The Curved Blades

“Estelle, stop posing. Wake up to realities. Miss Carrington is dead! Do you hear? Dead!”

“Ah! Mon Dieu! Did it then kill her?” and Estelle’s calm gave way and she screamed and moaned in wild hysterics.

“What can we do with her?” asked Anita, helplessly; “she must know all about the – the – ”

“The murder,” said Pauline calmly. “But she will tell us nothing. It is useless to question her. The Coroner will attend to it, anyway.”

“The Coroner,” and Anita looked frightened. “Will he question all of us?”

“Of course he will. And, Anita,” Pauline whirled on her suddenly, “what are you going to say was the errand that took you to Aunt Lucy’s room after one o’clock last night?”

“I! Nothing of the sort! I was not in her room after we left it together.”

“I saw you. Don’t trouble to deny it,” and Pauline dropped her eyelids as one bored by a conversation.

“You did!” and Anita’s flower face turned rosy pink and her blue eyes blazed with an intensity that Pauline’s dark ones could never match. “Be careful, Pauline Stuart, or I shall tell what I know! You dare to make up such a story! It was I who saw you come from your aunt’s room at a late hour! What have you to say now?”

“Nothing – to you,” and Pauline swept from the room and returned slowly down the stairway to the second floor.

The sight of two police officers in the hall gave her a sudden start. How had they appeared, so soon? And how dreadful to see them in the palatial home that had heretofore housed only gentle-mannered aristocrats and obsequious liveried servants! The men looked ill at ease as they stood against the rich background of tapestry hangings and tropical palms, but their faces showed a stern appreciation of their duty, and they looked at Pauline with deferential but acute scrutiny.

Not noticing them in any way, the girl, her head held high, went straight to her aunt’s room. Sergeant Flake was in charge, and he refused her admission.

“Coroner’s orders, ma’am,” he said; “he’ll be here himself shortly, and then you can see him.”

“Come away, Pauline,” and Haviland appeared and took her by the arm; “where’s Anita?”

“I left her in Estelle’s room. Oh Gray, that girl – ”

“Hush!” and gripping her firmly, Haviland led her to a small sitting room and shut the door. “Now listen, Pauline; mind what I say. Don’t give the least bit of information or express the slightest notion of opinion except to the chief authorities. And not to them until they ask you. This is a terrible affair, and a mighty strange one.”

“Who did it, Gray?”

“Never you mind. Don’t even ask questions. The very walls have ears!”

“Who upset that breakfast tray?”

“Estelle, of course.”

“She says she didn’t.”

“She lies. Everybody will lie; why, Pauline, you must lie yourself.”

“I won’t do it! I have no reason to!”

“You may find that you have. But, at least, Pauline, I beg of you, that you will keep your mouth shut. There will be developments soon, – there must be, – and then we will know what to do.”

The two returned to the boudoir. At first glance it seemed to be full of men. The beautiful room, with its ornate but harmonious furnishings and appointments of the Marie Antoinette period, was occupied with eager representatives of the law and justice hunting for any indication of the ruthless hand that had felled the owner of all that elegance.

Coroner Scofield was receiving the report of Doctor Moore, who had arrived with him.

Dr. Moore agreed with Dr. Stanton that the deceased had been struck with a heavy weapon that had fractured the skull, but he admitted the wounds showed some strange conditions which could only be explained by further investigation.

The Coroner was deep in thought as he studied the face of the dead woman.

“It is most mysterious,” he declared; “that face is almost smiling! it is the face of a happy woman. Clearly, she did not know of her approaching fate.”

“The blow was struck from behind,” informed Dr. Moore.

“Even so, why didn’t she see the approach of the assailant in the mirror? She is looking straight into the large glass, – must have been looking in it at the moment of her death. Why receive that death blow without a tremor of fear or even a glance of startled inquiry?”

Inspector Brunt stood by, gravely, and for the most part silently, watching and listening.

“That might imply,” he said, slowly, “that if she did see the assailant, it was some one she knew, and of whom she had no fear.”

Gray Haviland looked up suddenly. A deep red spread over his face and then, seeing himself narrowly watched by the detectives present, he set his lips firmly together and said no word.

Pauline turned white and trembled, but she too said nothing.

“Why is she sitting in this large easy chair?” went on the Coroner; “Is it not customary for ladies at their dressing tables to use a light side-chair?”

