The Deep Lake Mystery

“The bulk of the fortune and estate goes to Miss Remsen, as she is Tracy’s only natural heir. There is a gift of fifty thousand dollars to Mrs. Dallas and twenty-five thousand each to the two secretaries. Oh, yes, and fifty thousand dollars to Mr. Ames.”

“This still leaves a big fortune for Miss Remsen?” Lora asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Old Tracy had between two and three millions, I’m told. So with the servants’ bequests and charities included, that only runs to, say, two or three hundred thousand, and the young lady is left very nicely fixed.”

“Servants get much?”

“Griscom, ten thousand, and some stocks besides. Mrs. Fenn about the same. The other servants in proportion, according as to how long they’ve been employed.”

“Well,” Keeley mused, “that’s enough about the conditions of the will to work on. Now, granting greed as the motive, we have your four suspects and Griscom and the cook all possibly guilty.”

“Yes, and you needn’t exclude the other servants. I mean they all had equal motive and the same opportunity. But it never was a servant’s job. Never.”

March looked so positive that Moore asked him to say why.

“No clues,” came the answer. “You see, granting some one of the servants had the ingenuity, the imagination, to cook up this way of doing the killing, he would have taken a hammer and nail from the house stores.”

“Didn’t he?”

“He did not. I’ve combed over the whole kitchen outfit, pantries, offices, storerooms, cellars, garage and every such place, and I know every nail and hammer in the whole place. And there’s no such nail as that one used to end Sampson Tracy’s life in the whole layout.”

“And the hammer?” Moore looked quizzical.

“I grant the hammer is less easily identifiable. But I’ve hunted for fingerprints on the hammers and mallets around the premises, and there are no prints on them except the ones legitimately there. This isn’t proof positive, but it’s fairly so, when you take it in connection with the absence of any such nails as we’re searching for, and the unlikelihood of any of the under servants being able to get access to Mr. Tracy’s apartments. Except for Griscom, none of them is allowed in the living rooms at night, and I don’t suspect Griscom – yet.”

“Now Ames and the two secretaries were inside the house, but Mrs. Dallas was not,” Moore prompted further disclosures.

“Well, like Miss Remsen, Mrs. Dallas’s having a latchkey puts her on an even footing with the people in the house. And I can tell you, anybody with a latchkey could get into that house unheard. I’ve tried it, and the door latch and lock are so slick and so well oiled that they move with absolute silence. Then the thick, soft rugs in the hall and on the stairs are soundproof, and there’s no creaking step anywhere. Of course, all the appointments of that house are perfect, but it’s especially true of the precautions taken to eliminate noise.”

“Purposely so?”

“I daresay. It may be old Tracy had a special objection to noise and so guarded against it. But that doesn’t matter; the fact remains, anybody could go all over that house without making a sound, if careful enough.”

“Then, whether the murderer was a member of the household, or a silent intruder from outside, how did he get away from Mr. Tracy’s suite of rooms, leaving the outer door of the suite locked behind him?”

March looked Keeley Moore squarely in the face.

“Have you no idea?” he said.

“Have you?” countered Moore.

“Oh, yes, I have. He went out the window.”

“Into the lake?”

“Into the lake.”

CHAPTER XI

EVIDENCE

The two women, who were eagerly listening, were, of course, more surprised than were Keeley and I, but they were no more chagrined.

I could see Kee’s look of blank astonishment, as he heard March’s assertion and saw the look of conviction on the detective’s face.

“Then,” Keeley recovered himself enough to speak coolly, “then, we must look for a master diver, after all.”

“Practically, yes,” March agreed. “But that doesn’t mean a world wonder or a professional champion. It is more to the point that our diver should know the position of the rocks under the windows and the locality of the clear depths.”

“Have you any proof of all this?”

“I sure have. Footprints on the window sill, fingerprints on the window frame and a streak of red paint.”

“Red paint?”

“Yes, which I take to be the scratch of that Totem thing.”

“Why do you take that?”

“Well, to my mind, that Totem means something. You know the old original Totem Poles, – I’ve been looking up the matter, – had to do with clans or family fealty or something like that.”

“You don’t seem to be entirely clear about it,” Lora said, with a little smile.

“No, ma’am, I’m not. But I’m clear enough to make my point that whoever took that pole took it as a memento or mascot or whatever you like to call it of Sampson Tracy. I mean it made it all a personal matter, not the work of an ordinary burglar.”

“No,” Kee agreed, “I can’t see the earmarks of an ordinary burglar.”

“I see what Mr. March is driving at,” Maud declared. “He means that the murderer, whoever he was, was one who knew Mr. Tracy, and had known him intimately. One who was either a family connection or a housemate, and who killed his victim for personal reasons rather than for robbery or sordid motives.”

“Yes, ma’am,” March spoke gratefully, “that’s what I mean, partly. And it seems to me like the work of a friend suddenly turned enemy or a calm, self-restrained nature that something roused to the pitch of homicidal mania.”

“Ah, psychology – ” began Lora, but March interrupted.

“No, ma’am, I don’t hold with those modern, hifalutin sciences. Doctor Rogers, now, he knows all about such things, but you didn’t hear him referring to anything of the sort. No, I don’t mean psychology, but only just the natural working of a brain suddenly roused to ungovernable rage.”

“For a reason?”

“For a reason, of course. The reason doubtless being Tracy’s refusal of whatever boon the other was asking.”

“Then this other may be a relative, a friend or a servant?”

“Yes, always remembering it is a person with an ingenious brain and proficiency in diving and swimming.”

“Count ’em up, then,” and Moore held up his hand and checked off on his fingers. “Ames, Everett, Griscom – ”

“Mrs. Dallas and Miss Remsen,” March finished for him.

“Oh, leave out the women,” I said, trying to speak lightly, “they can’t dive like pearl fishers.”