The Mistress of Mysteries
True Stories from the Notebook of
Mary E Holland, a Woman Detective
(1868-1915) |
Illustrated by
R.M. Brinkerhoff
(1880-1958) |
THE AFFAIR OF THE OLD SWEETHEART
HERE it is — well-thumbed, is it not?
And I dare say you will find the
trail of my pencil through its pages.
It is an old friend, the kind that,
like old wine, improves with age.
It has soothed me in more than
one nerve-racked night, steadied me
in the long hours of lonely vigils,
inspired me in the stress of knotty
problems which seemed to defy
unraveling.
What? A detective of real life
paying such a tribute to a detective
romance? It is a confession if you like, but "The
Affair of the Widow LeRouge" is more than a
romance. It is one of the greatest expositions
of the science of practical deduction ever written.
Compared with the ingenuity of Gaboriau,
Conan Doyle is an amateur — and Sherlock
Holmes a puppet! Gaboriau knew crime. He
was a great novelist, but he would have made a
greater detective, worthy even to rank with his
distinguished countryman of the present day,
M. Bertillon — with whom I have had the benefit
and the privilege of personal study in the scarlet
haunts of the Parisian underworld. But that is
quite another story!
Our affections for books, like our affections
for persons, are sometimes dictated by curious
twists of circumstances. It is not alone the
contents of "The Affairs of the Widow LeRouge"
which endears the volume to me. I have been
given the unique, almost weird experience, after
reading the story, of seeing it repeated in real
life. Yes, practically character for character,
event for event, with a closeness of parallel
positively uncanny!
Saving only for the final climax, the curious
affair of the Widow Stebbins in the Nebraska
hamlet — which I will call Bainford, because that
is not its name — might have been taken bodily
from the imaginary romance of the Widow
LeRouge of fifty years ago.
The little white cottage nestling in the outskirts
of the Nebraska village, its solitary
occupant her almost hermit life away from the
swirl of the world around her, the locked doors
behind which she lived, the ghastly discovery of
a certain summer morning, with her withered
body dead in a pool of her clotted blood, the
apparent absence of motive or trail of the
murderer — Gaboriau might have photographed the
scene for the plot of "The Widow LeRouge,"
were it not that this book was written nearly
half a century before the events I am describing.
And yet we sneer at the sweep of coincidence!
THE milkman repeated his knock insistently.
For the first time in three years, the door of
the Widow Stebbins' cottage failed to open at
his summons. For the first time in three years,
rain, snow, or sun, he stood staring at the blank
face of the brown panels and not the primly
smiling face of the widow in her stiffly
cold-starched white cap.
Reluctantly the milkman descended the steps
of the kitchen porch. He was vaguely conscious
not only of puzzlement but of disappointment.
The widow was not a jovial body, but his
ten-minute gossip with her had come to be an
accepted incident of his morning route. And he
rather prided himself that he was one of the few
persons in Bainford with whom she condescended
to gossip.
And such a faculty for details as she
possessed! Although it was only once each day that
she ventured beyond her porch and her life was
rated as the most solitary in the community,
she was a veritable encyclopedia of the doings
of Bainford. Not a ripple in the placid life of
the village of which the tidings failed to reach
the doors of her cottage, Not a stranger driving
over from the "Bend" or alighting at the
diminutive red railroad station whom she did not
hear of. Strangers in town! The sound waves
of a wireless battery could not have been more
keenly attuned to an "S. O. S." signal than the
ears of the widow to the advent of strangers!
Truly she was a remarkable woman. Of what
interest to her could the coming or going of
visitors be — she who spent twenty-two of the
twenty-four hours in her doll-like cottage, and
whose visitors, at least those who penetrated
beyond the porch, were limited to three maiden
ladies of hopelessly advanced years? Perhaps it
was just her eccentricity.
