The Curved Blades

“But the poison?”

“Had it been poison alone, there might be a question. But that stunning blow has to be remembered. And neither Miss Stuart nor Miss Frayne can be thought of for a moment in connection with that piece of brutality.”

“But the snake? The queer costume?”

“The costume wasn’t so queer – for a boudoir garb. The snake is inexplicable, – unless the man has a disordered mind, and used insane methods to cover his tracks. Then there’s the glove, you can’t get around that!”

“That glove might have been put in her hand by anybody.”

“That’s so! By a professional burglar, say! I really believe – ”

“Oh, let up on that professional burglar business! No burglar is going off without his loot, when he has uninterrupted time enough to kill a person twice, with poison and then, to hide that, with a fractured skull! How do you explain, even in theory, those two murderous attacks?”

“Good Lord, man, I don’t know! It’s all the most inexplicable muddle. I don’t see how any of the things could happen, but they did happen! You’re the detective, not I! Aren’t you ever going to discover anything?”

“I may as well own up, Mr. Haviland, I am beyond my depth. There is a belief among detectives that the more bizarre and amazing the clues are, the easier the deduction therefrom. But I don’t believe that. This case is bizarre enough, in all conscience, yet what can one deduce from that paper snake and that squeezed-up glove? It was all up in a little wad, you know, not at all as if it were carelessly drawn from a man’s hand, or pulled off in a struggle.”

“There was no struggle. The features were composed, even almost smiling.”

“I know it. That proves it was no burglar. Well, I’m up a tree. I wish you felt inclined to call in Fleming Stone. He’s the only man on this continent who could unravel it all.”

“I want to get him, but Miss Stuart won’t hear of it. I’d have to have either her authority or Loria’s.”

“But Mr. Loria gave you full swing, in that cable.”

“Yes, for ordinary business matters. But this is different. I’d have to have assurance that he’d pay the bills before I engaged Stone. I’ve heard he’s some expensive.”

“I’ve heard that, too. But, by Jove, I’d like to work with him! Or under him. I say, I wish you could bring it about.”

“I might cable Loria on my own, and not mention it to Miss Stuart until I get the permission.”

“Do. For as you say, the two ladies cannot possibly be involved, and I, for one, don’t believe that nincompoop Count ever pulled off such a complicated affair all by himself.”

“What about the widow he’s visiting?”

“Ah, there you have it! Those two are in it, but there’s more mystery yet.”

“I’d like to have it straightened out,” said Haviland, thoughtfully. “In a way, I feel responsible to Loria, since he has put me in charge. And if he wants me to get Stone, I’ll be glad to do so. As you say, it can’t affect the girls, – that stuff Anita made up was only to bother Pauline. You see, Pauline came back at her with a counter accusation. They’re both unstrung and upset, and they scarcely know what they’re saying.”

“Then there’s that French maid.”

“Oh, Estelle. She’s a negligible quantity. She’s hysterical from sheer nervousness, and she lies so fast she can hardly keep up with herself.”

“Well, think it over, and if you see your way clear to call in Stone, I’ll be mighty glad. If the Frenchman is the guilty party, Stone will nail him and prove it beyond all doubt. And if not, we surely don’t want an innocent man to swing.”

“That we don’t,” agreed Haviland.

XI

FLEMING STONE

“Yes, I have often heard the idea expressed that the more bizarre the clues appear, the easier the solution of the mystery. And this is frequently true.”

Fleming Stone looked from one to another of the interested group of listeners. They sat in the library, – Pauline, Anita, Gray Haviland and the young detective, Hardy.

Haviland had carried out his plan of cabling Carrington Loria for authority to employ Mr. Stone, and had received a reply to use his own judgment in all such matters and charge the expense to Loria’s account.

Pauline had been opposed to the idea of calling Fleming Stone to the case, but as she seemed unable to put forth any valid objections, Haviland had insisted until she gave her consent. So arrangements had been quickly made, and the great Detective had reached Garden Steps on Wednesday afternoon, just a week after the discovery of the murder.

