The Mystery of the Sycamore

“All right. To my mind, it comes back to a toss-up between Miss Maida and her father, with the odds in favor of the old gentleman. Agree?”

“I might, if I understood your English. The odds in favor of Mr. Wheeler indicating his guilt or innocence?”

“His guilt, I meant, F. Stone. I can’t think that sweet young lady would do it, and this isn’t because she is a sweet young lady, but because it isn’t hardly plausible that she’s put the thing over, even though she was willing enough to do so.”

“It seems so to me, too, but we can’t bank on that. Maida Wheeler is a very impulsive girl, very vigorous and athletic, and very devoted to her father. She worships him, and she has been known to say she would willingly kill old Mr. Appleby. These things must be remembered, Fibsy.”

“That’s so. But I’ve noticed that when folks threaten to kill people they most generally don’t do it.”

“I’ve also noticed that. But, striking out Maida’s name, leaves us only Mr. Wheeler.”

“Well, ain’t he the one? Ain’t he the down-trodden, oppressed victim, who, at last, has opportunity, and who is goaded to the point of desperation by the arguments of his enemy?”

“You grow oratorical! But, I admit, you have an argument.”

“’Course I have. Now, say we’ve got to choose between Miss Wheeler and Mr. Wheeler, how do we go about it?”

“How?”

“Why, we find out how Mr. Appleby was sitting, how Mr. Wheeler was facing at the moment, and also Miss Maida’s position. Then, we find out the direction from which the bullet entered the body, and then we can tell who fired the shot.”

“I’ve done all that, Fibs,” Stone returned, with no note of superiority in his voice. “I found out all those things, and the result proves that the bullet entered Mr. Appleby’s body from the direction of Miss Maida, in the bay window, and directly opposite from what would have been its direction if fired by Mr. Wheeler, from where he stood, when seen directly after the shot.”

Fibsy looked dejected. He made no response to this disclosure for a moment, then he said:

“All right, F. Stone. In that case I’m going over to Mr. Keefe’s side, and I’m going to hunt up the bugler.”

“A fictitious person?”

“Maybe he ain’t so fictitious after all,” and the red-head shook doggedly.

A tap at the door of Stone’s sitting-room was followed by a “May I come in?” and the entrance of Daniel Wheeler.

“The time has come, Mr. Wheeler,” Stone began a little abruptly, “to put all our cards on the table. I’ve investigated things pretty thoroughly, and, though I’m not all through with my quest, I feel as if I must know the truth as to what you know about the murder.”

“I have confessed,” Wheeler began, but Stone stopped him.

“That won’t do,” he said, very seriously. “I’ve proved positively that from where you stood, you could not have fired the shot. It came from the opposite direction. Now it’s useless for you to keep up that pretence of being the criminal, which, I’ve no doubt, you’re doing to shield your daughter. Confide in me, Mr. Wheeler, it will not harm the case.”

“God help me, I must confide in somebody,” cried the desperate man. “She did do it! I saw Maida fire the shot! Oh, can you save her? I wouldn’t tell you this, but I think – I hope you can help better if you know. You’d find it out anyway – ”

“Of course I should. Now, let us be strictly truthful. You saw Miss Maida fire the pistol?”

“Yes; I was sitting almost beside Appleby; he was nearer Maida than I was, and she sat in the bay window, reading. She sits there much of the time, and I’m so accustomed to her presence that I don’t even think about it. We were talking pretty angrily, Appleby and I, really renewing the old feud, and adding fuel to its flame with every word. I suppose Maida, listening, grew more and more indignant at his injustice and cruelty to me – those terms are not too strong! – and she being of an impulsive nature, even revengeful when her love for me is touched, and I suppose she, somehow, possessed herself of my pistol and fired it.”

“You were not looking at her before the shot?”

