The jacques futrelle meg.., p.73
The Jacques Futrelle Megapack, page 73
“Go away,” she ordered. “I have no more sugar. See?” and she extended her empty hands.
The giant birds wandered off seeking what they might find; and for a time the girl and the young man sat silent. Twice Miss Fayerwether’s eyes sought St. Rocheville’s; twice she caught him staring straight into her face.
“Detectives were here to-day,” she remarked at last.
“Yes, I know,” said St. Rocheville.
“They had a long talk with Mrs. Wardlaw Browne, and insisted on searching the house—that is, the rooms of the guests—but she would not permit it.”
“She made a mistake.”
“You mean that some one of the guests—”
“I mean there is a thief here somewhere,” said St. Rocheville; “and he should be unmasked.” (And this from Jimmie Jones, erstwhile pickpocket, burglar, and what not—Jimmie Jones, alias Wilhelm Van Der Wyde, alias Hubert Montgomery Wade, alias Jean St. Rocheville.) “I am willing for them to search my room; you are willing for them to search your room—the others should be.”
The young man’s lips were tightly set; there was an uncompromising glint in his eyes. His simulation had been so perfect that even he was feeling the righteous indignation of the hopelessly moral. Whatever else he felt didn’t appear at the moment. Miss Fayerwether was gazing dreamily into the void.
“Have you ever been to Chicago?” she queried irrelevantly at last.
“No,” said Monsieur St. Rocheville. As a matter of fact, Chicago was one of the cities in which there was being made even then an industrious search for Wilhelm Van Der Wyde.
“Or Denver?” the girl continued dreamily.
That was another city in which Wilhelm Van Der Wyde was badly wanted. Monsieur St. Rocheville turned upon Miss Fayerwether suspiciously.
“No,” he declared. “Why?”
“No reason—I was merely curious,” she replied carelessly. And then again irrelevantly: “Nothing has been stolen from you?”
For answer, St. Rocheville held out his left hand. A heavy diamond solitaire which he usually wore on his little finger was missing. The print of the ring on the flesh was still visible.
“Oh!” exclaimed Miss Fayerwether; and again: “Oh!” She looked startled. St. Rocheville didn’t recall that he had ever seen just such an expression before. “When was your ring stolen? How?”
“I removed it when I got into my bath,” St. Rocheville explained. “My window was closed, but my door was unlocked. When I came out of the bath the ring had disappeared—that’s all.”
“Well”—and there was a flash of indignation in the girl’s eyes—“you can’t blame that on Blitz, anyway.”
“I’m not trying to,” said St. Rocheville. “I said my window was closed. My door was closed but unlocked. I don’t think Blitz can open a door, can he?”
Miss Fayerwether didn’t answer. Once she was almost on the point of saying something further; and, for an instant, there was mute appeal in the innocent eyes as her slim white hand lay on the young man’s arm. Then she changed her mind and went on to her room, the birds fluttering along after.
Strange thoughts came to Monsieur St. Rocheville. The light touch on his arm had thrilled him curiously. He found himself staring off moodily in the direction of her window. Also he caught himself remembering the marvelous blue of her eyes! He didn’t recall at the moment that he had ever noticed the color of any one’s eyes before.
’Twas an hour after dinner when The Thinking Machine, accompanied by Detective Mallory, the bright light of the Bureau of Criminal Investigation, and one of his satellites, Blanton by name, with Hutchinson Hatch trailing, appeared at Idlewild. It may have been mere accident that St. Rocheville met them as they stepped out of the automobile.
“I neglected to tell you,” he remarked to the scientist, “that young Miller has been losing heavily at auction of late; and I hear that he has had some sort of a row with his father about his allowance.”
“I understand,” The Thinking Machine nodded.
“Also,” St. Rocheville ran on, “there has been at least one other theft here since I saw you. A diamond ring of mine was stolen from my room while I was in the bath. I wouldn’t venture to say who took it.”
“I know,” The Thinking Machine assured him curtly. “I will have it in my hand in ten minutes.”
Indignant at the intrusion of the police in what she was pleased to term her personal affairs—the detectives who had been there before were from a private agency—Mrs. Wardlaw Browne bustled into the room where The Thinking Machine and his party waited. Monsieur St. Rocheville effaced himself.
