr. Tracy’s favourite toys. It was Indian, Griscom says, and it always stood on his bedside table. He thought it was a – a charm, like.”

“A Luck you mean, I dare say.” Keeley had taken the inquiry into his own hands for the moment.

“Yes, sir, it was his Luck, that’s what Griscom said.”

“How large was it?”

“About so big.” Sally measured a foot or more with her hands. “Oh, it was fierce! Yet beautiful, too.”

“Bright colours, and a face at the top – ”

“Yes, sir. But a norful face, all eyes – ”

“I know. You understand, Mr. Farrell, don’t you? She means a miniature Totem Pole. They have them in the better class of shops round here that carry Indian trinkets. The little Totem Poles are interesting, and are called lucky. I have two or three at home. But mine are smaller, only six or eight inches. And so this Totem Pole is missing. What else, Sally?”

“Two of Mr. Tracy’s best weskits, sir! His striped dark blue morey, and his pearl-coloured figgered satin.”

“He wore fancy waistcoats, then?”

“Oh, yes, sir, he was a great hand for weskits of beautiful stuff. Never gay or gaudy, but soft, lovely colours and the expensivest materials.”

“And two of them are gone. Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir. Griscom missed ’em. He says they ain’t gone to the cleaner’s or anything like that, for they’re both nearly new. And he says he knows they were in their right place yesterday morning, sir.”

“Well,” Hart said, “we can’t complain of any lack of curious complications. This seems to prove a man did the deed. A woman surely would not take fancy waistcoats!”

“And why should a man take them, either?” Moore asked, but none of us could answer.

CHAPTER VI

THE WATCH IN THE WATER PITCHER

“Well, Sally, is that all?”

“No, sir, not quite. Griscom found one more queer thing. He found Mr. Tracy’s watch in the water pitcher.”

“In the water pitcher!” Farrell exclaimed. “Was there water in the pitcher?”

“Oh, yes, sir, it was nearly full. And down at the bottom of it was the watch.”

“How extraordinary. Is the watch going?”

“I don’t know, sir. Griscom took it out of the pitcher, but I don’t know what he did with it.”