The Mark of Cain

“Oh, don’t let’s quarrel. But I do wish you’d see your detective friends somewhere else. If it isn’t Mr. Duane, it’s that Groot or young Pinckney, and sometimes that ridiculous office boy with the carrot head.”

“His hair is funny, isn’t it? But Fibsy is a little trump. He’s more saddened at Uncle Rowly’s death than lots of better men.”

“Hasn’t he found another place to work yet?”

“He’s had chances, but he hasn’t accepted any so far.”

“Well, he’s a nuisance, coming round here as he does.”

“Why, you needn’t see him, Eleanor. He can’t trouble you, if he just comes now and then to see me. And anyway, he hasn’t been here lately at all.”

“And I hope he won’t. Dear me, Avice, what good times we could have if you’d let up on this ferreting. And you know perfectly well it will never amount to anything.”

“If you talk like that, Eleanor, I’ll go and live somewhere else. Perhaps you’d rather I would.”

“No, not that, – unless you’d really prefer it. But I do hate detectives, whether they’re police, professional or amateur.”

Avice repeated this conversation to Duane, and he proposed that they have some of their interviews in his office, and he would then come to the house less frequently.

So, Avice went to his office and found it decidedly preferable to talk in a place where there was no danger of being overheard by servants or friends.

After due consideration she had concluded to tell the detective about Eleanor’s telephone message the night of the murder and her own subsequent call of the same number.

“This is most important,” said Duane, “why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“For one thing, Mrs. Black was always within hearing at home, and I didn’t like to.”

“I think I’ll go right now to see this Lindsay; he may give us some valuable information.”

And Lindsay did.

He was a frank, outspoken young man and told Duane all he knew which was considerable.

“Of course, I read all about the murder that the papers told,” he said, “but I always felt there was more to come. What about that housekeeper person?”

“Mrs. Black?”

“Yes. I’ve not wanted to butt in, but she was described in the papers and then, – well, it’s a queer thing, – but some sweet-voiced fairy called me up one day and asked me if I knew Mrs. Black!”

“Perhaps that was the lady herself,” said Duane, who knew better.

“Don’t think so. Sounded more like some damsel in distress. Voice quivered and all that sort of thing. And she said that the Black person had called up this number the very night of the murder! What do you think of that?”

“Strange!” murmured Duane.

“Yes, sir, strange enough, when you realize that Kane Landon occupied these rooms of mine that night.”

“How did that happen?”

“Well, Landon is an old friend of mine, – used to be, that is, – and when he blew in from Denver, with no home and mother waiting for him, and I was just flying off for a few days out of town, I said, ‘Bunk here,’ and he gratefully did. Then next thing I know, he’s gone off to his uncle’s inquest, leaving a note of thanks and farewell! Queer, if you ask me!”

“I do ask you. And I ask you, too, if you’re casting any reflection on Mr. Landon himself?”

“Oh, not that, but you’d think he’d come to see me, or something.”

“Yes, I’d think so. Did he talk to you of money matters?”

“Not to any great extent. Said he had a big mining proposition that meant a fortune if he could get the necessary advance capital. Said he hoped to get it from his uncle.”

“Not meaning by a legacy?”

“Oh, no. Said he was going to bone the old man for it. Which he did, according to the yarn of a fresh office boy.”

“Well, Mr. Lindsay, I’m glad you’re so frank in this matter. Do you know anything further of interest regarding Kane Landon?”

“I’m not sure. What does this housekeeper look like?”

“Rather stunning. Handsome, in a dark, foreign way. Big, black eyes, and – ”

“Look like an adventuress?”

“Yes, I must admit that term describes her.”

“Black, glossy hair, ’most covering her ears, and mighty well groomed?”

“Exactly.”

“Then Kane Landon met that woman by appointment Tuesday afternoon, – the day of his uncle’s murder.”

“Where?”

“In the Public Library. They didn’t see me, but I was attracted at the sight of this beautiful woman on one of the marble benches in one of the halls, evidently waiting for somebody. Then Landon came and he greeted her eagerly. She gave him a small packet, wrapped in paper, and they talked so earnestly they didn’t see me at all. I was only there for a short time, to look up a matter of reference for some people I was visiting. We had motored in from Long Island, – Landon was then in my rooms, you know.”

“What time was this?”

“Just half-past two. I know, because I had told my people I’d meet them again at three, and I wanted a half hour for my research, and had it, too.”

“This is most important, Mr. Lindsay. You are prepared to swear it all as a witness, if called on?”

“Oh, it’s all true, of course. But, I say, I don’t want to get old Landon in trouble.”

“It doesn’t necessarily imply that. Perhaps Mrs. Black may be implicated more than we have supposed. But he, I understand, denies knowing the lady until meeting her here, after his uncle’s death.”

“Nonsense, he knew her for years out in Denver. They are old friends.”

“That, too, is of importance. Why should he wish to pretend they were not?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. But Landon always was a queer Dick. You know he left college before he was graduated, because of a quarrel with this same uncle. Mr. Trowbridge was putting him through, and they had a tiff about something, and Kane chucked it all, and went off out West. Been there ever since, till just now, and it’s a pity he hadn’t stayed there rather than to get mixed up in this affair.”