“Pray what does this mean?” Mrs. Wardlaw Browne demanded.
“It means, madam, that we have a search warrant, and intend to go through your house, if necessary.” The Thinking Machine informed her crustily. Through the half-open door he caught a glimpse of a slender figure—a mere wisp of a girl with big, wonder-stuck eyes. “Mallory, close that door. You, madam,”—this to Mrs. Wardlaw Browne—“can assist us by answering a few questions.”
Mrs. Wardlaw Browne was of the tall, gaunt, haughty type; thin to scrawniness, enormously rich, and possessed of all the arrogance that riches bring. She studied the faces of the four men contemptuously; then, with a little resigned expression, sat down.
“Just how did you lose your necklace?” The Thinking Machine began abruptly. “Did you drop it? Was it taken from your neck? Are you sure you had it on?”
“I know I had it on,” was the reply. “I did not drop it. It was taken from my neck.”
“Did you, by any chance, wear a low-neck gown on the evening it was taken?” The little scientist’s squinting eyes were fixed upon her tensely.
“I never wear decollete,” came the frigid response.
With his great head pillowed upon the back of his chair, his thin fingers tip to tip, and his eyes turned upward, The Thinking Machine sat in silence for a minute or more, the while tiny, cobwebby lines appeared in his domelike brow.
“Can you,” he inquired finally, “summon a servant without leaving this room?”
“There is a bell, yes.” Mrs. Wardlaw Browne was forgetting to be haughty in a certain fascination which grew upon her as she gazed at this little man.
“Will you ring it, please?”
Mrs. Wardlaw Browne arose, touched a button, and sat down again. A moment later a footman entered.
“Tell Mr. Rex Miller,” The Thinking Machine directed, “that Mrs. Wardlaw Browne would like to see him immediately in this room.”
The footman bowed and withdrew. Followed an interminable wait—interminable, at least, to Detective Mallory, who impatiently clicked his handcuffs together. Mrs. Wardlaw Browne yawned to hide the curiosity that was consuming her.
The door opened, and Rex Miller entered. He stood for a moment staring at the silent party, and finally:
“Did you send for me, Mrs. Browne?”
“I did,” said The Thinking Machine. “Sit down, please.” Rex sank into a chair mechanically. “Mr. Blanton”—the scientist neither raised his voice nor lowered his eyes—“you will undertake to see that Mr. Miller doesn’t leave this room. Mr. Mallory, you will search Mr. Miller’s apartments. Somewhere there you will find Mrs. Wardlaw Browne’s diamond necklace; also a man’s diamond ring.”
Rex came to his feet with writhing hands, a thundercloud in his face. Mrs. Wardlaw Browne burst into inarticulate expostulations. Blanton drew a revolver and laid it across his knee. Mallory bustled out. Hatch merely waited. Silence came; a silence so tense, so strained that Mrs. Wardlaw Browne was tempted to scream. At last there were footsteps, the door from the hall was thrown open, and Mallory, triumphant, appeared.
“I have them,” he announced grimly. The necklace, a radiant, glittering thing, was dangling from one finger. The ring lay in his open palm. “And now, Mr. Rex Miller”—he fished out his handcuffs and started toward the young man—“if you’ll hold out your—”
“Oh, sit down, Mallory!” commanded The Thinking Machine impatiently.
Loitering in a hallway, where he could keep an eye on the stairs leading from the lower part of the house, Monsieur St. Rocheville saw Miss Fayerwether creep stealthily up, silent-footed, chalk-white of face, and come racing toward him across the heavy velvet carpet. For the reason that she would surely see him, he walked toward her, amazed and a little perturbed at something in her manner.
“What’s the matter?” inquired St. Rocheville calmly.
“Oh, it’s you!” Miss Fayerwether’s hand flew to her heart. She was frightened, gasping. “Nothing!”
“But something must be the matter,” he insisted. “You are white as a sheet.”
With an apparent effort the girl regained control of herself, and stood staring at him mutely. ’Twas in that moment that Monsieur St. Rocheville saw for the first time some strange, new expression in the big, innocent eyes—they seemed to grow hard, worldly, all-wise even as he looked.
“There are detectives in the house,” she said.
