The Deep Lake Mystery

Somehow this comforted me. I feared he would jump at once to a conclusion that somehow incriminated Alma Remsen, and I was greatly relieved that he didn’t.

Wanting to be helpful, I volunteered: “How about the weapon? There’s the nail, of course, but what about the hammer or mallet? I can’t see that nail driven without a heavy implement.”

Kee looked at me.

“No,” he said, “I can’t either. How about a croquet mallet?”

“That would fit,” I responded. “Know of any here-abouts?”

“Not precisely. But the tennis court at Whistling Reeds used to be a croquet ground.”

I quailed, but I hoped I didn’t show it.

“And that proves?” I said, jauntily.

“Nothing but possibility.”

“Which isn’t much.”

“No, it isn’t much.” Kee looked harassed. “But a lot of little bits of evidence, added together, make a – ”

“Make a muckle,” I jibed. “All right, what’s your muckle?”

“That Alma Remsen knows more about this matter than she’s telling.”

Moore’s deadly still tone, more than his words, struck a chill of terror to my heart.

For a moment, knowing his great wisdom as well as I did, I was tempted to tell him everything, but caution held me back, and I only said, “it may be.”

Lora looked at me, curiously.

“Gray,” she said, “you don’t know anything, do you?” I was glad she put it like this.

“No, Lora,” I replied, “I don’t know anything. If I did, I’d speak out. But I do believe that there is a deep, dark, underlying mystery that none of us understands, and I wish I could see into it.”

“Kee will see into it,” she said, confidently, and I could only respond: “I hope to Heaven he will.”

Kee sat without speaking for a moment or two, and then said:

“Gray, what was the reason for Miss Remsen’s sudden change of base while we were talking to her?”

“Change of base?” I said, stupidly.

“Yes. Don’t be an imbecile. I know you noticed it. It was just after I told her the police would come to interview her. That seemed to spur her or stir her up in some way, for she at once became a different being. More alert and alive, more determined.”

“Yes, I noticed it,” I told him. “I can’t explain it except to say that she was startled at the idea of a police interview, and it brought out her natural bravery and courage. She rose to the occasion and I’ve no doubt she will meet Hart with proper dignity and poise.”

“It won’t be Hart, it will be March. March is a good man, but I doubt if he can swing this case.”

“Of course he can’t,” I declared. “But you’re going to do the swinging, yourself.”

“Then I’d better begin. Now let’s marshal our facts. First of all, we have the collection of properties found on the bed. Was that all the work of one hand?”

“Yes,” I said, “but not necessarily the hand of the murderer.”

“That’s right,” and Moore nodded assent. “I’m inclined to think a waggish-minded visitor followed up the murderer and arranged that scenery.”

“Why?” asked Lora, very thoughtfully.

“I can think of no reason,” Kee returned, “except in an effort to direct suspicion away from the real criminal.”

“Who would do that?”

“Only a clever and watchful person, determined to shield the murderer.”

“Set up a hypothetical case,” suggested Maud. “Say, Mrs. Dallas was the murderer – ”

“How absurd,” cried Lora, “why should she kill the man she expected to marry?”

“That we don’t know,” Maud went on in her calm way. “But there may have been reasons. Suppose Mr. Tracy had learned some secret in Mrs. Dallas’s past – ”

“Go on,” Kee said, briefly, as Maud looked at him questioningly.

“I know it sounds melodramatic, but the whole affair is melodramatic, and those clues don’t seem to lead anywhere. Well, suppose Mrs. Dallas did it – killed him, I mean – and suppose somebody saw her who cared for her, Mr. Ames or Mr. Everett, or – or anybody. Mightn’t he trump up all that funny business to make it seem as if she could not have done it?”

“I don’t think you’ve struck it quite right, Maud,” Keeley said, “but I will say there’s a germ of thought in your theory. Granting two people concerned, there’s no reason to think them accomplices, it’s far more likely one is covering up the deeds of the other.”

“All of which is fantastic and not founded on fact,” Lora put in. “It’s only imagination, and one can imagine anything.”

“You have no use for imagination?” I asked her, smiling.

“Yes, when it is admittedly imagination, as in a fairy story or a romance. But imagination must not be used as a basis for argument.”

“She’s right,” Keeley said, slowly. “Lora’s usually right. Now what facts have we, outside the feather-duster lot?”

“The people themselves,” I offered. “The relationships between the people and the motives of the people.”

“That’s more like it,” and Kee gave me a glance of approval. “Take the household first. Who’s the most likely suspect?”

“Mrs. Dallas,” I said, promptly.

“She isn’t in the household.”

“Same as. She has a latchkey, so that makes her practically one of them.”

“Then Alma Remsen is in the same case.”

“Same case,” I agreed, knowing better than to combat him.