The milkman shook his head as he climbed
into his faded wagon, and "clicked" to his
faded horse. Like Samuel Weller, Senior, his
philosophy of life maintained that all widows —
beyond a certain age — were eccentric. It was
as much a part of their existence as their
love for knitting or gossiping! And yet no
stretch of the imagination could call the Widow
Stebbins a gossip. The news that she received
never went farther. If it was stored in her
memory as faithfully as in a card index system,
she never made use of it! It was as though she
were keeping a sphynx-eyed watch on the doings
of the community — and like the sphynx
never told her impressions.
THE subject occupied the milkman's thoughts
to the exclusion even of Hank Watkins' mare,
the announcement of whose newly arrived colt
was shouted to him as he clattered past the
barn. It might have been chance, or again it
might have been the vague shadow of the
impending tragedy that took him past the
Stebbins cottage again on his return trip, although
the repassing of the widow's door involved an
extra drive of quite a half mile.
Before the white-washed picket fence was
the green wagon of the village butcher. The
butcher's "man" was hesitating at the gate, and
dividing an obviously perplexed attention
between the road and the cottage behind him.
At sight of the milkman, he raised a suddenly
beckoning hand.
"Seen the widow this morning?"
The faded horse of the milk cans came to a
contented pause and its driver leaned forward.
"Isn't she on hand yet?" It was well onto
eight of the morning — an hour when the
Bainford breakfast is an event of the distant past.
The butcher's man removed his hickory straw
and shook his head.
"And she ain't at none of the neighbors
either! Jim, there's something wrong! I've sent
Bill Haskins' boy for the constable!"
The milkman made precipitate descent to
the road. A mystery, or the suggestion of a
mystery in peacefully dozing Bainford! With
something of awe he stared at the quiet outlines
of the cottage its network of honeysuckle at the
front porch, the prim beds of sweet peas at its
sides. Not a window or door gave a hint of life.
In the closely drawn green shades there was
something forbidding. Drawn shades in Bainford
at eight in the morning!
NEWS travels with an uncanny swiftness
through the streets of a village, doubly so if
that news be ill news. The two men in the
Stebbins yard glanced suddenly toward the walk
to see an already excited group approaching at
a dog trot. In the center was the lean figure of
Ezekiel Walker, into whose hands, when not
occupied with the undertaking duties of preparing
Bainford citizens for their last resting place,
were entrusted the safe-guarding of the
community's peace.
The lean Mr. Walker, with an official assurance
that drew admiring whispers from his hesitating
fellow citizens, strode to the back steps
of the silent cottage, and up the steps to the
locked kitchen door. His knuckles heat upon its
panels with a legal emphasis befitting the occasion.
There was no answer. Mr. Walker rubbed
his brow with the first hint of dubiousness.
"Break in the door, Zeke!" called a restless
spirit from the yard. Mr. Walker frowned, tried
the knob again, and debated uncertainly. He
was conscious that his inaction was endangering
his civic prestige. The restless spirit in the
yard appeared again with a sturdy rail from the
neatly stacked wood-pile. The hesitating Mr.
Walker rose heroically to the occasion, but even
then his native caution demanded companions in
his strenuousness.
"Here, you, Bill Wilson, and Hank Watkins,
lend a hand! I hereby appoint you deputies in
the name of the law!"
THE two worthies designated accepted the
honor reluctantly. The trio drew back with
muscles tense. The rail crashed against the
lock. The first onslaught was quite sufficient.
The door fell back with a startling abruptness.
The three men on the porch craned forward.
And then Hank Watkins sprang to the ground
gasping, his face a sickly white.
"She's — she's in there with her face all
blood, starin' horrible!"
There was a rush to the porch. Before the
gaping villagers, the Widow Stebbins was
stretched on her kitchen floor, her white hair
stained and clotted, her head, face, and breast
battered as by the blows of a savage hammer.
Even to their inexperienced eyes, it was evident
that she had been dead for hours.
Sometime in the night silence of the Stebbins
cottage, fiendish murder had been done.
Fate, an evening newspaper, and a sudden
leisure at the end of a racking day were the
three factors that sent me to Bainford.