“I know it. What about it?”
“They have a warrant, and intend to search every room.”
“Well?” St. Rocheville refused to get excited about it.
“Including, I imagine, yours and mine.”
“I’m willing. I dare say you are.”
For an instant the girl’s self-possession seemed to desert her completely. Her eyes closed as if in pain, and she swayed a little. St. Rocheville thrust out an arm protectingly. When she lifted her face again St. Rocheville read terror therein.
“If—if they search my room,” she faltered, “I—I am lost!”
“How? Why? What do you mean?”
“I don’t know that I could make any one else understand,” she went on swiftly. “The birds, you know—Blitz and Jack and Jill. You saw, and I explained to you, a trick they have of—of thieving; stealing bright things.”
She stopped. In his impatience St. Rocheville seized her by the arm and shook her soundly.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Nearly every jewel that has been stolen is hidden now in my room,” she confessed. “I knew nothing of it until yesterday, when I came across them. Then, after all the excitement about the thefts, I was afraid to return the things, and I could think of no way to proceed. So, you see, if they search my room it will—”
St. Rocheville was possessed of an agile mind; resourceful as it was agile. Suddenly he remembered two questions the girl had asked the day before—questions about Chicago and Denver. His teeth snapped. He thrust out a hand, and, opening the nearest door—he didn’t happen to know whose room it was—he dragged her in, and turned on the electric light. Then their eyes met squarely.
“You are the thief, then?” he demanded. “Don’t lie to me! You are the thief?”
“The things are in my room.” She was sobbing a little. “The birds—”
“You are the thief!” There was a curious note of exultation in his voice. “And you do know something about Chicago and Denver?”
“I know that you are Wilhelm Van Der Wyde,” she flashed defiantly. “I recognized you at once. I saw you in old Charles’ ‘fence’ there once when you were not aware of it. I could never be mistaken in your eyes.”
Monsieur St. Rocheville laughed blithely; came a faint answering smile, and he gathered her into his arms.
“I’ve always needed a partner,” he said.
“Mr. Miller,” The Thinking Machine was saying placidly, “isn’t the thief at all.” He raised his hand to still a clamor of ejaculation. “Monsieur Rocheville, so called, stole the necklace, at least, and concealed it, with a ring from his own finger, in Mr. Miller’s apartment.” Again he raised his hand. “Mr. Miller caught Monsieur St. Rocheville cheating at cards, and practically denounced him. Monsieur St. Rocheville took his revenge by undertaking to fasten the jewel thefts upon Mr. Miller. He imagined, shallowly enough, that if the necklace should be found in Mr. Miller’s room the police would look no farther. It is barely possible that the police wouldn’t have looked farther.”
Mrs. Wardlaw Browne’s aristocratic mouth had dropped open in sheer astonishment. Detective Mallory looked bewildered, dazed. Rex Miller’s face was an animated interrogation mark.
“Then who is the thief?” Mallory found voice to express the burning question.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” The Thinking Machine confessed frankly. “I think, perhaps, it was Monsieur St. Rocheville, so called; but there’s nothing to connect him—Please sit down, Mallory. You annoy me. It would do no good to search his apartment. If he stole anything, it isn’t here now; besides—”
The door opened suddenly, and the footman appeared.
“Miss Fayerwether is badly hurt, ma’am,” he explained hurriedly. “She seems to have fallen from her window. We found her outside, unconscious.”
Mrs. Wardlaw Browne went out hurriedly. Obeying an almost imperceptible nod of The Thinking Machine’s head, Detective Mallory followed her. The scientist turned to Detective Blanton.
“Get St. Rocheville,” he directed tersely.
Ten minutes later Mallory returned. In one hand he held a small chamois bag. The contents thereof he spilled upon a table. The Thinking Machine glanced around, saw a glittering heap of jewels, then resumed his steady scrutiny of the ceiling.
“The girl had them?”
“Yes,” replied the detective. “She tried to escape from her room by sliding down a rope made of sheets. It broke, and she fell.”
“Badly hurt?”
“Only a sprained ankle, and shock.”
Blanton flung himself in.
“St. Rocheville’s gone,” he announced hurriedly. “I imagine he cut for it. Went away in one of the automobiles.”
