CHAPTER XXIII
THE WORST POSSIBLE TASTE
WHEN the butler’s footsteps had died away to silence, Landis began to chuckle.
“I’ve a lot more respect for Miss Mount and the servants in this house than I have for the family!” he laughed. “Personally, I’m inclined to believe Stimson! I think he’s glad somebody murdered Harrison. But I don’t think he did it. He’s just as curious as we are to find out who did! That planted bit of feather, if it was planted, would make me mighty curious, I know!”
“It doesn’t look as if he did it,” nodded Bernard. “I just wanted to see what he’d say. He has no motive for shooting Graham.”
“Who has?” inquired Landis.
“Nobody that I know of—yet. What next? You’re in charge, you know.”
Landis grew serious and thoughtful.
“I might remind you of one thing. Right after somebody tried to kill Graham, his wife found Miss Mount’s door locked!”
“Joel was in his room or thereabouts on each occasion,” Bernard commented. “But that doesn’t prove much. I suggest that we arrange the lights down here and get a look at the library from Miss Mount’s room. Those young roadsters will be coming home before long.”
Landis switched on the lights in the reception-room. Lights and windows were just as they had been on the night of the murder of Harrison, except that the side window in the reception-room was now closed and had been open then. With a nod to the mystified sergeant, who had been unable to hear what they said, the two detectives mounted the stairs and again knocked on the door of Miss Mount’s bedroom.
They heard the creak of a rocking-chair and the sound of firm footsteps. The door opened to disclose Miss Mount still fully dressed. At sight of them she raised her eyebrows in surprise and displeasure.
“Well, gentlemen, what is it now?”
“The same thing—murder!” snapped Bernard.
“The fact is,” Landis cut in, “we find Mr. Joel Harrison a bit difficult, Miss Mount. One doesn’t like to be harsh with him, you see. Perhaps you’ll question him for us and find out where he was tonight when Mr. Graham was shot and whether he saw or heard anything that might prove enlightening.”
“Question him now? He’s probably asleep!”
“That will mean waking him up then. In a matter so serious for you all, we cannot afford to wait on his convenience.”
Miss Mount stared at Landis for a moment, then advanced into the hall and led the way toward Joel’s door, her lips set in a sort of patient irony. Bernard fell in behind her. Landis brought up the rear.
Both detectives waited while she knocked persistently. At length a sleepy voice bade her enter. She opened the door at that, passed in and closed it behind her in Bernard’s face. With a growl of amusement he waited. Landis turned silently and moved with a long, noiseless stride back to the wing, made a gesture enjoining silence on the gaping policeman and quietly entered Miss Mount’s room, closing the door.
The only light here came from a shaded lamp on the bedside table beyond the big four-poster. Evidently Miss Mount had been reading, for a book lay open and face downward on the bed and the rocking-chair stood close to the table. These details Landis took in at a glance. His interest lay in the left-hand window, the one farther from the main building. As silently as possible he slipped past the foot of the bed, leaned across a jutting corner of the typewriter desk and pulled the shade aside.
Looking downward and to his right he saw all three of the tall library windows clearly outlined against the lighted room beyond. The nearest showed him Harrison’s desk-chair, part of his desk and the hall doorway beyond. Through the upper half of the second window he could see the entire doorway into the reception-room, a foot or so at the bottom of it through the lowered window, the rest above the sash.
From the sill of Miss Mount’s window to the uppermost three-quarters of the reception-room door there was nothing, not even glass, to obstruct his view—nothing, for that matter, to obstruct the flight of an arrow.
He replaced the shade as he had found it, left the room, closing the door behind him, and rejoined Bernard in front of Joel’s door.
After one inquiring glance from Bernard to which he returned a nod of triumph they waited in silence for Miss Mount, listening to the indistinguishable murmur of voices from within.
At length the voices ceased. The door opened to afford them a glimpse of Joel in a white nightshirt, reaching out of bed to snap off the lamp beside it. Darkness engulfed the room and Miss Mount closed the door. She looked from one to the other and smiled very slightly.
“Sorry to keep you waiting!”
Aware that she had an uncanny knack for making all he did seem highly unnecessary, Landis accepted the fact with unruffled amusement and instantly forgot it.
