several of the papers. “It was used to kill Mr. Van Wyck,” he declared. “It was carefully wiped off and the bills returned to it The particles of blood remaining on it are scarcely perceptible to the naked eye, but may clearly be seen through the magnifying-glass. You may perceive, also, some faint stains around the holes in the papers where they slid down the spike. As this is vital evidence, I will put it safely away.” Fleming Stone put the file with its papers in a small cupboard of the desk, which he locked and then took out the key.
After that, for a long time, Markham and I sat silently watching him as he proceeded with his scrutiny of the room. Occasionally he examined something through his glass, occasionally he picked up a scrap of something from the floor and put it in his notebook or pocket. At last I could contain myself no longer, and I burst out with, “Mr. Stone, do you know how the murderer got in and out?”
“I do not,” he replied. “I haven’t the faintest idea. But since a human being did do so, another human being may discover how.”
I felt that he was avoiding the masculine pronoun on purpose, and again my heart sank, as I feared for Anne.
After an hour or so, though it seemed ages, Fleming Stone declared his investigation of the room completed, and announced his desire to see next some of the servants. I took him across the house to the kitchen quarters, and in the butler’s pantry we found a footman and two maids.
After a quick glance at the faces of the trio, Mr. Stone interrogated the more intelligent-looking of the maids. “When express packages arrive,” he said to her, in his pleasant way, “who attends to them?”
“A footman, sir,” said the girl, with an air of proud importance at being questioned.
“What footman? This one?”
“Yes, sir. That’s Jackson, sir. He ‘most always takes the express parcels.”
“Ah, then you can speak for yourself, Jackson. On the day of your master’s death, did any express parcels arrive?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Jackson. “I remember there were three came that morning.”
“What was in them?”
“Supplies for the pantry, sir. Mostly bottles and jars, sir.”
“And what were they packed in—excelsior?”
“Yes, sir; excelsior and straw.”
“And was there no other parcel, containing china or glass?”
“There was another, sir, but not by express. Mr. Sturgis brought it. That was glass, and it was taken to Mrs. Van Wyck’s room.”
Fleming Stone turned to me. “What was the packing, Mr. Sturgis?” he said.
“I don’t know,” I replied, greatly mystified at this turn of affairs. “I brought a glass vase as a gift to Mrs. Van Wyck, but she opened the box when I was not present.”
“I emptied the box, sir,” volunteered Jackson, “and it was full of tissue paper cut into little scraps.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Stone. “That is what a fine piece of glass would naturally be packed in. That is all. Thank you, Jackson.”
Slowly and thoughtfully, Stone walked back through the house. He detained me a moment as we passed through the dining-room. “You want me to go on with the case, Mr. Sturgis,” he said, “wherever the results may lead?”
I shuddered at this question, coming right on top of his discovery of Anne’s glass vase. I could see no possible connection between my innocent gift and the Van Wyck tragedy, but there must have been one in Stone’s mind.
However, I replied “Yes,” knowing that I must know the truth, whatever it might be.
Chapter XIX.
The Two Carstairs
We all three went back to the study. Stone looked thoughtful, even puzzled.
“It is the most mysterious case I have ever known,” he said.
“I heard you say once,” I observed, “that the deeper the apparent mystery, the easier the solution.”
“And that is true, in a way, Mr. Sturgis. A simple commonplace case with little mystery and much seemingly direct evidence, is often more difficult than a case which presents startling and strange features.”
“Well,” put in Mr. Markham, “if another mystery will help you in the matter, here it is,” and he handed Fleming Stone the typewritten letter.
“A letter always means a great deal,” said Stone, as he scrutinized the address.
Markham and I watched him almost breathlessly as he drew out the letter and read it.
He studied both the sheet and the envelope for a few moments, and then looked up and said quietly, “the letter is a decoy.”
“We thought of that,” said Mr. Markham, eager to seem astute; “and it was mailed the day of Mr. Van Wyck’s death, and the letter was written on the typewriter in this very room!”
“Mailed in the morning and received in the afternoon,” agreed Stone, glancing at the postmarks. “It was written on two different typewriters, and to my mind this clearly tells the whole story. I am willing to aver that whoever sent this missive abstracted from Mrs. Van Wyck’s room, perhaps from her waste basket, a complete letter probably an unimportant one,—which she had received duly in her Friday afternoon mail. That letter bore writing only on its first page;—it might have been a printed advertisement Whoever was managing the affair, tore off that first page and utilized this second half of the sheet for this letter, bringing it in here to write. Then it was an easy matter to put it back in the envelope, thus making it seem like a letter which had come duly through the mail. It was brought to you, a bit of faked evidence, —and I doubt if Mrs. Van Wyck ever saw the letter at all.”
“But it was found in a book she was reading the very night the crime occurred,” said Mr. Markham.
“You mean you have been told that it was. Have you asked Mrs. Van Wyck, herself?”
“Would she admit it, if she were guilty?” said
Markham with a triumphant air of having said something clever.
“Not in so many words, perhaps; but surely one could judge from her manner. Now then, to discover who did write this letter; which ought not to be at all difficult. It does not bear on its face evidence of being the work of either of David Van Wyck’s children.”
“No,” agreed Mr. Markham, eagerly, “they would scarcely connive with their step-mother in such a deed.”
“I don’t mean that! There was no conniving. Nobody really wrote to Mrs. Van Wyck that she should do this thing, and he would protect her! The thing is a fraud, I tell you, and was written merely to throw suspicion on Mrs. Van Wyck.”
I