This showed decidedly astute perception, and the Inspector looked interestedly at the chair in question, which he had not especially noticed before.

Being tacitly appealed to by the Coroner’s inquiring eyes, Pauline replied: “It is true that my aunt usually sat at her dressing-table in a small chair, – that one, in fact,” and she pointed to a dainty chair of gilded cane. “I have no idea why she should choose the heavy, cushioned one.”

“It would seem,” the Coroner mused, “as if she might have sat down there to admire the effect of her belongings rather than to arrange her hair or toilette.”

Absorbedly, all present watched Coroner Scofield’s movements.

It was true, the quietly reposeful attitude of the still figure leaning back against the brocaded upholstery, and so evidently looking in the great gold-framed mirror, was that of one admiring or criticising her own appearance. Added to this, the fact of her bizarre costume and strange adornments, it seemed certain that Miss Carrington had come to her death while innocently happy in the feminine employment of dressing up in the elaborate finery that she loved.

But the snake!

Carefully Coroner Scofield removed the inexplicable thing. He held it up that all might see. A Japanese paper snake, a cheap toy, such as is found together with fans and lanterns in the Oriental department of large shops.

“Could this have been placed round her neck after death?” Scofield inquired of the doctors.

The two physicians agreed, that though that was possible, yet the appearance of the flesh beneath it seemed to indicate its having encircled the throat during life.

“Never!” cried Pauline, excitedly. “Aunt Lucy couldn’t have sat there and smiled, with a snake anywhere near her!”

“That would seem so,” and Dr. Stanton nodded his head. “I well know of my late patient’s aversion to snakes. It amounted almost to a mania! It is not an uncommon one, many women feel the same, though seldom to so great an extent.”

“That deepens the mystery,” said Coroner Scofield; “unless, indeed, the snake was put on after the crime. But that is even more mysterious. I shall now remove these valuable jewels, and give them to – ”

He looked inquiringly at Haviland and Pauline, and the latter immediately responded: “Give them to me, Mr. Scofield. I am now mistress here.”

Haviland said nothing, but he looked at Pauline as if in disapproval.

“Is this of great worth?” inquired Scofield, as he carefully removed the scarf from the shoulders it surrounded.

“Only moderately so,” returned Pauline. “It is a Syrian scarf and was sent to her by her nephew who lives in Egypt. It is not new, he sent several to us about a year ago.”

She took the long, heavy, white and silver drapery, and laid it in a nearby wardrobe. Then the Coroner unfastened the large pearls from their place as eardrops, and taking up one lifeless hand removed its rings. All these he handed to Pauline without a word.

“What is this?” he exclaimed suddenly; and opening the curled-up fingers of the other hand he drew forth a crumpled gray object. It was a glove, of soft suéde, and so tightly had it been held that it was deeply creased.

“A man’s glove!” said the Coroner, smoothing it out. “Will the wonders of this case never cease?”

He scrutinized it, but remarking only that it was of medium size and superior quality, he laid it carefully aside for the time.

From the same arm he removed the scarab bracelet, also handing that to Pauline.

“The lady was fond of Oriental jewelry,” he observed.

“Yes,” returned Haviland, before Pauline could speak. “Her nephew sent or brought home much of it. But, as we informed you, Miss Carrington was also wearing pearls and diamonds of enormous value, compared to which these trinkets are as nothing.”

“But scarabs, I am told, are of great price.”

“Some are,” returned Haviland. “That bracelet, however, is not genuine, nor of great value.”

Then the Coroner, with delicate touch, removed the bits of broken tortoise-shell from the puffs of hair, and carefully laid them together on a small silver tray he appropriated from the dressing-table litter.

“I think,” said Inspector Brunt, in his grave, slow way, “that it will be wise to photograph the whole picture from several points of view before the autopsy is performed.”

Arrangements had been made for this, and Detective Hardy, a young man from Headquarters, stepped forward with his camera.

As those who were asked to left the room, Pauline and Gray went out together, and met Anita just outside in the hall.

“Oh, tell me, Gray! Who did it? What does it all mean?” she cried, and grasped him by the arm.

“Tell her about it, Gray,” said Pauline, and leaving the two together, she went swiftly along the hall to her own room.

The alert eyes of the guarding policemen followed her, but also they followed the movements of every one else, and if they had, as yet, any suspicions, no one knew of them.

Meantime, the gruesome work of photography went on.

