The Mystery of the Sycamore

“John Mills!” exclaimed Mr. Wheeler, looking at the paper. “Oh, the faithful old man! Listen, Stone. This is a signed confession of a man on his death-bed – ”

“No longer that,” said Keefe, solemnly, “he died this afternoon.”

“And signed this just before he died?”

“Yes, Mr. Wheeler. In the hospital. The witnesses, as you see, are the nurses there.”

The paper merely stated that the undersigned was the slayer of Samuel Appleby. That the deed was committed in order to free Daniel Wheeler from wicked and unjust molestation and tyranny. The signature, though faintly scrawled, was perfectly legible and duly witnessed.

“He was an old servant of mine,” Wheeler said, thoughtfully, “and very devoted to us all. He always resented Appleby’s attitude toward me – for Mills was my butler when the trouble occurred, and knew all about it. He has been an invalid for a year, but has been very ill only recently.”

“Since the shooting, in fact,” said Keefe, significantly.

“It must have been a hard task for one so weak,” Wheeler said, “but the old fellow was a true friend to me all his life. Tell us more of the circumstances, Mr. Keefe.”

“I did it all by thinking,” said Keefe, his manner not at all superior, nor did he look toward Fleming Stone, who was listening attentively. “I felt sure there was some man from outside. And I thought first of some enemy of Mr. Appleby’s. But later, I thought it might have been some enemy of Mr. Wheeler’s and the shot was possibly meant for him.”

Wheeler nodded at this. “I thought that, too,” he observed.

“Well, then later, I began to think maybe it was some friend – not an enemy. A friend, of course, of Mr. Wheeler’s. On this principle I searched for a suspect. I inquired among the servants, being careful to arouse no suspicion of my real intent. At last, I found this old Mills had always been devoted to the whole family here. More than devoted, indeed. He revered Mr. Wheeler and he fairly worshipped the ladies. He has been ill a long time of a slow and incurable malady, and quite lately was taken to the hospital. When I reached him I saw the poor chap had but a very short time to live.”

“And you suspected him of crime with no more evidence than that?” Fleming Stone asked.

“I daresay it was a sort of intuition, Mr. Stone,” Keefe returned, smiling a little at the detective. “Oh, I don’t wonder you feel rather miffed to have your thunder stolen by a mere business man – and I fear it’s unprofessional for me to put the thing through without consulting you, but I felt the case required careful handling – somewhat psychological handling, indeed – ”

“Very much so,” Stone nodded.

“And so,” Keefe was a little disconcerted by the detective’s demeanor, but others set it down to a very natural chagrin on Stone’s part.

Fibsy sat back in his chair, his bright eyes narrowed to mere slits and darting from the face of Keefe to that of Stone continually.

“And so,” Keefe went on, “I inquired from the servants and also, cautiously from the members of the family, and I learned that this Mills was of a fiery, even revengeful, nature – ”

“He was,” Mr. Wheeler nodded, emphatically.

“Yes, sir. And I found out from Rachel that – ”

“Rachel!” Fibsy fairly shot out the word, but a look from Stone made him say no more.

“Yes, Rachel, the maid,” went on Keefe, “and I found that the man she saw on the veranda was of the same general size and appearance as Mills. Well, I somehow felt that it was Mills – and so I went to see him.”

“At the hospital?” asked Wheeler.

“Yes; some days ago. He was then very weak, and the nurses didn’t want me to arouse him to any excitement. But I knew it was my duty – ”

“Of course,” put in Stone, and Keefe gave him a patronizing look.

“So, against the wishes of the nurses and doctors, I had an interview alone with Mills, and I found he was the criminal.”

“He confessed?” asked Stone.

“Yes; and though he refused to sign a written confession, he agreed he would confess in the presence of Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Stone. But – that was only this morning – and the doctor assured me the man couldn’t live the day out. So I persuaded the dying man to sign this confession, which I drew up and read to him in the presence of the nurses. He signed – they witnessed – and there it is.”

With evident modesty, Keefe pointed to the paper still in Wheeler’s hands, and said no more.

For a moment nobody spoke. The storm was at its height. The wind whistled and roared, the rain fell noisily, and the elements seemed to be doing their very worst.

Genevieve shuddered – she always was sensitive to weather conditions, and that wind was enough to disturb even equable nerves.

“And this same Mills was the phantom bugler?” asked Stone.

“Yes – he told me so,” returned Keefe. “He knew about the legend, you see, and he thought he’d work on the superstition of the family to divert attention from himself.”

Genevieve gasped, but quickly suppressed all show of agitation.

Fibsy whistled – just a few notes of the bugle call that the “phantom” had played.

At the sound Keefe turned quickly, a strange look on his face, and the Wheelers, too, looked startled at the familiar strain.

“Be quiet, Terence,” Stone said, rather severely, and the boy subsided.

“Now, Mr. Keefe,” Fleming Stone said, “you must not think – as I fear you do – that I grudge admiration for your success, or appreciation of your cleverness. I do not. I tell you, very sincerely, that what you have accomplished is as fine a piece of work as I have ever run across in my whole career as detective. Your intuition was remarkable and your following it up a masterpiece! By the way, I suppose that it was Mills, then, who started the fire in the garage?”

“Yes, it was,” said Keefe. “You see, he is a clever genius, in a sly way. He reasoned that if a fire occurred, everybody would run to it except Mr. Wheeler, who cannot go over the line. He hoped that, therefore, Mr. Appleby would not go either – for Mr. Appleby suffered from flatfoot – at any rate, he took a chance that the fire would give him opportunity to shoot unnoticed. Which it did.”

“It certainly did. Now, Mr. Keefe, did he tell you how he set that fire?”

“No, he did not,” was the short reply. “Moreover, Mr. Stone, I resent your mode of questioning. I’m not on the witness stand. I’ve solved a mystery that baffled you, and though I understand your embarrassment at the situation, yet it does not give you free rein to make what seem to me like endeavors to trip me up!”

“Trip you up!” Stone lifted his eyebrows. “What a strange expression to use. As if I suspected you of faking his tale.”

“It speaks for itself,” and Keefe glanced nonchalantly at the paper he had brought. “There’s the signed confession – if you can prove that signature a fake – go ahead.”

“No,” said Daniel Wheeler, decidedly; “that’s John Mills’ autograph. I know it perfectly. He wrote that himself. And a dying man is not going to sign a lie. There’s no loophole of doubt, Mr. Stone. I think you must admit Mr. Keefe’s entire success.”

“I do admit Mr. Keefe’s entire success,” Stone’s dark eyes flashed, “up to this point. From here on, I shall undertake to prove my own entire success, since that is the phrase we are using. Mr. Wheeler, your present cook was here when John Mills worked for you?”

“She was, Mr. Stone, but you don’t need her corroboration of this signature. I tell you I know it to be Mills’.”

“Will you send for the cook, please?”

Half unwillingly, Wheeler agreed, and Maida stepped out of the room and summoned the cook.

The woman came in, and Stone spoke to her at once.

“Is that John Mills’ signature?” he asked, showing her the paper.

“It is, sir,” she replied, looking at him in wonder.