“That doesn’t matter if you’ve learned anything,” he told her quietly.
“I’m afraid I haven’t, though! ‘Uncle Joel’ seems to have remained in his bedroom on both occasions except for his single trip to Anita’s door, when Susan screamed.”
“Is that all he could tell you?”
“All that would interest you, Mr. Landis.”
“Let’s have it all, please,” Bernard cut in wearily.
Miss Mount’s smile deepened a trifle.
“He asked me to say that he considers your inquiries into his movements in the worst possible taste. He does not understand why you were invited here in the first place. That was all he said.”
Bernard grunted, moved across the hall to the rail above the landing and beckoned her after him with a jerk of his head. When she and Landis had joined him there he snapped a question at her, his voice lowered:
“Does Joel always keep the door of his den locked and the key in his pocket?”
“I believe he does, Mr. Bernard.”
“Ever invite anybody in there to see his treasures?”
“Oh, yes, now and then.”
“Who did he invite in there recently?”
“Let me see. I believe he took Mr. Brent in there last Sunday. I heard them talking. Yes—and on Tuesday the girls were in there with Mr. Russell and Mr. Allen after lunch. It was raining that day and afterwards they all went up to the big playroom to shoot. ‘Uncle Joel’ and Stimson carried the target up there.”
“They spent the afternoon shooting on the third floor?” asked Landis casually. There had been comparatively few marks on the target before Stimson tried his hand.
Miss Mount shook her head.
“The shooting degenerated into a romp very soon between the six of them, and ‘Uncle Joel’ came downstairs again in high dudgeon.”
“The six of them?” inquired Bernard.
“Yes, the Grahams had joined the quartette.”
“When?”
“When they all came out of ‘Uncle Joel’s’ room,” Miss Mount explained patiently, “somebody knocked on the Grahams’ door and invited them to go up and shoot, too. I believe it was Isabelle. I heard them all tramp past together.”
“And the next night Mrs. Graham burned her back!” said Bernard suddenly.
Both detectives were aware of a slight stiffening in Miss Mount’s manner. She nodded in silence.
“You went across the hall to investigate, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I heard her scream and knocked on Mr. Graham’s door. The sound came from there.”
“Who invited you in, Miss Mount?”
“Nobody. My knock was not answered, so I opened the door. Then I heard them in Mrs. Graham’s room and called to ask if I could help. Mrs. Graham called to me to go in there. I did so. They were both in their night-clothes. Mr. Graham was embarrassed and left us. Mrs. Graham explained how she had burned herself so I got some salve and dressed her back for her. It was painful but not at all serious.”
“Anything else of interest?” inquired Landis smoothly.
Miss Mount glanced at him and her expression grew curiously wooden.
“I left them and went back to bed,” she replied.
Landis hesitated, decided to say no more and bowed to her.
“Thanks, Miss Mount,” he said. “We won’t disturb you again tonight.”
She bade them good night and moved away toward her room at her usual firm, unhurried pace. Landis and Bernard slowly descended to the ground floor, talking in low voices.
“From her window,” observed Landis, “Miss Mount could see Harrison at his desk through the near library window. She could also see the reception-room door through the middle library window.”
“But she happened to be in the reception-room on both occasions,” Bernard retorted.
“Yes. Closing the window! She has the best alibi of anyone in the house!”
Bernard smiled.
“She couldn’t have shot either Graham or Harrison. Therefore, she’s the one you suspect, eh?”
They had reached the lower hall. Without answering, Landis went to the telephone, found a local directory and called Doctor Stanford. The doctor answered the ring himself.
“This is Landis speaking,” Bernard heard. “You coming to look at Graham’s shoulder in the morning?—What time?—Could you make it seven instead of nine?—I’ll tell you why then. Make it seven sharp, will you?—All right. Good night!”
Landis hung up and rejoined Bernard.
“I’ll tell you what I think in the morning,” he said. “How about bed?”
Amused and in spite of himself a little intrigued, Bernard expressed himself as satisfied to wait. That Landis was hot on some scent or other militated not at all against a pet theory of his own which Bernard was quietly nursing.