Surely never was such a strange subject for the camera! Denuded of her jewels, but still robed in her gorgeous dressing-gown, and still leaning back in her luxurious arm-chair, with that strange smile of happy expectancy, Miss Lucy Carrington presented the same air of regal authority she had always worn in life. Her eyes were widely staring, but there was no trace or hint of fear in her peaceful attitude of repose.

“There’s no solution!” said Inspector Brunt, deeply thoughtful. “No one could or would crack a skull like that, but an experienced and professional burglar and housebreaker. And such a one could have but one motive, robbery, and the jewels were not stolen!”

“Inside job,” observed Scofield, briefly, his eyes on his work.

“Maybe the burglar was frightened away at the critical moment.”

“No. Whatever frightened him would be known to some member of the family.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Hey? Have you a theory?” and the Coroner looked up suddenly.

“Anything but! There’s no possible theory that will fit the facts.”

“Except the truth.”

“Yes, except the truth. But it will be long before we find that, I’m afraid. It strikes me it’s at the bottom of an unusually deep well.”

“Well, you’d better find it. It’d be a nice how d’y’ do for you to fall down on this case!”

“There’s no falling down been done yet. And it may well be that the very fact of there being such strange and irreconcilable conditions shall prove a help rather than a hindrance.”

And then, all being in readiness, the lifeless form of Miss Carrington, once the proud domineering autocrat, now laid low, was borne to a distant room, for the autopsy that might cast a further light on the mystery of her tragic death.

V

A MAN’S GLOVE

Inspector Brunt and the young detective, Hardy, were interviewing the members of the household in the library, and the task was not an easy one. The two girls were distinctly at odds, and Gray Haviland, whether authoritatively or not, persisted in assuming a major rôle.

“It seems to me,” Haviland said, “that it is the most remarkable mystery that has ever occurred in the experience of you police people. Now, I think the wisest plan is to call in a big detective, – no offence, Mr. Hardy, – but I mean a noted fellow, like Stone, say, and let him get at the root of the crime.”

“I think, Gray,” and Pauline looked very haughty, “that any such suggestion would come better from me. I am now mistress of the place, and it is for me to say what we shall do.”

“I know it,” and Haviland looked no whit abashed, “but you know Carr Loria is equally in authority, even if he isn’t here, and you see – ”

“I don’t see that Carr’s absence gives you any authority!”

“But it does, in a way. As Miss Lucy’s man of affairs, I ought to look out for the interests of her heirs, at least, for the absent one. I’m sure Loria would want to do everything possible to find the murderer.”

“Has this nephew been notified yet?” asked Inspector Brunt.

“Yes,” returned Pauline; “we’ve telephoned a cablegram to the city to be sent to him in Egypt. But I don’t know when he will get it, nor when we’ll get a response.”

“Where is he?”

“His permanent address is Cairo, but he is off in the desert, or somewhere, so much that sometimes he is away from communication for weeks at a time. Still I’ve sent it, that’s all I can do.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I made it rather long and circumstantial. I told him of Aunt Lucy’s death, and that she was killed by a blow on the head by a burglar, which fractured her skull. I asked him if he would come home or if we should go there. You see, we were intending to sail for Egypt in February.”

“Who were?”

“Myself, my aunt, Miss Frayne and Mr. Haviland. Carrington Loria has been begging us to make the trip, and at last Aunt Lucy decided to go. Our passage is engaged, and all plans made.”

“And now – ?”

“Now, I do not know. Everything is uncertain. But if the burglar can be found, and punished, I see no reason why I, at least, shouldn’t go on and make the trip. The others must please themselves.”

Pauline looked at Anita and at Haviland with a detached air, as if now they were no longer members of the household, and their plans did not concern her.

Not so Haviland. “Sure I’ll go,” he cried; “I fancy Carr will be mighty glad to keep me on in the same capacity I served Miss Carrington. He’ll need a representative in this country. I doubt he’ll come over, – there’s no need, if I look after all business matters for him.”

“What does he do in Egypt?” asked the Inspector, who was half engrossed looking over his memoranda, and really took slight interest in the absent heir.

“He’s excavating wonderful temples and things,” volunteered Anita, for Pauline and Gray were looking, amazed, at a man who came into the room. He was the detective who had been left in charge of the boudoir, and he carried a strange-looking object.

“What is it?” cried Pauline.

