A Chain of Evidence

"But you can't doubt it now, can you?" she returned, as she rested, contentedly, in my embrace.

"No, dearest, you are not easy to understand, there is much about your nature that puzzles me, but when that true, sincere look comes into your eyes, I know you are in earnest. Oh, Janet, my darling, how happy we shall be after all this troublesome mystery is cleared up, and you and I can devote our whole life to caring for each other."

"I shall be so glad to be happy," she said, with a wistful little sigh, and I remembered that her life, so far, had given her little or no joy.

"Sweetheart," I said, "my life purpose henceforth shall be to give you happiness enough to make up for the sad years you have spent.

"You can easily do that, my dear," and the tenderness in her eyes fairly transfigured her. And then, with a pretty impetuous gesture, she hid her face on my shoulder.

"But it doesn't seem possible," I said, after a time, "that you can really love me when you've known me but a few days."

"That doesn't count in a love like ours," said Janet, speaking almost solemnly. "It is not the kind that requires time to grow."

"No," I agreed, "it was born full grown. I always told Laura that when I fell in love it would be at first sight, and it was. The marvellous part, dear, is that you care, too."

"Care!" she exclaimed, and the depths of love in her eyes gave me a hint of her emotional nature; "but," she went on, "this is all wrong. You must not talk to me like this, and I must not listen to it. I am under suspicion of having committed a crime. Surely you cannot love me until I am freed from that."

"But you are not guilty?"

I asked the question not because of any doubt in my own mind, but because I wanted for once to hear her own statement of her innocence.

"That I shall not tell you," she said, and her eyes took on a faraway, inscrutable look, as of a sphinx; "that you must find out for yourself. Or rather, no, I don't want you to find out. I want it always to remain a mystery."

"What, Janet! you don't want me to find out who killed your uncle!"

"Oh, no, no!" and her voice rang out in agonized entreaty; "please don't, Otis; please don't try to find out who did it!"

"But then, dear, how can you be freed from suspicion? and I want to tell you, Janet, I want to tell you now, while I hold you in my arms, – I want to tell you in the same breath that I tell you of my love, – that you will be accused of this crime, unless the real criminal is discovered."

"How do you know I'm not the real criminal?"

"I know it for two reasons. First, because I love you, and I'm telling you so; and second, because you love me, and – "

"I'm not telling you so," she interrupted, and a look of pain came into her dear eyes as she tried to resist my embrace.

"You don't have to tell me, dear," I said, quietly, "I know it. But you must tell me who it is that you are trying to shield by your strange ways and words. Is it Leroy? It can't be Charlotte."

"I'm not shielding anybody," she cried out; "the jury people proved that I must have killed Uncle Robert myself, and so, you see, I must have done so."

"Now you're talking childishly," I said, as I soothed her, gently; "of course you didn't kill him, darling; but you do know more about it than you have yet told, and you must tell me, because I'm going to save you from any further unpleasantness. I wish I could understand you, you bewitching mystery! You are surely shielding some one. It can't be that absurd J. S. I hardly think it can be the man of the handkerchief; oh, but I haven't told you about that yet. It can't be George, – because he has a perfect alibi."

"I suppose if it were not for that alibi, George might be suspected," said Janet slowly.

"Indeed he might, but as there are people to swear to his presence in another part of town at the time of the crime, he is beyond suspicion. I wish you had such an alibi, dearest."

"Oh, I wish I did! Otis, what do you think? You know I was locked in that house and nobody could get in. You know I didn't kill Uncle Robert. Now who did?"

"Janet," I said, very seriously, "I don't know. And I have nearly lost hope of finding out. So I will tell you what I have decided to do; I'm going to consult Fleming Stone."

"Fleming Stone? Who is he?"

"He is probably the cleverest detective in the city. I feel sure that he can solve our mystery, if he will undertake it."

"Oh, don't have a detective!" she cried; "at least, not that Mr. Stone. He can find out everything!"

"And don't you want everything found out?" I asked, looking at her intently.

