The Curved Blades

“But I didn’t kill her!” he cried, “she was already dead! Oh, my God! can I ever forget those terrible, staring eyes! The saints forgive me! I was half crazy. There she was, dead, and yet smiling and happy looking! Oh, sir, what does it all mean?”

XIII

BATES, THE BURGLAR

Brought before the magistrate, Bates told a coherent though amazing story.

It seems he was Estelle’s lover, and had long ago persuaded her to let him know when Miss Carrington had a quantity of jewelry in the house, that he might essay a robbery. The plan was simple. Estelle had promised to slip downstairs at three o’clock and raise a window for his entrance, and later, but before any one else was about, she was to slip down and lock it again. In the meantime, they assumed, the burglary would be quietly accomplished, their supposition being that Miss Carrington would be asleep in her bedroom, and the boudoir easy of access.

“You entered by the window, then, at what time?” asked Stone, who was doing most of the questioning.

“At quarter of four in the morning,” replied Bates, and all noted that this was shortly before the hour when Mrs. Frothingham saw through her field-glass a man leaving by the same window.

“You went directly up the stairs?”

“Yes; Estelle had often told me the lay of the rooms, and I went straight to the lady’s boodore.”

“You carried with you a ‘black-jack.’ Did you have murder in your heart?”

“That I did not! I took that, thinkin’ if the lady woke up and screamed, I’d just give her a tap that would put her to sleep without hurtin’ her at all, at all. I’m no murderer, Sir, and I’m confessin’ my attempt at burglary, and – and assault, so I won’t be accused of a greater crime.”

“That’s right, Bates, it’ll be better for you to be perfectly truthful. Now, what did you see when you entered the room?”

“I had stepped inside and shut the door before I saw anything, and then, I turned to see the lady’s face, but in the mirror. I was behind her, and in the glass I saw her smilin’ face, and of course, I thought she was alive, and that she saw me. I knew she’d scream in a minute, and the sight of all the jewels gleamin’ on her neck drove me fair crazy with greed, I suppose, and I up with my sandbag, and hit her head, not meanin’ to hit hard enough to kill her, but only to knock her unconscious-like.”

“And then?”

“The blow smashed the big comb she was wearin’ but she didn’t move nor fall over. She was leanin’ back in her big chair, and she jest sat there, and kept on smilin’. My knees shook like the ague, for I thought it was magic, or that my eyes was deceivin’ me. There was no sound anywhere, and I stood starin’ at that smilin’ face and she starin’ back at me! I nearly screamed out myself! But I bucked up, and thinkin’ that she was struck unconscious so quick, her face didn’t change, I made to take off some of the jewels I was after. I touched her neck and it was cold! The lady was dead! Had been dead some time, I was sure, ’cause she was so cold and stiff. I trembled all over, but my only thought then was to get out. Not for a million dollars would I touch them sparklers! There ain’t often a burglar who is ghoul enough to rob a corpse! Leastways, I’m not. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t! I’m a tough and a bad egg generally, but I wouldn’t steal from no corpse! Not I!”

“So you left the house at once?”

“That I did, as fast as my tremblin’ legs could get me downstairs. I was clean daft. I couldn’t make it out and I didn’t try. I thought it was the Devil’s own work, somehow, but how, I didn’t know. My mind was full, makin’ my escape. I ran like the old boy was after me, and reachin’ home, I hid under me bedclothes and groaned all night. Full a week went by, and I begun to breathe easy, thinkin’ I’d never be suspected of a hand in it, when up comes this gentleman, and says I done it. Well, I’ve told the truth now, and I’m relieved to get it off my chest.”

Bates heaved a deep sigh, as of a man eased of a great burden. His whole story bore the stamp of truth, and his manner of telling was straightforward and earnest. Nor was there reason for doubt. Though a startling tale, it entirely explained many of the strange conditions that had seemed so bewildering. It would never have occurred to Bates nor to any one to make up such a yarn, and what else could have deterred him from the contemplated robbery but the superstition that makes even the most hardened criminals refuse to steal from a dead person? Therefore, the narrative was accepted as probably true, and Bates was taken to the Tombs to await further proceedings against him.

“You’re a wonder!” said Gray Haviland, as, that same afternoon, he discussed the matter with Fleming Stone. “Would you mind telling me how you went straight to the criminal and walked him off to jail?”

“That was practically a bit of luck,” and Stone smiled. “It was the black-jack that gave me the clue. If the fellow hadn’t dropped that in his fright, we might never have traced him. Though we would perhaps have found him eventually, through the maid, Estelle. She is not good at keeping things secret. However, he did drop the weapon, and it led straight to him.”

“But how?”

“Well, the thing smelled strongly of creosote. Now, it was made from a bit of old cloth that looked like a piece of some discarded garment, – a man’s coat, say. If the odor had been camphor or moth balls, I should have assumed a garment laid away in storage, but creosote is not used for that purpose. So I deduced a house recently remodeled by use of a certain kind of shingles. I know that the odor of those shingles clings to everything in the house for months. It is almost ineradicable. So I looked about for a house lately reshingled.”