“Oh, no; the shot rang out, Appleby fell forward, and even as I rose to go to his aid, I instinctively turned toward the direction from which the sound of the shot had come. There I saw Maida, standing white-faced and frightened, but with a look of satisfied revenge on her dear face. I felt no resentment at her act, then – indeed, I was incapable of coherent thought of any sort. I stepped to Appleby’s side, and I saw at once that he was dead – had died instantly. I cannot tell you just what happened next. It seemed ages before anybody came, and then, suddenly the room was full of people. Allen and Keefe came, running – the servants gathered about, my wife appeared, and Maida was there. I had a strange undercurrent of thought that kept hammering at my brain to the effect that I must convince everybody that I did it, to save my girl. I was clear-headed to the extent of planning my words in an effort to carry conviction of my guilt, but that effort so absorbed my attention that I gave no heed to what happened otherwise.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wheeler, for your kindness. I assure you you will not regret it.”

“You’re going to save her? You can save my little girl? Oh, Mr. Stone, I beg of you – ”

The agonized father broke down completely, and Stone said, kindly:

“Keep up a good heart, Mr. Wheeler. That will help your daughter more than anything else you can do. I assumed that if one of you were guilty the other was shielding the criminal, but your story has straightened out the tangle considerably.”

“Lemme ask something, please,” broke in Fibsy. “Say, Mr. Wheeler, did you see the pistol in Miss Maida’s hands?”

“I can’t say I did or didn’t,” Wheeler replied, listlessly. “I looked only at her face. I know my daughter’s mind so well, that I at once recognized her expression of horror mingled with relief. She had really desired the death of her father’s enemy, and she was glad it had been accomplished! It’s a terrible thing to say of one’s own child, but I’ve made up my mind to be honest with you, Mr. Stone, in the hope of your help. I should have persisted in my own story of guilt, had I not perceived it was futile in the face of your clear-sighted logic and knowledge of the exact circumstances.”

“You did wisely. But say nothing to any one else, for the present. Do not even talk to Miss Maida about it, until I have time to plan our next step. It is still a difficult and a very delicate case. A single false move may queer the whole game.”

“You think, then, you can save Maida – oh, do give a tortured father a gleam of hope!”

“I shall do my best. You know they rarely, if ever, convict a woman – and, too, Miss Wheeler had great provocation. Then – what about self-defence?”

“Appleby threatened neither of us,” Wheeler said. “That can’t be used.”

“Well, we’ll do everything we can, you may depend on that,” Stone assured him. And Wheeler went away, relieved at the new turn things had taken, though also newly concerned for Maida’s safety.

“Nice old chap,” said Fibsy to Stone. “He stuck to his faked yarn as long as the sticking was good, and then he caved in.”

“Open and shut case, Terence?”

“Open – but not yet shut, F. Stone. Now, where do we go from here?”

“You go where you like, boy. Leave me to grub at this alone.”

Without another word Fibsy left the room. He well knew when Stone spoke in that serious tone that great thoughts were forming in that fertile brain and sooner or later he would know of them. But at present his company was not desired.

The boy drifted out on the terraced lawn and wandered about among the gardens. He, too, thought, but he could see no light ahead.

“S’long as the old man saw her,” he observed to himself, “there’s no more to be said. He never’d say he saw her shoot, if he hadn’t seen her. He’s at the end of his rope, and even if they acquit the lady I don’t want to see her dragged through a trial. But where’s any way of escape? What can turn up to contradict a straight story like that? Who else can testify except the eye-witness who has just spoken? I wonder if he realized himself how conclusive his statement was? But he trusted in F. Stone to get Maida off, somehow. Queer, how most folks think a detective is a magician, and can do the impossible trick!”

In a brown study he walked slowly along the garden paths, and was seen by Keefe and Maida, who sat under the big sycamore tree.

“Crazy idea, Stone bringing that kid,” Keefe said, with a laugh.

“Yes, but he’s a very bright boy,” Maida returned. “I’ve been surprised at his wise observations.”

“Poppycock! He gets off his speeches with that funny mixture of newsboy slang and detective jargon, and you think they’re cleverer than they are.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Maida, not greatly interested. “But what a strange story Rachel told. Do you believe it, Mr. Keefe?”

“Yes, I do. The girl was frightened, I think; first, at the information she tried to divulge, and second, by finding herself in the limelight. She seems to be shy, and I daresay the sudden publicity shook her nerves. But why shouldn’t her story be true? Why should she invent all that?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. But it didn’t sound like Rachel – the whole thing, I mean. She seemed acting a part.”