The Curved Blades

“But there must have been another voice, even though inaudible to her.”

“That’s just the point. There may have been, – probably was. But if the story was her own invention, she never would have thought of representing that second voice as inaudible. Now, either she did hear Miss Carrington say those things, or she didn’t. I believe she did, because if she hadn’t, she must have invented the tale, and if she had invented it, it would have been different. Likewise, Miss Stuart’s snake story. If it were not true that her aunt asked her to buy that snake, Miss Stuart must have made up that yarn. And if she had made it up, it would have been different. That’s always my test for the truth of an amazing statement. If the teller were falsifying, would he tell it that way? If so, then it is probably a lie: if not, then probably it is a true bill. Now they say Miss Carrington had a high, shrill voice. Did you ever hear it, Hardy?”

“No. I never knew the lady. But I’ve heard a record of it on the phonograph, and it is high, and rather thin.”

“On the phonograph? How does that happen?”

“Gray Haviland is a dabster at that sort of thing, and he has people sing for him and make records frequently. And once I heard that they had a record of the dead woman’s singing, and I asked to hear it, merely out of curiosity or a general interest. And it contained some spoken words too, and her speaking voice is high and shrill, just such as would carry through a closed door. You can, of course, hear the record, if you care to.”

“I do care to. I’ll make a note of that. Now, here’s another thing. Miss Stuart has declared that she obliterated a footprint which was noticeable in that powder scattered by the dressing-table.”

“Yes, I know it. And Haviland states that it was he who wiped out that print! What do you make of that?”

“That Haviland did do it, and Miss Stuart fibbed about it to shield Haviland.”

“Oh, so it’s Haviland you think Miss Pauline is shielding?”

“I think it may be; at any rate, she suspects some one dear to her and – ”

“You’re ’way off, Mr. Stone! If you’ll excuse my saying so, Miss Stuart has pulled the wool over your eyes until you don’t know where you’re at.”

Fleming Stone gasped. Pulled wool over his eyes! Over the eyes, the gimlet eyes, the all-seeing eyes of Fleming Stone! What could the man mean? And this so-called wool pulled by a woman! What unheard-of absurdity!

“Mr. Hardy, – ” he began.

“Yes, yes, I know. Nothing of the sort, and all that. But it’s true, Mr. Stone. Miss Stuart is a siren from Sirenville. She can make any man think black is white if she chooses. And she has been bullied and cowed by that old aunt of hers for years, and for my part, I don’t blame her for getting to the end of her rope. If she – ”

“Stop! Mr. Hardy, I know you think you’re right, but you are not! Do you hear, you are not! And I’ll prove it to you, and that soon! I’ll ferret out this thing, and I’ll do it on this new theory of mine whether you believe it or not!”

Hardy looked at the man in amazement. He had expected a different mode of procedure from this talented sleuth. He had looked for a quiet, even icy, demeanor, and magical and instantaneous solution of all mystery. And here was the great man, clearly baffled at the queerly tangled web of evidence, and, moreover, caught in the toils of a woman whom Hardy fully believed to be the criminal herself.

But he only said quietly, “What way does your theory point, Mr. Stone? I may be able to help you.”

“You can’t, Hardy, because you’re so determined to find Miss Stuart guilty that you couldn’t see it as I do. You consider the strange features of this case – and Lord knows they are strange! – separately, whereas they must be looked at as a whole. The gown, the quantity of jewelry, the smiling face, the glove, the overheard conversation, – all these points are to be considered as of one import, – as leading to one conclusion. And you think of them as implicating – separately, mind you – Miss Stuart, Miss Frayne, and the noble Count. Now, all those queer points are not only connected, but identical in their significance. But never mind that. Here’s the place to begin. Miss Carrington was poisoned. She didn’t poison herself. Who did?”

“Mr. Stone, you have put it tersely. I entirely agree that all we are seeking is the answer to that last question of yours.”

“I will yet give it to you,” and Fleming Stone spoke solemnly rather than boastingly. “The poison, the aconitine, was taken by Miss Carrington as she sat there at her own dressing-table. She took it willingly, smilingly, – ”

“Yes, because she didn’t know she was taking it. When she ate the sandwich – ”

“The poison wasn’t in the sandwich. She took that poison in water. The tumbler and spoon that were used are even now on the glass shelf in her bath-room.”