The criss-crossing trail of a jewel robbery
had taken me westward, ending my quest for
the time in Omaha at one of those hopelessly
blank walls which are much more frequent in
the detective profession than the unsuspecting
public may realize. I was worn out physically
and mentally. With the dispatching of a long
telegram of instructions to my Chicago officer,
I had sought my room in no humor for dinner,
and determined to stay there until the last minute
for the catching of the return morning
train. It was here where fate showed the
cunning of its hand. The bellboy, with my ice
water, brought also the Omaha evening
newspapers. I picked up the first carelessly. Ten
minutes later I was telephoning to the clerk
for the train connections to Bainford, forgetful
of my weariness, of my promised night's rest, my
attention glued on a heavy-typed paragraph
before me. It read:
"A curious discover in the cottage of the
murdered woman was a blackened lamp chimney,
in whose smudge showed sharp and distinct,
the outlines of a bloody thumb. Apparently the
murderer after the deed, for some reason, had
seized the lamp with his hands yet stained from
his brutal crime, Perhaps the lamp was smoking
and an instinctive caution even at such a
moment, led him to turn down its wick. Here
is a chance for the experts of the much-advertised
thumb print identification to put their
textbook theories into practice."
I READ the last sentence over again. It stared
at me like a grim challenge. In parenthesis
I should say that at this date the first echoes
of the marvelous work of Sir Edward Henry,
the veteran chief of Scotland Yard were
penetrating across the Atlantic — the stories of the
wizard-like identifications made through his
finger-print bureaus the trailing of crime by a
card index system and the imprints of human
hands. The American police, as a body, were
accepting the across-the-ocean stories with a
chuckle of open derision at the methods of their
London cousins, little dreaming that within less
than three years the finger-print bureau was to
become a definitely established department of
police operations in those cities where it had
been first accepted with the greatest ridicule.
My interest in the subject, I may as well
confess, was that of an enthusiast. I had even
made my last vacation serve the purpose of
study and spent several months in a personal,
first-hand investigation of the topic both at
Scotland Yard and Paris. I had returned,
enrolled among the keenest supporters of the new
system, perhaps even unduly assertive on the
subject, and emphatic in my claims of what it
could do in actual practice. But the opportunity
for my demonstration had never come. My
theories, so far as workable proof, were still
unproven to my skeptical brethren of the police.
I picked up the evening paper. Here, like
a bolt from a clear sky, was my chance —
and of all impossible places, in Bainford! My
telephone sent me darting across the room. The
patient voice of the clerk conveyed the chilling
announcement that the only possible connection
with Bainford meant a zig-zag, all-night journey,
with two changes at obscure hamlets, and
that my train left in forty minutes. I glanced
ruefully at the inviting bed-room of my suite.
Twelve hours on a cramped railroad seat instead
of the twelve hours of sleep for which my jaded
nerves were crying!
With a shrug, I turned resolutely to the
packing of my suitcase. My enthusiasm had met
the test — and survived it! If I failed in this
country tragedy at Bainford, if the opportunity
I sought —–
I was not the only passenger that the dusty
Nebraska train deposited on the inhospitable
platform of the Bainford station somewhat after
seven the next morning. Three straw-hatted
young men in flannels, with battered suitcases,
apparently were also doomed to the Bainford
mercies. They glanced at me with a suggestion
of covert sympathy as the driver of the rickety
bus of the "Bainford House" shambled expectantly
forward. It was not difficult to divine
their missions. Cigarettes before breakfast
would have been almost sufficient to establish
them as reporters, even if it were not for the
note books bulging their pockets.
THE Bainford House accommodated its
patrons at one long, red-covered table. The trio
of newspaper men were ushered to chairs directly
opposite to mine, and a platter of ham and
eggs deposited between us. The ham and eggs
gave them the opening for a conversation — not
that a newspaper man, however, requires an
opening!
"I say," said one of the number, leaning
toward me suddenly, "are you down here on this
murder case?"