They sent Stimson to bed and were getting to bed themselves when they heard the quartette of young people returning. Half an hour later the house settled to repose.
The night was uneventful. Landis woke automatically at six-forty-five and had finished shaving when Stimson knocked on his door to say that the doctor had arrived and was asking for him. Landis suggested that the doctor be asked to come to his room. When Stanford appeared, Landis gave him definite orders in the form of requests. The doctor went upstairs. Landis finished dressing and crossed to Bernard’s room, where he found the older detective just putting on his coat.
They went together to the deserted library. Here the doctor joined them about half an hour later.
“I’ve dressed Graham’s wound,” he said. “It’s doing very nicely. There’s no fever this morning, though he may have a little, later in the day. No need for a nurse.”
“That’s excellent,” replied Landis. “What about Mrs. Graham, Doctor?”
Doctor Stanford looked curiously from one detective to the other.
“She was in bed,” he told them slowly. “I inquired about her burn and asked her to let me see it, explaining that there is always a certain danger of infection. She said it was nothing but finally consented to my looking at it.”
“Well?” Landis spoke dryly to hide his eagerness.
“The burn is near her spine on the small of her back. A little above and to the left of it there is an L-shaped scar, entirely healed, evidently not at all recent but deep and distinct. I asked her about it. She did not even know that it was there. She does not remember having hurt herself there.”
“That’s curious, isn’t it?” said Landis casually. “All right, Doctor. Thank you. There’s nothing to fear from the burn, you say?”
“Nothing at all—from the burn,” replied the doctor.
Landis gave him a sharp glance.
“Very well. That’s all I wanted. Much obliged.”
Doctor Stanford withdrew, casting at Landis a single backward glance of puzzled curiosity.
They waited until Stimson, hovering in the hall, had let the doctor out. Then Landis turned in triumph to Bernard.
“There,” he cried, “is your motive! You see it?”
Bernard laughed.
“Dimly! How do you work it out?”
Landis glanced about to be sure they were alone. The breakfast hour was eight and it still lacked twenty minutes of that time. It was unlikely that household or guests would appear until the gong sounded.
“Suppose we recapitulate!” he smiled. “We know that Mrs. Graham was not a Cuddy. In view of Harrison’s interest in her, she was probably his daughter and illegitimate. Miss Mount has been in the family for nearly twenty-four years. She told us that at the beginning. Ethel Graham was eighteen when she ran away—three years ago. She’s twenty-one now!”
“It’s possible—even probable,” Bernard admitted.
“It’s a logical certainty,” insisted Landis. “Mrs. Graham has an old scar on her back of which she knows nothing. Therefore it probably dates back to her babyhood. Dressing her burn, Miss Mount could hardly fail to see the scar. Next morning she shows an intense interest in Ethel Graham and learns the address of her supposed parents. She lost no time but left the house at once and was away all day. When she came back she had a furious quarrel with Harrison. What more do you want?”
“But the motive?” rapped Bernard.
“Here’s the way I figure it. Harrison had an affair with Miss Mount, who must have been a beautiful girl. Miss Mount naturally went away somewhere to have her daughter. When the child was born, Harrison persuaded Miss Mount to come back, assuring her that the people with whom they left the baby would take good care of it. But probably he foresaw trouble ahead and hired the Cuddys to kidnap the baby when it was three years old. Then he told Miss Mount part of the truth—that the baby had been stolen. But he gave her to understand that he had been unable to find any trace of it. Such a situation fits both their characters. Harrison would be cold-blooded and brutal enough to do that. Miss Mount, if she knew where the child was, would never allow her to grow up among strangers. By the way, don’t forget Miss Mount’s growing and obvious attachment for Ethel Graham, after she saw that scar!”
“Interesting if true,” said Bernard dryly.
“Can you pick a hole in it?”
“Would Harrison run such a risk? Would he invite the girl to the house, knowing that Miss Mount would see her?”
“Where’s your risk?” Landis demanded. “Could Miss Mount recognize a grown woman from her dim recollections of a tiny baby? Probably Harrison knew nothing of that scar. Even if he did, there was less than one chance in a million that Miss Mount would see a part of the girl’s body which would always be covered, no matter what costume she wore. Harrison was sure that Mrs. Graham herself knew nothing of her real antecedents. She thought herself a Cuddy. She could tell Miss Mount all she knew of her own past without betraying Harrison’s secret. Harrison could see no risk!”