"No!" she cried vehemently. "I don't! I want Uncle Robert's death always to remain a mystery!"

"It can't be a greater mystery than you are!" I exclaimed, for the words were wrung from me as I looked at the girl's face, which had again taken on that white, impassive look.

It was at that moment that Laura returned, and as she entered the library, Janet fled away to her own room.

Laura looked at me questioningly, and I told her quite frankly all that had passed between Janet and myself.

She kissed me tenderly, like the dear sister that she is, and said; "Don't worry, Otis; it will come out all right. I know Janet much better than you do. She is innocent, of course, but she is so unnerved and distraught with these dreadful days, that I'm only surprised she bears up as well as she does. Leave her to me, and you go and get your Fleming Stone, and use every effort to persuade him to take the case."

As it had been my life-long habit to take Laura's advice, especially when it coincided with my own inclination I started off at once to hunt up Fleming Stone.

I knew the man slightly, having run across him a few times in a business way, and I knew that not only were his services exceedingly high-priced, but also that he never took any case unless of great difficulty and peculiar interest. I hoped, however, that the circumstances of the Pembroke affair would appeal to him, and I determined to use every effort to interest him in it.

By good fortune, I found him at home, and willing to listen to a statement of my business.

Fleming Stone's personality was not at all of the taciturn, inscrutable variety. He was a large man, of genial and charming manner, and possessed of a personal magnetism that seemed to invite confidence and confidences. I knew him well enough to know that if I could win his interest at all it would be by a brief statement of the mystery as a puzzle, and a request that he help me solve it.

"Mr. Stone," I began, "if three persons spent the night in an apartment so securely locked on the inside that there was no possible means of ingress, and if in the morning it was found that one of those three persons had been murdered at midnight, would you say that the guilt must rest upon either one or both of the other two persons?"

At any rate, I had succeeded in catching the man's attention.

As there was no question of personal feeling in my statement, he seemed to look at it as an abstract problem, and replied at once:

"According to the facts as you have stated them, the guilt must necessarily rest upon one or both of the other two persons. But this is assuming that it really was a murder, that there really was no mode of ingress, and that there really were no other persons in the apartment."

Having secured Fleming Stone's interest in the abstract statement, I proceeded to lay before him the concrete story of the Pembroke affair.

He listened gravely, asking only one or two questions, and when I had told him all I knew about it he sat thinking for a few moments.

At last, unable to control my impatience, I said: "Do you now think the guilt rests upon either one or both of those women?"

As I have said, Mr. Stone was not of the secretive and close-mouthed style of detective, and he said in his frank and pleasant way: "Not necessarily, by any means. Indeed, from what you have told me, I should say that the two women knew nothing about the crime until the morning. But this, of course, is a mere surmise, based on your account of the case."

As I had told him the facts as I knew them, with all their horrible incrimination of Janet, I was greatly relieved at his words.

"Then," said I, "will you take up the case, and find the criminal as soon as may be? Money is no object, but time is precious, as I strongly desire to avoid any possibility of a trial of Miss Pembroke."

"Have you any other clues other than those you have told me?"

"I haven't told you any," I said, in some surprise; "but we certainly have several."

He listened with the greatest attention, while I told him in rapid succession of the key, the time-table, the ticket stubs, the torn telegram, the handkerchief, and finally, the missing money.

"Have you traced these to their sources?" he inquired.

"We have, and each one led to a different man."

I then told him of Jonathan Scudder, of Graham Leroy, of James Decker, and of William Sydney Gresham, and he listened with a half-smile on his pleasant, responsive face.

"Of course you can see all these clues for yourself," I went on, "and I feel sure, Mr. Stone, that by an examination of them, you can deduce much of the personality of the criminal."

"I don't care to see them," was his astonishing answer; "I have already deduced from them the evidence that they clearly show."

"Your statement would amaze me," I said, "except that I had resolved not to be surprised at anything you might say or do, for I know your methods are mysterious and your powers little short of miraculous."