I hesitated smiled and surrendered. When
we left the platter of ham and eggs — swept as
clean as Mother Hubbard's proverbial cupboard —
we had agreed to a tentative alliance of offense
and defense. The first feature of offense consisted of a descent on the undertaking establishment
of Mr. Ezekiel Watson.
Mr. Watson was finishing his first,
after-breakfast corn cob pipe. He glanced hopefully
toward us with an alert, professional eye, saw
evidently that we had not come to require his
undertaking services, and waited suspiciously
for us to speak. At my introduction, he made a
hasty effort to marshal his official dignity, rose
to his feet, slipped on a faded blue coat on the
lapel of which a tarnished silver star was pinned,
and frowned. He was no longer Zeke Watson,
the undertaker, but Ezekiel Watson, town marshal.
"I reckon as how the best idea I can give
you of this here affair is to take you to the scene
of the tragedy and let you look it over with
your own eyes as we talk."
"That will be excellent," I nodded. "You
evidently have the real detective instinct, Mr.
Watkins," I said.
HE stroked his straggling moustache reflectively,
and softened toward us on the instant.
A professional guide could not have been more
garrulous.
"No, I can't say as how there be anything
new in the case," he confided. "The widow must
have been struck down some time in the night,
maybe early in the evening. The coroner from
the Bend was over yesterday and gave it as his
opinion that she had been dead going on twelve
hours. He'll be back this morning if you want
to talk to him. The Widow Stebbins was killed
with the blunt end of a hammer. We counted as
many as twenty-three wounds on her body. No,
there be no trace of the hammer. The person
as did it was evidently taking no chances of any
clues behind him.
"The lamp chimney? I have it at my store.
The coroner turned it over to me until the
inquest, although what tarnation good it can do
is beyond me. Oh, you are welcome to see it. I
don't see what use we'll ever have for it. I
say for one that if we are going to hang a man
through this fool system of thumb prints, we
might as well give up the constitution and be
done with it!" said Zeke with a knowing nod.
"And what of a motive for the murder, Mr.
Watson?" queried one of the newspaper men.
Mr. Watson pondered solemnly.
"Motive? There ain't none so far as I can
see! Now, I ask you in all reason, why should
anyone kill a harmless critter like the Widow
Stebbins? It aint as like she was a young,
flighty woman. There be those now that allow
she was killed for her money! They do say
that she had a mint of it hidden somewhere in
the house But if she was murdered for
robbery, the place would be all torn up, wouldn't
it? There wasn't a thing disturbed as far as I
could see."
"THEN
the widow did have some money?" I
asked thoughtfully.
"None in the bank!" was the prompt reply.
"But she paid for everything with cash. Where
she got it, I don't know. I guess none of us
know much about her when you come right
down to hard tack, and yet she's lived in these
parts off and on since she was a girl."
"Off and on?" I said quickly. "Just what do
you mean by that?"
"Well you see she left here when she was
married and went to live at Ridgley. Her
husband was a lawyer. She met him when she was
on a visit there. But all that was twenty years
ago, I reckon More than that, for Sol Prentiss
left here at the same time. She threw Sol down
for Dan Stebbins, and Sol took it hard. Packed
up bag and baggage and left the next day after
she did. Funny thing about that. No one around
here saw him again until the day after Jane
Stebbins came back to Bainford. And then he
returned as he left without a word to any one,
and bought the old Grimes place at the end of
town and settled down here as though he had
only been gone a day."
"And renewed his attentions to the widow?"
I asked.
Mr. Watson grinned.
"Tried to, but the widow evidently didn't
care to resume former relations, although I
have heard that lately," he broke off abruptly,
and glanced down at the walk. Evidently he
had realized of a sudden that he was retailing
gossip away from what he considered the
pertinent angle of the case. Another reason for his
hesitation was suggested the next moment.
A man in a broad-brimmed straw hat, who
was working in a garden behind a freshly-painted
white fence glanced up curiously.
"Hello, Zeke!" he greeted.