“Well, let’s hear Miss Mount’s motive for killing the father of her che-ild,” Bernard suggested.
“I’ve told you! Armed with the Cuddys’ address, Miss Mount goes to Long Island last Thursday, finds them, storms or bluffs or frightens out of them an admission that they kidnapped Ethel when she was three. Then she comes home and accuses Harrison of being a monster of cruelty. He sees the game is up and tries to bluff it out. Just imagine the feelings of a woman with Miss Mount’s temperament and character! Imagine her rage and hatred toward the man who had wilfully robbed her of eighteen years of motherhood, years that could never be recalled!”
“You ought to be writing plays!” declared Bernard.
“You go to blazes! Incidentally, the will left Miss Mount a small fortune. But I don’t think that influenced her. Seriously, doesn’t the business hang together?”
“Why should Harrison have the child kidnapped in the first place?” Bernard inquired gruffly.
“Obvious! It was to avoid trouble. Miss Mount might demand that the baby be kept somewhere near. Or she might leave him and go to her baby. Certainly there would be demands on the child’s behalf—education, position, good schools, personal contact—all dangerous to Harrison, who had a wife and other children to consider. I tell you, there’s not a flaw in it!”
“Except that Miss Mount has a perfect alibi for both Harrison’s murder and the attempt on Graham. Moreover, she had absolutely no motive for shooting Graham!”
“Yes, she has, though it isn’t as strong as the other. Remember, sir, that her only child was betrayed into the hands of strangers, strangers who made her miserable. That knowledge would set Miss Mount beside herself with rage. Eighteen years of starved motherhood! When she does find Ethel it’s too late. She’s married and belongs to someone else. Wouldn’t she hate the man? Outraged mother instinct might go to strange lengths in a woman of Miss Mount’s fiery temperament and force of character. She’s a suppressed wild-cat if I ever saw one!”
Landis caught the dawning smile on Bernard’s lips and hurried on.
“Both men were shot from her room! Is there anybody in the household with as good an opportunity to do that and to arrange the Japanese bow for a red herring? Wouldn’t almost anyone else in the household have realized, as Stimson did, that the Japanese bow was no alibi because it would not shoot so hard? Finally, those gloves of yours! Miss Mount has large hands!”
Bernard grunted.
“You’ve strung together a marvelous theory out of pretty slim material, it seems to me!”
“You don’t believe it, sir?”
“No, I don’t! Because Miss Mount was in the front room on both occasions—not up in her own room with the cross-bow!”
“Right!” Landis snapped at him. “Now, with luck, I’m going ahead and prove to you beyond the shadow of a doubt, how she did it! I haven’t even looked for the proofs yet. But I know I’ll find them there! I’ve felt from the beginning that her reception-room alibi was too blamed good to be accidental! On each occasion she was just closing the window. Strange coincidence! It fits my theory!”
Bernard stared, a speculative alertness in his regard.
“Oh, it does, does it?” he drawled.
Landis jumped to his feet. “Come upstairs and we’ll find out how Graham is getting along!”
Susan was preparing to sound the breakfast gong as they entered the hall. At sight of them she dropped the padded hammer, picked it up again and giggled nervously. Descending the stairs with her usual dignity, Miss Mount shot at Susan a repressive glance and presented the detectives with a detached good morning. She passed them, her manner preoccupied. Bernard and Landis mounted the stairs without glancing round, yet instinctively aware that she had turned to look at them.
They found Graham propped up in bed, enjoying a light breakfast. It was evident that he had recovered from the shock of the night before and found his poise again, for he greeted them eagerly.
“Morning! Any luck?”
“Nothing definite,” replied Landis. “Can’t tell yet. How are you feeling? Better?”
“Yes. It doesn’t bother me much. It was the shock as much as anything. But I got some sleep. By the way, somebody told that doctor about Ethel’s burn and he insisted on looking at it. Rather officious, I thought. He talked about infection.”
Landis nodded without interest.
“I’ve sent your guardian angel down for his breakfast,” he said. “Want us to stay here until he comes back?”
