The Mystery of the Sycamore

A satisfied smile played on Keefe’s face, only to be effaced at Stone’s next question.

“And was John Mills the person you saw – vaguely – on the south veranda that night of Mr. Appleby’s murder?”

“That he was not!” she cried, emphatically. “It was a man not a bit like Mills, and be the same token, John Mills was in his bed onable to walk at all, at all.”

“That will do, Mr. Wheeler,” and Stone dismissed the cook with a glance. “Now, Mr. Keefe?”

“As if that woman’s story mattered,” Keefe sneered, contemptuously, “she is merely mistaken, that’s all. The word of the maid, Rachel, is as good as that of the cook – ”

“Oh, no, it isn’t!” Stone interrupted, but, paying no heed to him, Keefe went on; “and you can scarcely doubt the signature after Mr. Wheeler and your friend the cook have both verified it.”

Though his demeanor was quiet, Keefe’s face wore a defiant expression and his voice was a trifle blustering.

“I do not doubt the signature,” Stone declared, “nor do I doubt that you obtained it at the hospital exactly as you have described that incident.”

Keefe’s face relaxed at that, and he recovered his jaunty manner, as he said: “Then you admit I have beaten you at your own game, Mr. Stone?”

“No, Mr. Keefe, but I have beaten you at yours.”

A silence fell for a moment. There was something about Stone’s manner of speaking that made for conviction in the minds of his hearers that he said truth.

“Wait a minute! Oh, wait a minute!” It was Genevieve Lane who cried out the words, and then she sprang from her chair and ran to Keefe’s side.

Flinging her arms about him, she whispered close to his ear.

He listened, and then, with a scornful gesture he flung her off.

“No!” he said to her; “no! a thousand times, no! Do your worst.”

“I shall!” replied Genevieve, and without another word she resumed her seat.

“Yes,” went on Stone, this interruption being over, “your ingenious ‘success’ in the way of detecting is doomed to an ignominious end. You see, sir,” he turned to Daniel Wheeler, “the clever ruse Mr. Keefe has worked, is but a ruse – a stratagem, to deceive us all and to turn the just suspicion of the criminal in an unjust direction.”

“Explain, Mr. Stone,” said Wheeler, apparently not much impressed with what he deemed a last attempt on the part of the detective to redeem his reputation.

“Yes, Mr. Stone,” said Keefe, “if my solution of this mystery is a ruse – a stratagem – what have you to offer in its place? You admit the signed confession?”

“I admit the signature, but not the confession. John Mills signed that paper, Mr. Keefe, but he is not the murderer.”

“Who is, then?”

“You are!”

Keefe laughed and shrugged his shoulders, but at that moment there was such a blast of wind and storm, accompanied by a fearful crash, that what he said could not be heard.

“Explain, please, Mr. Stone,” Wheeler said again, after a pause, but his voice now showed more interest.

“I will. The time has come for it. Mr. Wheeler, do you and Mr. Allen see to it, that Mr. Keefe does not leave the room. Terence – keep your eyes open.”

Keefe still smiled, but his smile was a frozen one. His eyes began to widen and his hands clenched themselves upon his knees.

“Curtis Keefe killed Samuel Appleby,” Stone went on, speaking clearly but rapidly. “His motive was an ambition to be governor of Massachusetts. He thought that with the elder Appleby out of the way, his son would have neither power nor inclination to make a campaign. There were other, minor motives, but that was his primary one. That, and the fact that the elder Appleby had a hold on Mr. Keefe, and of late had pressed it home uncomfortably hard. The murder was long premeditated. The trip here brought it about, because it offered a chance where others might reasonably be suspected. Keefe was the man on the veranda, whom the cook saw – but not clearly enough to distinguish his identity. Though she did know it was not John Mills.”

“But – Mr. Stone – ” interrupted Wheeler, greatly perturbed, “think what you’re saying! Have you evidence to prove your statements?”

“I have, Mr. Wheeler, as you shall see. Let me tell my story and judge me then. A first proof is – Terence, you may tell of the bugle.”

“I went, at Mr. Stone’s orders,” the boy stated, simply, “to all the shops or little stores in this vicinity where a bugle might have been bought; I found one was bought in a very small shop in Rushfield and bought by a man who corresponded to Mr. Keefe’s description, and who, when he stopped at the shop, was in a motor car whose description and occupants were the Appleby bunch. Well, anyway – Miss Lane here knows that Mr. Keefe bought that bugle – don’t you?” He turned to Genevieve, who, after a glance at Keefe, nodded affirmation.

“And so,” Stone went on, “Mr. Keefe used that bugle – ”

“How did he get opportunity?” asked Wheeler.

“I’ll tell you,” offered Genevieve. “We all staid over night in Rushfield, and I heard Mr. Keefe go out of doors in the night. I watched him from my window. He returned about three hours later.”

It was clear to all listening, that when Genevieve had whispered to Keefe and he had told her to do her worst, they were now hearing the “worst.”

“So,” Stone narrated, “Mr. Keefe came over here and did the bugling as a preliminary to his further schemes. You admit that, Mr. Keefe?”

“I admit nothing. Tell your silly story as you please.”

“I will. Then, the day of the murder, Mr. Keefe arranged for the fire in the garage. He used the acids as the man Fulton described, and as Keefe’s own coat was burned and his employer’s car he felt sure suspicion would not turn toward him. When the fire broke out – which as it depended on the action of those acids, he was waiting for, Keefe ran with Mr. Allen to the garage. But – and this I have verified from Mr. Allen, Keefe disappeared for a moment, and, later was again at Allen’s side. In that moment – Mr. Wheeler, that psychological moment, Curtis Keefe shot and killed Samuel Appleby.”

“And Mills?”

“Is part of the diabolically clever scheme. Mills was dying; he was leaving a large family without means of support. He depended, and with reason, on hope of your generosity, Mr. Wheeler, to his wife and children. But Curtis Keefe went to him and told him that you were about to be dispossessed of your home and fortune, and that if he would sign the confession – knowing what it was – that he, Keefe, would settle a large sum of money on Mrs. Mills and the children at once. And he did.”

“You fiend! You devil incarnate!” cried Keefe, losing all control. “How do you know that?”

“I found it all out from Mrs. Mills,” Stone replied; “your accomplices all betrayed you, Mr. Keefe. A criminal should beware of accomplices. Rachel turned state’s evidence and told how you bribed her to make up that story of the bugler – or rather, to relate parrot-like – the story you taught to her.”

“It’s all up,” said Keefe, flinging out his hands in despair. “You’ve outwitted me at every point, Mr. Stone. I confess myself vanquished – ”

“And you confess yourself the murderer?” said Stone, quickly.

“I do, but I ask one favor. May I take that paper a moment?”

“Certainly,” said Stone, glancing at the worthless confession.

Keefe stepped to the table desk, where the paper lay, but as he laid his left hand upon it, with his right he quickly pulled open a drawer, grasped the pistol that was in it, and saying, with a slight smile: “A life for a life!” drew the trigger and fell to the floor.

From the gruesome situation, its silence made worse by the noise of the storm outside, Daniel Wheeler led his wife and daughter. Jeffrey Allen followed quickly and sought his loved Maida.

Reaction from the strain made her break down, and sobbing in his arms she asked and received full forgiveness for her enforced desertion of him.

“I couldn’t do anything else, Jeff,” she sobbed. “I had to say yes to him for dad’s sake – and mother’s.”

“Of course you did, darling; don’t think about it. Oh, Maida, look! The wind has torn up the sycamore! Unrooted it, and it has fallen over – ”