The Mystery of the Sycamore

“Yes; if you are telling the truth, go on, and relate details. What weapon did you use?”

“My own revolver.”

“Where is it?”

“I threw it out of the window.”

“Which window?”

“The – the bay window, in my den.”

“In this room?”

“Yes.”

“That window there?” Stone pointed to the big bay.

“Yes.”

“You were sitting there at the time of the shot, were you not, Miss Wheeler?” Stone turned to Maida, who, white-faced and trembling, listened to her father’s statements.

“I was sitting there before the shot,” the girl returned, speaking in quiet, steady tones, though a red spot burned in either cheek. “And then, when Mr. Appleby threatened my father, I shot him myself. My father is untruthful for my sake. In his love for me he is trying to take my crime on himself. Oh, believe me, Mr. Stone! Others can testify that I said, long ago, that I could willingly kill Mr. Appleby. He has made my dear father’s life a living grave! He has changed a brilliant, capable man of affairs to a sad and broken-hearted recluse. A man who had everything to live for, everything to interest and occupy his mind, was condemned to a solitary imprisonment, save for the company of his family! My father’s career would have been notable, celebrated; but that Samuel Appleby put an end to fifteen years ago, for no reason but petty spite and mean revenge! I had never seen the man, save as a small child, and when I learned he was at last coming here, my primitive passions were stirred, my sense of justice awoke and my whole soul was absorbed in a wild impulse to rid the world of such a demon in human form! I told my parents I was capable of killing him; they reproved me, so I said no more. But I brooded over the project, and made ready, and then – when Mr. Appleby threatened my father, talked to him brutally, scathingly, fairly turning the iron in his soul – I could stand it no longer, and I shot him down as I would have killed a venomous serpent! I do not regret the act – though I do fear the consequences.”

Maida almost collapsed, but pulled herself together, to add:

“That is the truth. You must disregard and disbelieve my father’s noble efforts to save me by trying to pretend the crime was his own.”

Stone looked at her pityingly. McGuire stared fixedly; the boy’s eyes round with amazement at this outburst of self-condemnation.

Then Stone said, almost casually: “You, too, Mrs. Wheeler, confess to this crime, I believe.”

“I am the real criminal,” Sara Wheeler asserted, speaking very quietly but with a steady gaze into the eyes of the listening detective. “You can readily understand that my husband and daughter are trying to shield me, when I tell you that only I had opportunity. I had possessed myself of Mr. Wheeler’s pistol and as I ran downstairs – well knowing the conversation that was going on, I shot through the doors as I passed and running on, threw the weapon far out into the shrubbery. It can doubtless be found. I must beg of you, Mr. Stone, that you thoroughly investigate these three stories, and I assure you you will find mine the true one, and the assertions of my husband and daughter merely loving but futile attempts to save me from the consequences of my act.”

Fleming Stone smiled, a queer, tender little smile.

“It is certainly a new experience for me,” he said, “when a whole family insist on being considered criminals. But I will reserve decision until I can look into matters a little more fully. Now, who can give me any information on the matter, outside of the identity of the criminal?”

Jeffrey Allen volunteered the story of the fire, and Keefe told of the strange bugle call that had been heard.

“You heard it, Mr. Keefe?” asked Stone, after listening to the account.

“No; I was with Mr. Appleby on a trip to Boston. I tell it as I heard the tale from the household here.”

Whereupon the Wheeler family corroborated Keefe’s story, and Fleming Stone listened attentively to the various repetitions.

“You find that bugler, and you’ve got your murderer,” Curtis Keefe said, bluntly. “You agree, don’t you, Mr. Stone, that it was no phantom who blew audible notes on a bugle?”

“I most certainly agree to that. I’ve heard many legends, in foreign countries, of ghostly drummers, buglers and bagpipers, but they are merely legends – I’ve never found anyone who really heard the sounds. And, moreover, those things aren’t even legends in America. Any bugling done in this country is done by human lungs. Now, this bugler interests me. I think, with you, Mr. Keefe, that to know his identity would help us – whether he proves to be the criminal or not.”

“He’s the criminal,” Keefe declared, again. “Forgive me, Mr. Stone, if my certainty seems to you presumptuous or forward, but I’m so thoroughly convinced of the innocence of the Wheeler family, that perhaps I am overenthusiastic in my theory.”

“A theory doesn’t depend on enthusiasm,” returned Stone, “but on evidence and proof. Now, how can we set about finding this mysterious bugler – whether phantom or human?”

“I thought that’s what you’re here to do,” Sam Appleby said, looking helplessly at Fleming Stone.

“We are,” piped up Terence McGuire, as Stone made no reply. “That’s our business, and, consequentially, it shall be done.”

The boy assumed an air of importance that was saved from being objectionable by his good-humored face and frank, serious eyes. “I’ll just start in and get busy now,” he went on, and rising, he bobbed a funny little bow that included all present, and left the room.

It was mid-afternoon, and as they looked out on the wide lawn they saw McGuire strolling slowly, hands in pockets and seemingly more absorbed in the birds and flowers than in his vaunted “business.”

“Perhaps McGuire needs a little explanation,” Stone smiled. “He is my right-hand man, and a great help in detail work. But he has a not altogether unearned reputation for untruthfulness. Indeed, his nickname is Fibsy, because of a congenital habit of telling fibs. I advise you of this, because I prefer you should not place implicit confidence in his statements.”

“But, Mr. Stone,” cried Maida, greatly interested, “how can he be of any help to you if you can’t depend on what he says?”

“Oh, he doesn’t lie to me,” Stone assured her; “nor does he tell whoppers at any time. Only, it’s his habit to shade the truth when it seems to him advisable. I do not defend this habit; in fact, I have persuaded him to stop it, to a degree. But you know how hard it is to reform entirely.”

“It won’t affect his usefulness, since he doesn’t lie to his employer,” Appleby said, “and, too, it’s none of our business. I’ve engaged Mr. Stone to solve the mystery of my father’s death, and I’m prepared to give him full powers. He may conduct his investigations on any plan he chooses. My only stipulation is that he shall find a criminal outside the Wheeler family.”

“A difficult and somewhat unusual stipulation,” remarked Stone.

“Why difficult?” Dan Wheeler said, quickly.

“Because, with three people confessing a crime, and no one else even remotely suspected, save a mysterious and perhaps mythical bugle-player, it does not seem an easy job to hunt up and then hunt down a slayer.”

“But you’ll do it,” begged Appleby, almost pleadingly, “for it must be done.”

“We’ll see,” Stone replied. “And now tell me more about the fire in the garage. It occurred at the time of the shooting, you say? What started it?”

But nobody knew what started it.

“How could we know?” asked Jeff Allen. “It was only a small fire and the most it burned was the robe in Mr. Appleby’s own car and a motor coat that was also in the car.”

“Whose coat?” asked Stone.

“Mine,” said Keefe, ruefully. “A bit of bad luck, too, for it was a new one. I had to get another in place of it.”

“And you think the fire was the result of a dropped cigarette or match by Mr. Appleby’s chauffeur?”

“I don’t know,” returned Keefe. “He denies it, of course, but it must have been that or an incendiary act of some one.”

“Maybe the bugler person,” suggested Stone.

“Maybe,” assented Keefe, though he did not look convinced.

“I think Mr. Keefe thinks it was the work of my own men,” said Dan Wheeler. “And it may have been. There’s one in my employ who has an ignorant, brutal spirit of revenge, and if he thought Samuel Appleby was inimical to me, he would be quite capable of setting fire to the Appleby car. That may be the fact of the case.”

“It may be,” agreed Stone. “Doubtless we can find out – ”