“It’s a black-jack.” replied the detective. “I found it, Inspector, just under the edge of the tassel trimmin’ of the lounge. The fellow slung it away, and it hid under the fringe, out of sight.”

Gravely, Inspector Brunt took the weapon. It was rudely made, of black cloth, a mere bag, long and narrow, and filled with bird shot.

“That’s the weapon!” declared Brunt. “A man could hit a blow with that thing that would break the skull without cutting the skin. Yes, there is no further doubt that Miss Carrington was murdered by a burglar. This is a burglar’s weapon; this it was that crushed the shell comb to fragments, and fractured the skull, leaving the body sitting upright, and unmutilated. Death was, of course, instantaneous.”

“But the jewels!” said Detective Hardy, wonderingly; “why – ”

“I don’t know why!” said Brunt, a little testily; “that is for you detectives to find out. I have to go by what evidence I find. Can I find a broken skull and a black-jack in the same room and not deduce a burglarious assault that proved fatal? The thief may have been scared off or decided he didn’t want the loot, but that doesn’t affect the certainty that we have the weapon and therefore the case is a simple one. That burglar can be found, without a doubt. Then we shall learn why he didn’t steal the jewels.”

“But the snake?” said Pauline, looking wonderingly at the Inspector; “the burglar must have been a maniac or an eccentric to put that snake round my aunt’s neck after he killed her, – and nothing will ever make me believe that she allowed it there while alive!”

“That’s what I say,” put in Haviland; “the whole affair is so inexplicable, – excuse me, Mr. Brunt, but I can’t think it such a simple case as you do, – that I think we should engage expert skill to solve the mysteries of it all.”

“That must come later,” and Inspector Brunt resumed his usual gravity of manner which had been disturbed by the discovery of the black-jack. “Will you now please give me some detailed information as to the circumstances? Is the house always securely locked at night?”

“Very much so,” answered Haviland; “Miss Carrington was not overly timid, but she always insisted on careful precautions against burglary. She had a house full of valuable furniture, curios, and art works besides her personal belongings. Yes, the house was always supposed to be carefully locked and bolted.”

“Whose duty is it to look after it?”

“The butler Haskins, and his wife, who is the cook, had all such matters in charge.”

“I will interview them later. Now please tell me, any of you, why Miss Carrington was arrayed in such peculiar fashion, last evening.”

“I can’t imagine,” said Pauline. “My aunt was not a vain woman. I have never known her to sit before a mirror, except when necessary, to have her hair dressed. It is almost unbelievable that she should deliberately don those jewels and scarf and sit down there as if to admire the effect. Yet it had that appearance.”

“But she wore the jewels during the evening, did she not?”

“Not all of them. She wore her pearls, because, as she told us, and as I have often heard her say, pearls must be worn occasionally to keep them in condition. But she added a large number of valuable gems – or, some one did, – after we left her last night.”

“Whom do you mean by we?”

“Miss Frayne and myself. We were in her room, to say good-night to her, and we left at the same time.”

“At what time?”

“About quarter past twelve, I should think, wasn’t it, Anita? We went upstairs about midnight, and were with my aunt ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Were your good-nights amicable?” asked the Inspector, and Pauline looked up in surprise. Then, recollecting the last words of her aunt, she shut her lips obstinately and made no reply.

“Indeed, they were not!” declared Miss Frayne; “Miss Carrington told both Miss Stuart and myself that it would be our last night beneath this roof! That to-day we must seek some other home, for she would harbor us no longer!”

“Ah! And why did she thus treat you?”

“There was no especial reason,” and Anita’s lovely blue eyes looked straight at the Inspector with a pathetic gaze, “she was in a tantrum, as she frequently was.”

“She didn’t mean it,” put in Pauline, hastily.

“She did!” asseverated Anita; “I’ve heard her threaten to send us away before, but never so earnestly. She meant it last night, I am sure. And, too, she knew something would happen to her last night, – she said so.”

“What? what’s that?”

“Do hush, Anita!” said Pauline; “those foolish words meant nothing!”

“Proceed, Miss Frayne,” and the Inspector spoke sternly.

“She did,” went on Anita. “I don’t remember the exact words, but she said I little knew what was going to happen to her, and she said ‘to-morrow you may sing another song!’ Surely such words meant something!”

“If they did,” said Pauline, angrily, “they merely meant that she was going to dismiss you to-day!”