"Don't credit me with supernatural ability, Mr. Landon," said Stone, smiling genially. "Let me compliment you on the graphic way in which you have described that collection of clues. I can fairly see them, in my mind's eye lying before me. Were not the ticket stubs bent and broken and a good deal soiled?"

"They were," I said, staring at him.

"And was the time-table smudged with dirt, and perhaps bearing an impress of tiny dots in regular rows?"

"Now I know you're a wizard!" I exclaimed, "for that's exactly what I did see! such a mark on the first page of that time-table!"

"It might easily not have been there," said Stone, musingly; "I confess I chanced that. It was merely a hazard, but it helps. Yes, Mr. Landon, your collection of clues is indeed valuable and of decided assistance in discovering the identity of the person or persons unknown."

It struck a chill to my heart that Fleming Stone seemed to avoid the use of a masculine pronoun. Could he, too, think that a woman was implicated, and if not, why didn't he say the man who committed the crime, instead of dodging behind the vague term he had used. With a desperate idea of forcing this point, I said; "The Coroner believes that since the weapon used was a hat-pin, the criminal was a woman."

"Why did you say it was a hat-pin?" said Fleming Stone, and I realized that his brain was already busy with the subtleties of the case.

"The doctors stated that it was part of a hat-pin, the other end of which had been broken off."

"Did you see the pin that was extracted from the wound?"

"I did."

"How long was it?"

"Almost exactly four inches."

"And are you prepared to affirm that it is part of a hat-pin, and not a complete pin of a shorter length?"

"I am not. The thought did not before occur to me. But as it had no head on it, we assumed that it was probably the half of a broken hat-pin. It is by no means the first instance on record of using a hat-pin as a murderous weapon."

"No," said Fleming Stone; "and yet that does not prove it a hat-pin. May it not have been a shawl-pin, or some shorter pin that women use in their costumes?"

"It may have been," said I; "but women do not wear shawls nowadays. At any rate, any pin of that length would seem to indicate a woman's crime."

"Well, as a rule," said Fleming Stone, smiling, "we men do not pin our garments together; but I dare say almost any man, if he wanted one, could gain possession of such a pin."

How true this was, and how foolish we had been to assume that a woman's pin must have meant a woman's crime! A picture passed through my mind of Laura's dressing-table, where I could have procured any kind of a pin, with no trouble whatever.

"Moreover," went on Fleming Stone, "the great majority of hat-pins used in America will not break. They will bend, as they are usually made of iron, though occasionally of steel."

I looked at the man with growing admiration. How widespread was his knowledge, and how logical his deduction!

"I should have to see the pin," said Stone, "before drawing any conclusion from it. You did not examine it closely, you say?"

I had not said so, but I suppose he deduced it from my slight knowledge of its characteristics.

"I did not examine it through a microscope," I replied.

"You should have done so. If it were really a broken hat-pin, it would show a clean, bright break at the end; whereas, were it a shorter pin which had lost its head, it would show at the end a fraction of an inch of duller steel, and perhaps an irregular surface where the head had been attached."

"I can see that you are right, but I cannot see why it should make much difference which it was."

"My dear sir, according to your statement, the only clue we have to work upon is the weapon which was used. The weapon is always an important item, if not the most important, and it cannot be scrutinized too closely or examined too minutely, for, sooner or later, it is almost always certain to expose the criminal."

"I had thought," I said humbly, "that I possessed a degree of detective instinct, but I now see I was mistaken. I assumed the pin to be a hat-pin, and thought no more about it."

"It may be one," said Stone, "and the only way to find out is to see it. Of course I must also examine the apartment, and then, if necessary, question some of the parties concerned. But at this moment I have little doubt in my mind as to who killed Robert Pembroke. I will take the case, because, though unusual, it promises to be a short one. I think I may safely say that by to-morrow night at this hour we will not only have discovered the criminal, but obtained a confession. But I will say the criminal has been very, very clever. In fact, I think I should never have conceived of such various kinds of cleverness combined in one crime. But, as is often the case, he has outwitted himself. His very cleverness is his undoing."