“No need unless you want to.”
“Delighted, of course,” chuckled Landis. “However, you are safe enough. We won’t be gone long.”
Graham shook his head dubiously.
“Wish I could make head or tail of that business last night!” he said. “Daylight would make it seem like a crazy nightmare, if it weren’t for this arm of mine! It’s so blamed puzzling! Never mind!” he waved his hand.
They went out and shut the door. The hall was deserted. Trial of Miss Mount’s door proved it unlocked. They entered quickly and closed it behind them. Landis went to the chest of drawers and began a swift, methodical search of its contents.
“What you looking for, anyway?” demanded Bernard.
“Rope—fine twine or strong thread. Try the bureau!”
“No rabbits?” asked Bernard as he obeyed.
Neither the bureau nor the meticulously tidy drawers of the chiffonier revealed what they sought. Landis hurried to the little table between the windows. The small drawer contained Miss Mount’s sewing things. Among them he found a spool of heavy black thread such as shoemakers use. Most of it had been unwound and clumsily rewound again.
Landis put it in his pocket and turned to the closet. Bernard heard him strike a match and listened to the indeterminate sounds as his companion grubbed about in there. Presently Landis emerged, his face flushed, hanging from his outstretched hand a tangled coil of soft clothes-line. He tossed it to Bernard.
“Hang on to that,” he urged. “There’s something else!”
Half convinced, Bernard stood looking down at the soft rope until Landis returned from his trip through the bathroom, carrying the last cross-bow which they had examined. He watched Landis set it down, clear away the writing material and place the cross-bow on the desk, so that it pointed through the window. Then he moved nearer.
“See these new scratches on the desk?” demanded Landis. “The business end of the stock just fits them! The butt must have been raised on a book or something to get the right aim. That clothes-line was used to lash it down to the desk! And now, look here! The trigger has to be pulled back, of course. So here’s the bathroom doorknob straight behind the bow. Fasten that thread to the trigger, pass it around the doorknob and out the window and—Well, there you are! There’s just one thing lacking, though. If we find that, I’m certain!”
“The other end, eh?” grunted Bernard. “That’s clever work anyway, Landis! I’m proud of you! Now let’s vacate—”
Two minutes of swift, noiseless action and everything they had touched had been restored to its place. They opened the door quietly and moved into the hall. A few seconds after it closed behind them, Susan came running through the curtains from the main building. At sight of them she stopped abruptly.
“Well, what is it?” growled Bernard.
“Oh, sir, aren’t you coming down to breakfast? Miss Mount sent me up to inquire.”
Landis started and instantly suppressed a glance of triumph toward his colleague. He looked at Susan instead.
“Is everybody at breakfast so early?” he asked.
“Yes, sir; everyone but yourselves and Mr. Graham.”
“All right, Susan. Thanks. We’ll be down directly.”
“I’ll tell her, sir.” Susan turned about and departed, with just a flicker of her long eyelashes to indicate to Landis that she was a human girl as well as a maid.
Bernard and Landis turned about, made their way down the little flight of stairs at the end of the hall and passed out the door at the foot, which led from the lower wing hall outdoors to the garage. They followed the path around the wing to the formal garden. Skirting the front of the wing and the side of the main building, it led them past the library windows to the side windows of the reception-room. Their route was invisible from the dining-room, invisible, therefore, to anyone in the house if Susan had told the truth. For Graham’s windows faced the back and all the others were at breakfast in the dining-room or in the back of the house.
Confidently, then, Landis scanned the sashes of the two reception-room windows, for the path led close to them. His inspection was instantly rewarded.
“There!” he cried and pointed.
The gesture was unnecessary. Bernard had already seen, on the lower sash of the window which Miss Mount had closed, a fresh indentation through paint and wood. It was a hole such as a fine nail would make or a heavy thumbtack.
“She was in the habit of closing that window every night,” said Bernard thoughtfully.
“So she said. In my opinion the case is closed, too.”
“The evidence is conclusive enough to put her over the jumps,” admitted Bernard. “But it is conclusive—circumstantially! Now let’s get some breakfast!”
He started around to the wing again, leaving Landis to follow in open and undisguised chagrin.