“You know this?”

“I know that in the glass that now stands there a chemist has found a slight trace of aconite. I took the glass myself to be tested, with that result. This is not a great discovery, it merely proves that the poison was administered in water, not in a sandwich.”

“But it also means that it was given to her by some one who could persuade her to take the solution, unquestioningly, – not under compulsion.”

“It would seem so.”

“And that points to Miss Stuart.”

“Not necessarily. Hardy, I refuse to discuss these things with you if you avow everything to condemn her. Why does what I have just told you point to Miss Stuart any more than any one else in the house? Why not Miss Frayne? Or Haviland?”

“Pshaw! Nobody suspects Gray Haviland.”

“But why not? If you’re merely suspecting here and there without definite reason, why not include him on your list? And here’s another thing. Whoever mixed that poison in the glass of water, afterward rinsed the glass and returned it to its place in the bath-room? This was either done at the time, that is, before the lady died, or later on, after death had ensued. In either case, it opens up a field of conjecture.”

“It doesn’t with me,” said Hardy, bluntly. “There’s no room for conjecture. It simply piles up the proof against Miss Stuart, and all your skill and even your will can’t get her off.”

A low moan was heard and a sound as of a falling body. Stone sprang to the door, and flinging it open, disclosed Pauline lying on the floor where she had just fallen. With a low exclamation, Stone picked her up and carried her to a couch. In a moment she sat up and cried, “What do you mean, Mr. Hardy? Do you think I killed Aunt Lucy?”

“There, there, Miss Stuart, don’t ask foolish questions,” and Hardy, deeply embarrassed, stood at bay. It was one thing to assert his suspicions to Fleming Stone, and quite another to have them overheard by this beautiful and indignant girl.

“How dare you!” Pauline went on. “I was at the door and I heard all you said. No, I am not ashamed of listening, I’m glad I did. Now I know what I have to fight against! And you, Mr. Stone, do you think me a murderer?”

Pauline cringed not at all. She looked more like an avenging goddess, as she confronted the two men, and her blazing eyes and frowning face challenged their replies.

“I do not, Miss Stuart,” said Stone, quietly, but Pauline responded, “How do I know? If you did, you’d say you didn’t! I have no friend, no one to stand up for me. I shall send for Carr. He will defend me.”

With a disdainful glance round, she left the room. The two men looked at one another.

“Guilty,” said Hardy.

“Never!” said Stone, and then the two went their different ways.

Hardy’s way led to the Police Headquarters, and his report there, which included Stone’s story of the tested glass, was heard with interest.

He demanded Miss Stuart’s immediate arrest, claiming that only she could have persuaded her aunt to swallow the poisoned draught.

Inspector Brunt was not quite willing to order arrest, but he set machinery at work which he hoped would bring decisive results of some sort.

It did.

That same evening, Pauline went to Fleming Stone. The two were alone. Standing before him, in all her somewhat tragic beauty, Pauline asked: “You don’t think me guilty, Mr. Stone?”

He looked deep in the great, dark eyes that seemed to challenge his very soul, and after a moment’s steady glance, he replied, “I know you are not, Miss Stuart.”

“Can you prove it?”

“I hope to.”

“That means nothing. Are you sure you can?”

Fleming Stone looked troubled. Never before in his career had he been unable to declare his surety of success; but with those compelling eyes upon him he couldn’t deny a present doubt.

Shaking himself, as if to be freed from a spell, he said, at last, “Miss Stuart, I am not sure. I am convinced of your innocence, but the only theory of guilt that I can conceive of is so difficult, so almost impossible of proof, and so lacking in plausibility, that it seems hopeless. If determination and desperate effort can do it, you shall be exonerated. But there are many circumstances not in your favor. These I shall overcome, eventually. But, to be honest, until I can get a clue or a link of some sort to join my purely imaginative theory to some tangible fact, I can do little. I am working day and night in my efforts to find this connection I seek, but it may take a long time. Meanwhile – ”