“Not at all,” and Anita glanced at her, “she distinctly said something would happen to her, – not to me.”

“You know better than to take things she said in a temper, seriously! If we are to repeat idle conversations, suppose I say that I heard you say last evening that you’d like to kill her!”

“I didn’t!” shrieked Anita.

“You did,” declared Pauline, calmly; “and Gray said she ought to be killed, too. I know you didn’t mean to kill her, but I’ve just as much right to quote your foolish words as you have to quote hers.”

“Nonsense!” said Haviland; “let up, Polly! You two are always at each other! As there is no question as to who killed poor Miss Lucy, why rake up our foolish words spoken under the intense provocation of her exhibition of temper, – which was specially trying last night. Inspector, can we tell you anything more of importance?”

So far the Inspector had been almost silent, and appeared to be learning some points from the conversation not addressed to him. Now, he changed his manner, and began briskly to ask questions.

“This glove,” he said, holding it out, “was, as you know, found clasped in her hand. Is it yours, Mr. Haviland?”

“No,” said the young man, as, after a close examination of the glove he handed it back; “no, it is a size smaller than I wear, and it is of a different make from mine.”

“Have you any idea whose it can be? It is highly improbable the burglar left it.”

“I’ve no idea,” and Haviland shrugged his shoulders. “But if it was not left by the intruder, where could it possibly have come from? It is a man’s glove.”

“Could it be one of Cousin Carr’s?” said Pauline. “Aunt Lucy was awfully fond of anything of his. She kept one of his caps in her drawer for months, after he left the last time.”

“No,” replied Haviland; “it isn’t Loria’s. He wears larger gloves than I do. My theory points to a sort of gentleman burglar, a ‘Raffles,’ you know, and I think he talked with Miss Lucy, before he struck that blow, and disarmed her mind of fear.”

“What an extraordinary idea!” and Pauline looked thoughtful.

“But how else explain the glove?”

“And the snake? Did your gentleman burglar persuade her to wear that paper thing? Never! Gray, you’re absurd!”

“Another thing,” went on Inspector Brunt, returning the glove to his roomy pocket-book; “In the bedroom we noticed a glass of milk and beside it an empty plate. Was it the lady’s habit to have a night lunch?”

“Yes,” said Anita; “but she rarely ate it. In case of insomnia, she had ready a light repast, but she almost never touched it.”

“The glass of milk is still untouched,” said Brunt, “but the plate is empty. What did it contain?”

“A sandwich, I think,” said Anita. “That is what Estelle usually prepared for her. She will know, – Estelle, the maid.”

“Miss Carrington’s lady’s maid?”

“Yes; though not hers exclusively. She was expected to act as maid for Miss Stuart and myself also, at such times as Miss Carrington didn’t require her services.”

“And she, then, brought the breakfast tray, that is upset on the floor?”

“Yes; Miss Lucy always had an early cup of tea, before she dressed for breakfast with the family.”

“And the maid took it to her this morning? Did she not then discover the – the tragedy?”

“She says not!” cried Pauline; “but I’m sure she did! She says she saw Miss Lucy at the mirror, and thinking her engrossed, merely left the tray on the tabouret and went away.”

“Ridiculous!” exclaimed Haviland; “What does Estelle mean by such lies? Of course she saw Miss Carrington’s strange appearance, of course she was frightened out of her wits, and of course she dropped the tray and ran. But why not say so? And why not give an immediate alarm? She took that tray, probably, about eight. Pauline went up at nine. What was Estelle doing all that time? Why didn’t she go in to dress Miss Carrington? I tell you, Mr. Inspector, there’s a lot of queer work to be explained, and with all due respect to the force, I’m pretty sure you’ll need expert service if you’re going to get anywhere. And I’m sure, too, that if we can get word to Carrington Loria and back, he’ll say spare no trouble or expense to avenge his aunt’s murder. He is equally heir with you, Pauline, and he ought to be consulted.”

“The will hasn’t been read yet,” said Miss Stuart; “we can’t assume anything until that is done.”

“Pshaw! you know perfectly well half of the bulk of the estate is yours and half Carr’s. I have a small slice and Miss Frayne a bit. The older servants have small legacies, and there are a few charities. That, Mr. Brunt, is the gist of the will. Do you not agree with me, that as I was the man of business for the late Miss Carrington, I am justified, in the absence of Mr. Loria, in continuing my services, at least, until we can get definite directions from him?”