The Mystery of the Sycamore

“Hoping to find the criminal’s initials on it?”

“Well, no, they don’t mark firearms in real life, as they do in story-books. But to find the weapon gives a lot of evidence as to where it was fired from, and what was done with it afterward, and to whom it belongs. Not that the owner is always the murderer. More often the reverse is true. But the weapon we want and want pretty badly. By the way, I’m told that young Appleby is out of the running for governor now that his father isn’t here to help him through.”

“More, I take it, because of his grief for his father’s untimely end.”

“Be that as it may, he’ll withdraw his name from the candidates.”

“Who told you?”

“I heard Mr. Keefe telling Miss Lane.”

“You hear a lot, Burdon.”

“I do, Mr. Allen. It’s my business to do so. Now, here’s another thing. About that garage fire.”

“Well, what about it?”

“It was a mighty mysterious fire, that’s all. Nobody knows how it started, or where.”

“They must know where!”

“Not exactly. It seemed to start in the vicinity of Mr. Appleby’s own car. But there was nothing inflammable around that part of the garage.”

“Well, what does that prove or indicate? Anything prejudicial to the Wheelers?”

“Not so far as I can see. Only it’s queer, that’s all.”

“Perhaps Mr. Appleby kept tobacco and matches in his car.”

“Perhaps so. Anyway, that’s where the fire originated, and also about where it stopped. They soon put it out.”

“Glad they did. I can’t see that the fire has any bearing whatever on the murder.”

“Neither can I, Mr. Allen. But Hallen, now, he thinks it has.”

“Just how?”

“I can’t say. Hallen doesn’t know himself. But he says there’s a connection.”

“There may be. But unless it’s a connection that will free the Wheelers from suspicion, it doesn’t interest me.”

Allen left the detective, who made no effort to detain him, and went to the den for a talk with Mr. Wheeler.

But that gentleman, locked in the room, declared through the closed door that he would see nobody.

“Sorry, Jeff,” he said, in a kindly tone, “but you must excuse me at present. Give me the day to myself. I’ll see you late this afternoon.”

As it was already noon, Allen made no further attempt at an interview and went in search of Mrs. Wheeler. It seemed to him he must talk to some of the family, and he hadn’t the heart to disturb Maida, who might be resting.

Mrs. Wheeler’s maid said that her mistress would see him in a few minutes. And it was only a few minutes later that the lady came downstairs and greeted Allen, who awaited her in the living-room.

“What are we going to do?” she exclaimed to him. “Do help us, Jeff. Did I do right?”

“In lying to save some one you love? Yes, I suppose so.”

But Sara Wheeler had very acute hearing. Even as they spoke, she heard a slight movement on the porch outside, and realized at once that a detective was listening to her every word.

Allen couldn’t be sure whether this changed her mental attitude or whether she continued as she had meant to when she began.

But she said: “Oh, I don’t mean that! I mean, did I do right to confess my crime at once? You know they would discover it sooner or later, and I thought it would save time and trouble for me to own up immediately.”

“Dear Mrs. Wheeler, don’t quibble with me. I know you didn’t do it – ”

“Oh, yes, I did, Jeff. Who else could it have been? And, too, you know about the bugler, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s what made me do it. You see, I thought if a death occurred, that would be the death the bugler was heralding, and if it wasn’t Mr. Appleby it might have been Dan himself.”

She leaned forward as she spoke, her voice dropped to a mere whisper, and her large eyes took on a glassy stare, while her white face was drawn and set with an agonized expression as of a dreadful memory.

“And you killed Appleby for that reason?” cried Allen.

“Oh, no – I killed him because – because” – her mind seemed to wander – “oh, yes,” she resumed, “because he was a menace to Dan. To my husband.”

For the first time Allen began to doubt her sanity. Her eyes were wild, her fingers nervously interlaced and her speech was jerky and stammering.

“A menace, how?” he asked, softly.

“In different ways,” Mrs. Wheeler returned, in so low a voice that the listener outside could scarcely hear. “Through me, because of something he knew; through Maida – because of – of something he wanted; and, of course, through Dan himself, because of that old conditional pardon.”

“What do you mean about Maida?” Allen caught at the thing that most impressed him. “Did old Appleby want to marry Maida?”

“Yes, he did. Of course, neither her father nor I would hear of such a thing, but Mr. Appleby was an insistent man – insistent and inexorable – and he wanted Maida – ”

“Mother dear, I want you to come away now,” and Maida came into the room. “Come, you have talked too long. It does no good, to you or to any one else. Did you call her down, Jeffrey?”

“Yes,” and Allen deeply regretted his act. “But I want to talk to somebody, Maida. Will you take your mother away – and return?”

“Yes, I will,” and the girl left the room, guiding the slow footsteps of her mother.

When she came back, Allen took her out under the old sycamore.

“Now, Maida,” he said, gently, “the truth. No matter what it is, you must tell me. We are here alone, that eavesdropping detective can’t overhear us, and you must tell me whom you are shielding and the full details for the crime.”

“I can’t tell you all the details, Jeff,” the girl returned, “they include a secret that is not mine to divulge.”

“You can divulge anything in a crisis like this, Maida.”