The Curved Blades

“I thought that was a most valuable antique that her nephew sent her.”

“She thought so, too,” said Pauline, carelessly, “but Carr told me it was an imitation. Not one expert in a hundred can tell the difference, anyway.”

As Pauline placed the mass of gems in the safe, the doctor came. “What does it mean?” cried the bewildered man, coming into the room. “Miss Carrington – ”

Words failed him as he saw the astounding sight. For surely, no one had ever before seen a murdered woman, sitting before her dressing-table, staring but smiling, and garbed as for a fancy-dress ball!

Doctor Stanton touched the icy-cold hand, felt for the silent heart, and then turned his attention to the disheveled hair and broken comb.

“Fractured skull,” he said, as his skilled fingers thridded the auburn tresses. “Killed by a sudden, swift blow on the head with a heavy, blunt, – no, with a soft weapon; a black-jack or sandbag.”

“A burglar!” exclaimed Pauline.

“Of course; who else would deal such a blow? It was powerful, – dealt by a strong arm – it has driven bits of this broken shell stuff into the brain. But it was the force of the concussion that killed her. Here is a deep dent, – and yet. – Tell me the circumstances. Why is she rigged out like this?”

“I’ve no idea,” answered Pauline, taking the initiative. “When I left her last night, she had on an evening gown. But this negligée is not unusual; it is one of her favorites. Though why she has on that spangled scarf, I can’t imagine.”

“She seems to have been posing before the mirror, rather than engaged in making a toilette.” Dr. Stanton was a pompous middle-aged man of fussy manner. He did not again touch the body, but he stepped about, noting the strange conditions and commenting on them. “This paper snake, – tight round her neck! What does that mean?”

“What can it mean?” returned Pauline. “She had an intense hatred, – even fear of snakes; I’ve never seen it before. Could it have been placed there to frighten her to death?”

“No; she didn’t die of fright. See, her expression is placid, – even smiling. But the shattered comb and dented skull have but one explanation, – a stunning blow. Did she have on the comb last evening?”

“Yes; it is a favorite one with her. An heirloom, from a Colonial ancestor. It encircled the entire back of her head, when whole.”

“At what time was she killed?” asked Gray Haviland. He had stood, till now, a silent listener to the conversation between Pauline and the Doctor.

“Oh, many hours ago,” returned Stanton; “six or eight at least. Evidently she was preparing for bed, and trying the effect of some new finery.”

“Those things are not new,” put in Anita; “she has had them all a long time. But she must have been admiring herself, for when we found her she had on all her finest jewels.”

“What?” cried Dr. Stanton; “where are they?”

“I took most of them off,” replied Pauline, quietly, “and put them in the safe. If the police people must come, I am not willing to have a fortune in jewels here to tempt their cupidity. And I have a right. It is no secret that my cousin Carrington and I are her heirs. But that snake perplexes me beyond all else. If you knew her aversion to them, – even pictured ones – ”

“I do know it,” returned the doctor; “I have often heard her say so. Ah,” as he stepped carefully about, “she was adorning herself; see, here is powder scattered on the floor. She used this powder-puff, shaking it over the rug and floor.”

“I saw that the first thing!” cried Pauline, excitedly; “and there was a – ” she stopped, looking in amazement at the white dust on the floor. For where she had seen a distinct footprint, as of a stockinged foot, there was now merely a blurred whirl! Some one had obliterated that footprint!

“A what?” asked the doctor, sharply.

“Nothing. A – a lot of powder spilled, – I was going to say.”

Gray Haviland looked at her. “Tell the truth, Pauline,” he said.

“I have,” she replied, with a calm quite equalling his own. “Must we have the Coroner, Dr. Stanton?”

“Yes, yes, of course; I will telephone at once. There will be police and detectives, – oh, it is a terrible case! Nothing must be touched, nothing! If there is any clue to this mystery, do not let it be disturbed.”

“But you say it was without doubt a burglar who did it,” said Anita, her wide eyes gleaming blue.

“It must have been.”

“Then why were none of her jewels stolen?”

“Bless my soul!” and Dr. Stanton looked as if a bomb had exploded at his feet. “Sure enough! It cannot have been a burglar! Who, then? What other motive than robbery – ”

“It was a burglar,” declared Pauline, “and he was – he was frightened away by – by a noise – or something – ”

“Not likely!” said Anita, “with all those gems in easy reach!”

“The Coroner and the police must get here at once!” and the doctor wiped his perspiring brow. “Never have I seen such an inexplicable state of affairs! Was – was Miss Carrington indisposed at all last evening? Did she say or do anything unusual?”

“Not at all,” began Pauline, but Anita interrupted; “Yes, she did! She said, ‘You little know what’s going to happen to me! To-morrow you may sing another tune!’”

“What did she mean by that?”

“I’ve no idea. Could it mean suicide?”

“No!” thundered the doctor; “her skull was fractured by some one bent on wilful murder! As there is no robbery, we must look for a deeper motive and a cleverer villain than any professional burglar!”

IV

A PAPER SNAKE

On the third floor was the bedroom of the maid, Estelle, and before its locked door stood Pauline and Anita, demanding admittance. There was no response from inside, until Pauline said sternly, “Unless you open this door at once, Estelle, the police will force it open.”

The key turned, the door moved slowly ajar, and Estelle’s face appeared, wearing an expression of amazement.

“What is it you say, Miss Pauline? The police? Why?”

The maid was making a very evident effort to appear composed, and was succeeding wonderfully well. Her eyes were reddened with weeping, – a condition which a hasty dabbing of powder had not concealed. She was nervously trembling, but her air of injured innocence, if assumed, was admirable.

“Estelle,” and Pauline loomed tall and magnificent as an accusing angel, “what do you know of your mistress’ death?”

Estelle gave a shriek and threw herself on her bed in apparent hysterics.

“Don’t begin that!” ordered Pauline, “sit up here and tell the truth.”

“But,” and the maid sat up, sobbing, “I know nothing. How can I?”

“Nonsense! You took the tea-tray to her at eight o’clock. What did you see?”

Estelle shrugged her shoulders. “I saw Miss Carrington sitting before her mirror. She, I assumed, was engrossed in reverie, so I set down the tray on a tabouret and departed.”

“You noticed nothing amiss?” said Anita, staring at the girl.

“No; I scarce looked at the lady. She reproved me harshly last night, and I had no wish to annoy her. I set down the tray with haste and silently departed.”