“Why not a new house?” asked Hardy, who was present.

“A point well taken,” said Stone, nodding approval, “but in a new house the odor often is dispelled before the people move in. In a remodeled house, the furnishings stay there during the work and so are deeply impregnated with that unmistakable smell of creosote. At any rate, I worked on that, and when I found that a newly shingled old house was a boarding-house of the type Bates would be likely to live in, I went there to see, and found him.”

“Yes, but how did you know there was such a person as Bates? Where did you get his name?”

“From your cook,” returned Stone, simply. “I concluded there was no doubt that Estelle had let the man in and relocked the window afterward. So I deduced a friend of the girl’s so dear to her that she would do this for him. I asked the cook, Mrs. Haskins, as to Estelle’s admirers and learned that there were two, Bates and Higgins. Mrs. Haskins couldn’t say which one Estelle more favored, so I decided to try both. Bates – the cook told me – lived in a boarding-house near here, and Higgins over in New York. So when I asked Estelle a few leading questions I pretended to greater knowledge than I really had. I spoke of a name beginning with either B, H, or S. She fell into the trap and said quickly that she knew no one initialed S. Then I said, ‘but beginning with – ’ and waited; she said no name, but involuntarily her lips form a silent ‘B,’ and I knew she had Bates in mind. The rest was easy. Bates, the boarding-house and the shingles formed a combination too indicative to be merely coincidence. And so we found him. And I, for one, believe his story. I know the strong superstition that imbues those people concerning a corpse, and the unexpected discovery that he had attacked one was enough to make that man beside himself. Indeed, it’s a wonder that he didn’t himself make an outcry in his terror and fright.”

“I have heard of your prowess in these matters,” said Haviland, “but I didn’t look for such quick work as this. Why, you hadn’t even interviewed Estelle when you came to your conclusions about Bates.”

“No, but remember, I have seen a full account of all the evidence, not only at the inquest, but all that has been gathered by the police and by Mr. Hardy here. Last night I read all this carefully, and it was enlightening on these points that led up to to-day’s work. But, now, I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Haviland, that a much more difficult and complicated problem faces us, to discover who gave to Miss Carrington the poison that killed her.”

“Have you any suspicions?” and Gray looked the Detective straight in the eyes.

“I have not, as yet,” and Fleming Stone returned the steady gaze. “Have you?”

Gray Haviland hesitated. Then he said: “I would rather not answer that question, Mr. Stone. If I should have suspicions, and they should be unjust or ill-founded, is it not better to leave them unmentioned, even to you? You are here to discover the criminal. I can not think my suspicions, if I have any, could help you, but they might easily hinder you by wrong suggestion.”

“Very well, Mr. Haviland, just as you please. But I assume you will tell me frankly anything you may know or learn in the way of direct evidence bearing on the matter?”

“That, certainly.” But though Haviland’s words were a definite promise, his tone and manner seemed hesitant, and a trifle vague.

“Am I to have the privilege of working with you, Mr. Stone?” inquired Hardy, his heart beating tumultuously lest he receive a negative answer.

“If you care to. And if you are willing to work in my way. I am somewhat impatient of interference or questioning. But, if you want to assist in investigating, under my absolute orders, I shall be glad to have you do so.”

Nothing was further from Hardy’s mind than to interfere or to show any undue curiosity concerning the work or methods of the great Detective. He was more than content to watch silently, to run errands, and to make himself useful in any way desired by his superior. He said this, and Stone nodded indulgently.

“I shall begin with this matter of the arrest of Count Charlier,” said Stone, as he looked over his note-book. “Either that man is the guilty party or he is not. If not, he must be released. If so, it must be proven. What do you know of his history, Mr. Haviland?”

“Very little, Mr. Stone. In the first place, I doubt his right to the title he assumes.”

“You do? And why?”

Haviland looked a little embarrassed. “I’m not sure I know why. But he doesn’t act like a real Count.”

“Yes? And how do real Counts act, I mean in ways that differ from this man’s habits?”

“You’re having fun with me, Mr. Stone,” and Gray blushed like a school-boy. “But I mean it. It’s this way. I’m not a Count, but if I wanted to pretend I was, I’d act just as Count Charlier does. There!”

“Good! That’s definite, at least. Now make it a little more so by describing some of these actions.”

“Well,” and Haviland’s brow wrinkled, “well, to begin with, his manners are too slick and polished.”

“A traditional trait of Frenchmen.”

“Yes, if real. But his seem artificially, purposely, – oh, fakely polished! Have you seen him, Mr. Stone?”

“No, not yet.”

“When you do, you’ll see what I mean. He has shifty eyes, and he rubs his hands together, and if he’s standing, he half bows with every sentence he utters, and he smirks instead of smiling, and his whole attitude is a fifty-fifty of apology and bumptiousness.”

“Bravo! You’ve given a graphic picture of him at all events. I’ll reserve further consideration of his personality until I have seen him.”

“You believe implicitly all that story of Bates, do you, Mr. Stone?” and Haviland looked dubiously at the Detective.