"Howdy!" returned the constable. Mr. Watson
glanced back over his shoulder as we reached
the end of the fence. The man in the garden
was staring after us, his hand on his hoe.
"That there is Sol Prentiss I was telling
you about! This is his place. The widow's cottage
is just beyond at the bend of the road
there."
Instinctively I glanced back at the Prentiss
garden. The man with the hoe had resumed his
labors, working with a slow, methodical
thoroughness as though he had no other interest
in his scheme of life.
Evidently Bainford's first surge of interest
in the Stebbins murder had passed. None of the
morbidly curious hangers on, which we would
have found in a city, were visible in the neatly
kept yard. There seemed something strangely
incongruous, too, in the fact that not a single
policeman was visible at the premises. I realized
abruptly that I was approaching the affair
from a metropolitan angle and that I must
readjust my viewpoint.
IN through the narrow gate we filed, down the
short graveled walk, with the bright splotches
of flower plots on either side. At the cottage
itself, Mr. Watson instead of ascending by the
front steps, circled off toward the kitchen porch.
"Going to take us at once to the spot of
the murder?" queried one of the reporters.
Mr. Watson hesitated.
"Well, you see somehow it don't seem quite
natural to go in by the front door."
I stared.
"You see, the widow never used the front
door; she always kept it locked and bolted.
Company had to come in by way of the kitchen
or not at all. And they do say as how no one
ever stepped foot in the parlor or the widow's
bed-room," said Zeke.
"Something of a recluse, eh?"
commented one of the press trio.
The word was evidently a shade
beyond Mr. Watson's vocabulary.
"She sure was odd! You might
have thought she was afeared of her
life. Even kept her windows locked.
And never opened the kitchen door
unless she knew first who was there.
She had it fastened on the inside
with a chain, and never loosened it
until she was sure she wanted to let
her caller in. That reminds me. The
chain was off when we broke in the
door. I never thought of that
before."
"Must have been locked from the
outside?" I suggested.
"But why should the murderer
stop to lock it after he went out?"
returned the astute Mr. Watson.
I shrugged.
"It is just possible," I explained,
"that he might have wanted to cover
up the crime as long as possible."
"Say, I don't know but what you
are right! I never thought of that
before." There was something
almost apologetic in his voice.
THE kitchen door was closed and
locked. In fact, after the first alarm
of the tragedy and the removal of
the widow's battered body, it was
evident that the cottage had not
been disturbed. Whether this was
due to official caution or to a certain
awkward respect for the dead woman's
memory, I don't know. It was
quite apparent that Mr. Watson
realized that he was out of his depth
and was fearful of an official miss-step
in the event of too-great zealousness.
I learned afterward that
his assurance was by no means
increased by the absence of the sheriff,
who was away on a vacation and
whose deputy evidently considered
that in a crime of this character the
wisest policy was one of deliberation
rather than action!
The kitchen yawned before us, dim
and shadowy with its drawn
curtains. Somehow the action and the
sudden entrance of the sunlight
struck a jarring note. It was as
though we were invaders, that something
in the dim room cried to us
to halt! I am not a fanciful woman.
The wear and tear of a professional
detective's life leaves small room for
the fanciful — but of a sudden I found
myself pausing. And then I knew.
The thought that had been burrowing
in my sub-consciousness had crystalized
into definite expression. It
was the uncanny resemblance of the
tragedy to "The Affair of the Widow
LeRouge." The abruptness of the
suggestion left me gasping.
"It was here where she was found."
Mr. Watson was pointing solemnly
with his arm. But there was no need
of the explanatory gesture. The dull,
jagged splotches of crimson on the
floor told their story only too vividly.
THERE was no other evidence of
the deed in the room. Not a chair
had been overturned. Not one of the
homely utensils on the clean-scoured
pine table had been disturbed. It
was as though the victim had been
struck with a relentless suddenness,
as though the death blow had come
in the guise of friendship, reaching
its mark with a thoroughness that
made her helpless of resistance.
