The Deep Lake Mystery

“Well, we’ll see about it. If you’ve no more astonishing bits of information, you can run along, Sally.”

The girl left the room, and we looked at one another, half smiling, half appalled.

“It’s all so tawdry,” Keeley Moore said, with an impatient shrug of his shoulders.

“Just what meaning do you attach to the word ‘tawdry’?” asked Hart. “I can’t seem to make it apply at all.”

“Oh, I only mean these foolish clues that some practical joker has arranged are tawdry of intent. I may be obliged to change my mind, but just at present, I can’t think that the person who killed Sampson Tracy is the person who stuck the feather duster behind his head and dropped his watch in the water pitcher. By the way, why did he have a water pitcher, with an elaborate bathroom at hand?”

“Call Griscom, let’s find out a little more about it.”

So the butler came at a summons, and explained that the water pitcher was a pitcher of drinking water that was placed on a table for him every night.

“Mr. Tracy didn’t approve of thermos bottles,” Griscom informed us. “He said they never seemed clean things to him. So he had a pitcher.”

“When you found the watch, was it running?”

“No, sir, it was not.”

“At what time had it stopped?”

Inspector Farrell awaited the answer with an air of one expecting a piece of important information. But he was disappointed.

“I didn’t exactly notice, sir, but it isn’t the watch Mr. Tracy was carrying. That is still under his pillow. This watch I found in the pitcher is an old one, and it was lying on his dressing table last night.”

“Why was it there?”

“Mr. Tracy had it out, looking at it a day or two ago. He thought he would send it to a jeweller and have it put in order. The mainspring is broken, you see. But he didn’t decide, and the watch lay there, in a little tray, with some other odds and ends of jewellery.”

“Then, somebody took that watch and deliberately dropped it into the water pitcher?”

“That must be the truth, sir.”

“Mr. Tracy never showed the slightest disposition toward any mental affection, did he?”

“Oh, no, indeed, sir. Nothing of that sort.”

“Who do you think killed Mr. Tracy, Griscom?”

Farrell shot this question so suddenly that I was not surprised to see the butler turn pale and grasp at the chair in front of him to steady himself.

“I – I don’t know, sir.”

“Of course you don’t know. I’m asking you what you think.”

“Well, what can I think, but Mr. Ames.”

“Mr. Ames! Why would he do such a thing?”

“Well, sir, it had to be somebody with motive. Mr. Ames had that, and likewise opportunity.”

“You’ve been reading detective stories. You’re very glib with your ‘motive and opportunity’! How could Mr. Ames get in?”

“He carries a latchkey, sir.”

“I don’t mean into the house, I mean in the room, Mr. Tracy’s room.”

“Well, the door wasn’t always locked at night. About half the time it was left unlocked.”

“Then, how could he get out after the deed and leave the door locked on the inside?”

“That’s more than I can tell you. I thought that’s what you detectives were going to explain. But kill my master somebody did, and get out of the room, he did, too. So there must be an explanation somewhere.”

“A secret passage, I suppose.”

“No, sir. I’m ready to swear there’s no secret passage in this house.”

“You may not know of it.”

“Well, sir, how could there be? That wing of Mr. Tracy’s is foursquare. It has no L’s or bays. You can measure it up and you’ll find there’s no bit of space unaccounted for. The rooms open into one another, and there’s just the wall between, no room for a concealed staircase.”

“How are you so sure? You been examining around?”

“Just that, sir, meaning no harm. But I somehow feel I’ve got to find out the truth of this whole thing, and so I’ve got to look into the conditions.”

Keeley Moore gave Griscom a stare of decided interest. It was evident he thought the man knew rather more than he had credited him with.

Farrell and Hart were not so well pleased, apparently. They frowned a little, and the Inspector advised the butler not to exceed his orders or overstep his privileges.

And then it was lunch time, and Keeley, remembering his wife’s hint of blackberry shortcake, decided we must go home at once.

“I want to think matters over a bit,” he said to the police officers. “If you want me here, I will come when summoned, but otherwise I’ll stay at home this afternoon. When will you have the inquest, Doctor Hart?”

“To-morrow,” said the Coroner. “Though it will probably have to be adjourned. I confess I’m in a quandary. I scarcely know which way to look. You know I am relying on your help, Mr. Moore.”

“I’ll help all I can,” Kee said, gravely. “But I think you’ve got a hard nut to crack.”

“You mean the locked room – ”

“No, I don’t mean the locked room. That will explain itself, once you get the criminal.”

“Then you mean all these bizarre clues we have to deal with.”

“No, I don’t mean those, either. The finding of the criminal will wipe those out at once. It’s the hunt that is hard. The quarry is elusive and hard to track. Find the motive first; that’s always a sound plan.”

And with that Moore and I went off, leaving behind us a greatly perplexed pair of sleuths of the law.

A car belonging to the house conveyed us home, and by good luck we were not late for luncheon.