The Mystery of the Sycamore

“Don’t talk about incapable of anything!” said Burdon. “Most murderers are people whom their friends consider ‘incapable of such a deed.’ A man who is generally adjudged ‘capable’ of it is not found in polite society.”

“Where’s the weapon,” asked Keefe, abruptly, “if Mr. Wheeler did it?”

“Where’s the weapon, whoever did it?” countered Burdon. “The weapon hasn’t been found, though I’ve hunted hard. But that helps to prove it one of the family, for they would know where to hide a revolver securely.”

“If it was Mr. Wheeler, he’d have to hide it in the den,” said Allen. “He never goes over to the other side of the house, you know.”

“It isn’t in the den,” Hallen spoke positively; “I hunted that myself.”

“You seem sure of your statement,” said Keefe. “Couldn’t you have overlooked it?”

“Positively not.”

“No, he couldn’t,” concurred Burdon. “Hallen’s a wonderful hunter. If that revolver had been hidden in the den, he’d have found it. That’s why I think it was Mrs. Wheeler, and she took it back to her own rooms.”

“Oh, not Mrs. Wheeler!” groaned Jeff Allen. “That dear, sweet woman couldn’t – ”

“Incapable of murder, I s’pose!” ironically said Burdon. “Let me tell you, sir, many a time a dear, sweet woman has done extraordinary things for the sake of her husband or children.”

“But what motive would Mrs. Wheeler have?”

“The same as the others. Appleby was a thorn in their flesh, an enemy of many years’ standing. And I’ve heard hints of another reason for the family’s hating him, besides that conditional pardon business. But no matter about that now. What I want is evidence against somebody – against one of three suspects. Until I get some definite evidence I can’t tell which of the three is most likely the one.”

“Seems to me the fact that Mrs. Wheeler ran downstairs and back again is enough to indicate some pretty close questioning of her,” suggested Hallen.

“Oh, please,” begged Allen, “she’s so upset and distracted – ”

“Of course she is. But that’s the reason we must ask her about it now. When she gets calmed down, and gets a fine yarn concocted, there’ll be small use asking her anything!”

“I’d tackle the old man first,” said Hallen; “I think, on general principles, he’s the one to make inquiries of before you go to the ladies. Let’s go to him now.”

“No;” proposed Burdon, “let’s send for him to come here. This is away from the house, and we can talk more freely.”

“I’ll go for him,” offered Allen, seeing they were determined to carry out their plan.

“Not much!” said Burdon. “You’re just aching to put a flea in his ear! You go for him, Hallen.”

The detective went to the house, and returned with Daniel Wheeler at his side.

The suspected man stood straight and held himself fearlessly. Not an old man, he was grayed with care and trouble, but this morning he seemed strong and alert as any of them.

“Put your questions,” he said, briefly, as he seated himself on one of the many seats beneath the old sycamore.

“First of all, who do you think killed Samuel Appleby?”

This question was shot at him by Burdon, and all waited in silence for the answer.

“I killed him myself,” was the straightforward reply.

“That settles it,” said Hallen, “it was one of the women.”

“What do you mean by that?” cried Wheeler, turning quickly toward the speaker.

“I mean, that either your wife or daughter did the deed, and you are taking the crime on yourself to save her.”

“No;” reasserted Dan Wheeler, “you’re wrong. I killed Appleby for good and sufficient reason. I’m not sorry, and I accept my fate.”

“Wait a minute,” said Hallen, as Keefe was about to protest; “where was your daughter, Miss Maida, when you killed your man?”

“I – I don’t know. I think she had gone to the fire – which had just broken out.”

“You’re not sure – ”

“I am not.”

“She had been with you, in the den?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I know. She had. She had been sitting in her favorite window-seat, in the large bay, and was there while you and Mr. Appleby were talking together. Also, she did not leave the room to go to the fire, for no one saw her anywhere near the burning garage.”

“As to that, I can’t say,” went on Wheeler, slowly, “but she was not in the den, to my knowledge, at the time of the shooting.”

“Very well, let that pass. Now, then, Mr. Wheeler, if you shot Mr. Appleby, what did you afterward do with your revolver?”

“I – I don’t know.” The man’s face was convincing. His frank eyes testified to the truth of his words. “I assure you, I don’t know. I was so – so bewildered – that I must have dropped it – somewhere. I never thought of it again.”

“But if you had merely dropped it, it must have been found. And it hasn’t been.”

“Somebody else found it and secreted it,” suggested Hallen. “Probably Mr. Wheeler’s wife or daughter.”

“Perhaps so,” assented Wheeler, calmly. “They might have thought to help me by secreting it. Have you asked them?”

“Yes, and they deny all knowledge of it.”

“So do I. But surely it will be found.”

“It must be found. And, therefore, it is imperative that the rooms of the ladies as well as your own rooms, sir, be thoroughly searched.”

“All right – go ahead and search!” Wheeler spoke sharply. “I’ve confessed the crime, now waste no time in useless chattering. Get the evidence, get the proofs, and let the law take its course.”

“You will not leave the premises,” put in Hallen, and his tone was that of command rather than inquiry.

“I most certainly shall not,” declared Wheeler. “But I do ask you, gentlemen, to trouble and annoy my wife and daughter as little as possible. Their grief is sufficient reason for their being let alone.”

“H’m,” grunted Burdon. “Well, sir, I can promise not to trouble the ladies more than is necessary – but I can’t help feeling necessity will demand a great deal.”

Mrs. Wheeler was next interviewed, and the confab took place in her own sitting-room.