Another feature, too, was evident. The
series of wounds had not been given
to silence her struggles The methodical
order of the room made this
evident. The murderer must have
struck and struck again, probably
after the breath had left the victim's
body. The sudden outpouring of a
long-nourished hate, the hate of a
life-time might have been behind the
assault! I shuddered almost
involuntarily. What ghastly story would
the unfolding of this sudden tragedy
in the life of the peaceful village
reveal?
Beyond the kitchen lay three
rooms, the sacred precinct of the
"parlor," prim and cold with its stiff,
old-fashioned furniture, the widow's
bed-room, with the neatly made-up
bed all ready for her who would
never occupy it again, and the
dining-room, the most conspicuous
object of which was a walnut table of
an age and design that would have
brought a high price from a collector.
In one corner stood a huge, grandfather's
clock, also of walnut, with
its pendulum still monotonously
swinging. Mr. Watson surveyed us
expressively after our brief tour of
the house.
"Not a thing disturbed!"
YOU are absolutely certain that
there was nothing picked up in
the kitchen when the discovery of the
body was made?" questioned one of
my newspaper colleagues.
"Young man," snapped Mr. Watson,
"if there had been don't you
reckon as how I would be the first
to know about it? There was nothing
out of the ordinary except the
lamp chimney, not a thing unless —
maybe you'll be up to seeing a clue
next in that bit of paper from the
widow's package of bird seed!"
"Bird seed?" I asked mechanically.
Mr. Watson glanced up in disgust.
"I say I was only joking! It was
just a corner of red wrapping paper
that Hank picked up under the
widow's body — here it is now! I
guess I dropped it into my pocket
when he gave it to me." His hand
brought from his trousers a bunch
of keys, a quarter, two discolored
matches, and a crumpled corner of
thick, dark red paper. He gave it
to me with a shrug. In black letters
was printed across its surface the
word "Bird." Apparently there had
been other words on the sheet from
which it had been torn. Mr. Watson's
imagination had at once
suggested that it had been part of the
outer covering of a package of bird
seed and that the word "Seed"
followed "Bird."
I glanced up.
"If Mrs. Stebbins bought birdseed,
where is the bird?"
A blank expression settled on Mr.
Watson's face.
"Bird?" he repeated gazing vacantly
around him as though he
half-expected to hear the twitter of a
canary in the shadowy rooms. "Why
I — I don't know."
"Did the widow have a bird?"
"Why — why — maybe Martha Wells
across the street can tell you. She
was one of Mrs. Stebbins' cronies,
although she often said she never
set foot in the parlor!"
I dropped the torn paper into my
bag.
"After all, it is probably of no
consequence. We are concerned with
bigger features."
As the others turned again into
the dining-room. I stepped into the
bed-room With a woman of the retiring
habits of Mrs. Stebbins, her bed-room
would naturally be the room
most filled with personal suggestions.
I peered at the snowy counterpane,
the crayon portrait of a thin-moustached
man whom I judged to be
the defunct Stebbins, the economical
toilet articles on the bureau. Then
I stooped and one by one opened the
drawers. The usual miscellaneous
articles of a woman's possessions
met my search, and then —
MY hand felt a neatly tied bundle
of newspaper clippings, yellowed
with age. I carried them curiously
to the window. The headlines stared
at me:
"John Randall Sentenced to
Twenty Years for Ripley Bank
Robbery. Lawyer Stebbins Wins
Great Case."
Evidently the clippings all bore on
the same event. The date was that
of 1893, thirteen years before, the
clippings from the Ripley Journal.
A step sounded at the door. On a
sudden impulse I dropped the package
into my bag.
"Well," asked Mr. Watson, peering
in at me, "are you ready to go?"
I turned reluctantly.
"I think so. If you don't mind, I
would like to see that lamp chimney
when we get back to your store."
He chuckled.
"Help yourself!"
As we passed out of the gate, I
darted across the street. A thin-faced
woman in stiff black was staring
at us from the opposite yard
"Miss Martha Wells?" I asked.