Previously unacquainted with Stone, the whole household was interested in his personality, and this preliminary conversation was by way of introduction.

A man of nearly fifty, Fleming Stone was tall and well proportioned, with a carriage and bearing that gave an impression of strength. His clear-cut face and firm jaw gave the same character indications as are seen in portraits of Lincoln, but his features were far more harmonious than those of our rugged-faced president.

Stone’s hair, thick and dark, was slightly grayed at the temples, and his deep-set eyes were now lustrous, and again, shadowed, like the water of a dark pool. His lean jaw and forceful mouth made his face in repose somewhat stern, but this effect was often banished by his delightful smile, which softened his whole countenance and gave him a distinct air of friendliness.

His manner was full of charm, and even Pauline became fascinated as she watched him and listened to his talk.

Fully at ease and skilfully directing the conversation, while he seemed merely sharing it, Stone was studying and classifying the new elements with which he had to deal. Not yet had he inquired as to the details of the case in hand, he was discussing detective work in general, much to the gratification of Tom Hardy, who listened as a pupil at the feet of Gamaliel.

“Yes,” went on Stone, settling back sociably in his easy chair, while the others unconsciously fell into more informal postures, “Yes, bizarre effects do often point the way to a successful quest. Why, once, a man was found dead, with his feet in a tub of cold water. It was discovered that his feet had been immersed after death had taken place. Obviously the tub of water had been used as a blind, to fog up the case. But the very character of the clue led at once to a man who was known as a ‘cold water fiend,’ and a fiend indeed he was. He was the murderer. You see, he was clever, but not clever enough. He had wit enough to think of the queer circumstance of the tub of water, but not enough to realize that the clue would lead directly to his own undoing.”

Everybody looked thoughtful, but it was Hardy who spoke; “Yes, Mr. Stone,” he said, “but that clue was put there on purpose. Do you think these strange effects connected with Miss Carrington’s murder were deliberately arranged?”

“That I can’t tell now, Mr. Hardy. In fact, I have not heard a connected and circumstantial account of the discoveries, as yet. Suppose we go over the case, leisurely, and let me get a complete account by means of a general conversation. I will ask questions, or you may volunteer information, as seems most enlightening. Tell me first of the character and characteristics of Miss Carrington. Was she timid, or fearful of burglars?”

“Not at all,” said Haviland. “She was careful to have the house locked up at night by the servants, but she had no burglar alarms or anything of that sort.”

“If a marauder had appeared, would she have been likely to scream out in affright?”

“No, I don’t think so,” volunteered Anita. “She would more likely demand to know what he wanted and order him out.”

“Yet the black-jack clearly indicates a burglar,” went on Stone; “I can’t imagine an ordinary citizen, of any calling, owning or using such a weapon.”

“Have you examined the thing?” asked Haviland.

“No; I should like to see it.”

Tom Hardy at once produced it, having brought it with him from Police Headquarters for the purpose.

“H’m,” said Fleming Stone, as he fingered the not very alarming-looking affair. In fact, it was merely a long, narrow bag, made of dark cloth and filled with shot. The bag was tied tightly at one end with a bit of twine to prevent the escape of the contents.

“Home-made affair,” Stone went on. “Made probably by a professional burglar, but an amateur murderer. See, it is merely a bit of heavy cloth, out from an old coat sleeve or trouser leg, sewed up in a bungling manner to make a bag. It is stitched with coarse black thread and the stitches are drawn hard and firm, evidently pulled through by a strong hand. Then, filled with shot, it is tied with a bit of old fish-line, which also is pulled and knotted by muscular fingers. And – ” Stone paused abruptly.

“And – ” prompted Anita, breathlessly, her eyes fixed on the speaker.

“Nothing much,” and Stone smiled; “only I should say the burglar lived in a house recently remodeled.”

Hardy nodded in satisfaction. This was the sort of deduction he was looking for. Next he hoped for the color of the man’s hair, and the sort of cigar he smoked. But he was doomed to disappointment.