Surely the man was a wizard! I looked at him without a word after he had made his astounding announcement. I had no idea whom he suspected, but I knew he would not tell me if I asked, so I thought best to express no curiosity, but to leave the matter in his hands, and await his further pleasure.

"You can go at once to see the apartment," I said; "but to look at the pin we shall have to wait until morning, as I think it is in charge of the coroner."

"It must all wait till morning," said Fleming Stone, "as I have other work that I must attend to this evening."

I accepted my dismissal, and, making an appointment to call for him the next day, I turned my steps homeward.

I had purposely said nothing to Fleming Stone of my suspicion of George Lawrence. Indeed, it was scarcely strong enough to be called a suspicion, and, too, the mere idea of his going into the apartment implied the idea of his being let in by Janet. Therefore, I had contended myself with telling Stone the facts as I knew them, and suppressing my own opinion. Also, it seemed a dreadful thing to cast suspicion on Lawrence, when I had no evidence of any sort.

XXII

A CALL ON MISS WARING

When I arose next morning I assured myself that I was in all probability the happiest man in the city. With Fleming Stone's assurance that that very night should see the Pembroke mystery cleared up, and with the knowledge in my heart that Janet loved me, I felt that my future outlook was little less than glorious.

I had given up all ambition to be a detective; I even had little care as to the outcome of Fleming Stone's investigation – granting, of course, that Janet and George were in no way implicated. I could have given myself up to the happy dreams which are usually said to be indulged in by men of fewer years than my own, but I remembered my appointment and hastened away to meet Fleming Stone.

Though I had a vague feeling of fear as to the result of this day's work, yet I knew it must be gone through with, and I prepared to face whatever might be before me.

Together we went to the District Attorney's office.

Mr. Buckner was much impressed by the fact of Fleming Stone's connection with the case, for it was well known that the great detective accepted only puzzling problems. It was quite evident, however, that the District Attorney could see no reason for more than one opinion as to the Pembroke tragedy.

"Here are the clues," said Mr. Buckner, as he arranged the collection on his desk.

The torn telegram was not among them, and I realized that Buckner had excluded that, because the letter from Jonathan Scudder practically denied it.

Fleming Stone glanced at the key and the handkerchief with the briefest attention. He picked up the ticket stubs and the time-table, but after a moment's scrutiny he laid them down again, murmuring, as if to himself, "Clever, very clever!"

"Mr. Buckner," he said at last, "these clues seem to me all to point to the same criminal, and a most ingenious person as well."

"You speak in riddles, Mr. Stone," said the District Attorney, "I confess I thought these articles of but slight importance, as they have been traced each to a different owner."

"Even so," said Stone, "they are distinctly indicative, and form a large share of the evidence piling up against the criminal. But a far more important clue is the weapon with which Mr. Pembroke was killed. Will you show me that?"

Buckner took the pin from a drawer and offered it to Mr. Stone, saying, "There is the weapon. If the head of the hat-pin had been left on, it might be traced to the woman who used it. But as she broke it off, this small portion cannot be traced. She doubtless broke the head off purposely, thus proving herself, as you have already remarked, Mr. Stone, a very clever criminal."

Mr. Stone took the pin, glanced at it a moment, and then, taking a magnifying-glass from his pocket, examined it carefully.

"It is not a hat-pin," he said, "nor is it part of a hat-pin. The pin as you see it there is its full length. The head has been removed, not accidentally, but purposely. It had been removed, and carefully, before the pin was used as a weapon."

"May I ask how you know this, sir?" asked the coroner respectfully.