When Miss Fayerwether recovered consciousness, and the sharp agony in her ankle had become a mere dull pain, she found herself in some large room, rank with the odor of strange chemical messes. As a matter of fact, it was The Thinking Machine’s laboratory; and the three men present were the little scientist in person, Mallory, and Hatch. Blanton had gone on to police headquarters to send out a general alarm for Monsieur St. Rocheville.
“There was no mystery about it,” she heard The Thinking Machine saying. “That is, no mystery that the simplest rules of logic wouldn’t instantly dissipate. A man, presumably French, but speaking English almost perfectly, comes into this room and betrays himself as an imposter five minutes afterward by using, without a trace of accent, the one phrase in all our language which no Frenchman, unless he is reared from infancy in an English-speaking country, can pronounce as it should be pronounced. This man used the phrase: ‘My father and my father’s father;’ and he pronounced it as either of us would have pronounced it. The French can master our ’th’ only with difficulty, and then only at the beginning of a word; otherwise their ’th’ becomes almost like our ’z.’
“From the beginning, therefore, I imagined our so-called Monsieur St. Rocheville an imposter. Being an imposter, he was a liar. I proved he was a liar when I made him state who his father was. At my suggestion, Mr. Hatch cabled to Paris, demonstrated that there is not, and never has been a Monsieur St. Rocheville connected with the Credit Lyonnaise; and, this much established, St. Rocheville’s story collapsed utterly. He had been accused of cheating at cards; and in retaliation he tried to shift the thefts upon Mr. Miller. He had seen Mr. Miller, so he said, steal the necklace. His obvious purpose in this was to bring about a search of Mr. Miller’s apartment, where he had carefully planted the necklace, also his own ring. The remainder of the story you all know.”
Miss Fayerwether had listened breathlessly, with closed eyes. The Thinking Machine arose and came over to her. For an instant his slender, cool hand rested on her brow; and in that instant she fought the fight. She was caught. St. Rocheville, alias Van Der Wyde, was free. He had tried to help her. She was to have gathered the jewels together, escaped through her window to avoid attracting attention, and joined him in the waiting automobile. He was free. She would allow him to remain free. Love, be it said, makes martyrs of us all.
“I stole the jewels,” she said quietly. “Monsieur St. Rocheville knew nothing of the thefts. My birds—”
That was all. The door opened and closed. Monsieur St. Rocheville stood before them with a vicious-looking, snub-nosed, automatic pistol in his hand.
“Put up your hands!” he commanded curtly. “You, Mallory, you! Put them up, I say! Put them up!” Mallory put them up. “And you, too! Put them up!” The Thinking Machine and Hutchinson Hatch obeyed unanimously. “Now, Miss Fayerwether, can you walk?”
“I think so.” She struggled to her feet.
“Very well.” There was a deadly calm in his manner. “Take Mallory’s gun, his keys, his handcuffs, and his police whistle. Careful now! Stand on the far side of him. I may have to kill him.” The girl obeyed deftly. “Are the handcuffs unlocked? Good! Snap one end around his right wrist. Now, Mallory, lower your right hand!”
“I’ll be—” the enraged detective began.
“Lower your right hand.” The pistol clicked. “Now, Miss Fayerwether, snap the other end of the handcuff around the leg of his chair, above the rungs.” It was done, neatly and quickly. “And I think that will hold you for a few minutes, Mallory. Now, Miss Fayerwether, there’s an automobile outside. The motor is running. Get in the car. Take your time. Safely in, honk the horn three times.”
The girl hobbled out. Monsieur St. Rocheville took advantage of the pause to sneer a little at the three men—Mallory safely shackled to a heavy chair, which would effectually stop immediate pursuit; Hatch with his hands anxiously stretched into the air, The Thinking Machine placidly meeting his gaze, eye to eye.
“I’ll get you yet!” Mallory bellowed in impotent rage.
“Oh, perhaps.” Outside, the automobile horn sounded thrice. “Until then, au revoir!” and Monsieur St. Rocheville vanished as silently as he had come.
“There’s loyalty for you,” observed The Thinking Machine, as if astonished.
“Love, not loyalty,” Hatch declared. “He’s crazy about her. Nothing on earth would have brought him back but love.”