"Certainly," said Stone, in his affable way. "If you will look at the end of the pin through this glass, you will see unmistakable signs that the head has been removed. For about an eighth of an inch you note a slight discoloration, caused by the attaching of the glass head. You also see on one side a minute portion of glass still adhering to the steel. Had the head been accidentally or carelessly broken off, it is probable that more glass would have adhered to the pin. The head was therefore purposely and carefully removed, perhaps by smashing it with something heavy or by stepping on it. The fragment of glass that is attached to the pin is, as you may see if you will hold it up to the light, of a violet color. The pin, therefore, I'm prepared to assert, is one of the pins which first-class florists give away with bunches of violets bought at their shops. I have never seen these pins with violet-colored heads used for any other purpose, though it is not impossible that they may be. I say a first-class florist, because it is only they who use this style of pin; the smaller shops give black-headed ones. But the larger flower dealers make a specialty of using purple tin-foil for their violet bunches, tying them with purple cord or ribbon, and placing them in a purple pasteboard box. To harmonize with this color scheme, they have of late years provided these violet-headed flower pins. All this is of importance in our quest, for it ought to be easier to trace a violet pin than the more universally used hat-pin."

How different Fleming Stone's manner from the bumptious and know-it-all air of the average detective! He was quite willing to share any information which he gained, and seemed to treat his fellow-workers as his equals in perspicacity and cleverness.

We had learned something, to be sure. But as the coroner had no other objects of evidence to show us, and there seemed nothing more to be learned from the pin, Fleming Stone turned into the street, and I followed him.

"Could not the head have been broken off after the pin was used to commit the murder?" I inquired.

"No," said Stone; "it would be impossible to break off a glass head with one's fingers under such conditions. It could have been done by some instrument, but that is not likely. And then, too, there would probably have been bits of glass on the pillow."

"Bits of glass!" I exclaimed. "Bits of violet-colored glass! Why, man alive, I have them in my pocket now!"

"Let me see them," said Stone. "It may save us quite a search."

It took more to excite Fleming Stone's enthusiasm than it did mine, and he seemed almost unaware of the importance of my statement; but when I took a white paper from my pocket, unfolded it, and showed him the specks of glass I had found in Lawrence's apartment the night before, his flashing eyes showed that he thought it indeed a clue. But he only said quietly: "You should have mentioned this in your statement of the case. Why did you not?"

"The real reason is that I forgot it," I admitted, frankly. "But I had no idea it was important evidence, for I never dreamed these bits could be the head of a pin. I thought them a portion of a broken bottle. You know druggists use small phials of that color for certain prescriptions."

"Some druggists use bottles of this color for poison," said Fleming Stone, "but that doesn't affect our case, for Mr. Pembroke was not poisoned. But it may easily be the head of the pin we were talking about. Where did you find this glass?"

"In George Lawrence's studio," I replied, looking a little shamefaced at my own obvious stupidity.

"Well, you are a clever detective!" said Fleming Stone; but so genial was the smile of mild amusement he turned upon me, that I could not feel hurt at his sarcasm.

"You didn't even tell me that you examined young Lawrence's studio, and you haven't yet told me why you did so. I assume you have no intent to conceal anything from me."

"I have not," I said. "I'm mortified – first that I did not realize the importance of this broken glass, and next because I didn't mention the incident to you. It was a stupid blunder of mine, but I assure you it was not intentional."

"It may mean much, and it may mean nothing," said Fleming Stone, "but it must be investigated. Where, in the studio, was the glass?"

"On the marble hearthstone," said I.

"Where it might easily have been broken off the pin by a boot heel, or other means. But we must not assume more than the evidence clearly indicates. Tell me more of young Lawrence. Was he what is known as a ladies' man? Would he be likely to take bunches of violets to his feminine friends?"

"I know the man very slightly," I answered, "but I should judge him to be rather attentive to the fair sex. Indeed, I know that the day before yesterday he escorted a young lady to a matinée, and that night he dined and spent the evening at the home of the same girl."

"Do you know this young lady?" he asked.

"I know her name," I replied. "It is Miss Waring, and she lives in Sixtieth Street."

"And your own home is in Sixty-second Street?"

"Yes. If necessary, I can telephone to my sister, and she will ask Miss Pembroke for Miss Waring's address."

"Do so," said Fleming Stone; and I knew from the gravity of his expression that he was rapidly constructing a serious case against somebody.

I obtained the desired information over the telephone, and then, with Fleming Stone, boarded a car going uptown. Though still pleasant-mannered and responsive, Stone seemed disinclined to talk, so the journey was made almost in silence.