She inclined her head curtly.
"Do you know whether Mrs. Stebbins
ever had a bird?"
"A bird? Did Jane Stebbins ever
have a bird? Why she wouldn't even
keep a canary! I offered to make
her a present of one for company,
and she said the place for birds was
in trees, not in people's houses! Jane
had some queer notions!"
"Evidently!" I agreed drily.
I walked slowly back to the group
awaiting me. The torn bit of red
paper in my bag had suddenly
assumed a new significance.
THE imprint of a human thumb
could not have been plainer than
the vivid red outlines in the smudge
of the Widow Stebbins lamp chimney.
I gave an exclamation of sudden
satisfaction as I contemplated my
examination in Mr. Watson's back room.
If a suspect were taken into custody
thirty minutes' work would reveal
his innocence or guilt beyond the
question of a doubt. If this thumbprint
tallied with the tell-tale
evidence of the smudged chimney, the
quest of the law need go no farther.
I replaced the chimney, saw with
relief that Mr. Watson had been
called out, and crossing to the hotel,
ascended to my room and locked the
door with a quickening of my breath.
I spread open again the Widow Stebbins'
hoarded newspaper clippings,
and settled myself to their detailed
reading.
One paragraph brought my eyes
back a second time. It read:
"Sentiment in regard to the Randall
case runs high in the community.
There seems to be a wide-spread
belief that justice has not been
satisfied that the real criminal is
escaping punishment. There are those
who go as far as to say that Paul
Randall, and not John, should wear
prison stripes and that were it not
for Lawyer Stebbins, the position of
the brothers would be reversed. The
Journal challenges Paul Randall to
reply to this charge if he dares."
And then again at an interval of
a year, I found the following
comments!
"Lawyer Stebbins has recently
struck a substantial windfall in the
shape of a reputed legacy from an
Eastern relative. It is freely hinted,
however, that Paul Randall could
supply more definite information
concerning the legacy than the relative.
Services such as Lawyer Stebbins
rendered him come high!"
I whistled. Certainly this was a
daring suggestion for the public
print! Evidently the editor was very
sure of his ground or careless of
libel!
A THIRD paragraph at the end of
the packet of clippings I also
marked.
"Lawyer Stebbins died at his home
last night after a short attack of
pneumonia. He has probably carried
to the grave the last chance the
public will ever have of ascertaining
the true facts of the Randall bank
robbery. Doubtless there are those
who will breathe freer in
consequence!"
I laid aside the clippings and tried
to fill in the details of the fragmentary
story.
It was obvious that the Widow
Stebbins' husband had been concerned
in a case of more than questionable
lines, that he had supposedly shielded
the guilty at the expense of the
innocent; that he had become
possessed in consequence of both a
powerful blackmailing lever and the
hatred of a wronged man. Had his
secret been transmitted to his wife,
and had she in turn stepped into his
position in this connection? Was
this the explanation of her source
of livelihood and her elaborate
measures of protection? I sprang to
my feet. Here at least was motive
for her murder — emphasized motive,
on the part of either of the Randall
brothers — the one tired of blackmail,
the other hungry for revenge. A
slight enough thread, perhaps, for
the development of a case, but still —
AN hour later, I was in the lobby of
the hotel, holding earnest conversation
with the most alert of my
reporter companions.
"Take the next train to Ripley
and telegraph me as soon as possible
the whereabouts of John and Paul
Randall."
"John was sentenced for twenty
years, you say?" questioned the
newspaper man.
"But remember, we must deduct
the margin for good behavior. He
should be out now!"
The reporter drew a deep breath.
"Jove! What a story!"
An hour later he was on his way
to Ripley. At about the same time,
I was again interviewing Miss Martha
Wells.
"Did Jane Stebbins ever tell me
any of the details of her past life?"
she repeated. "If you knew Jane,
you wouldn't ask that question. She
wasn't the kind of a woman to — get
confidential with any one. Her
affairs were her own, and she never
shared them with her neighbors."
I sighed.
"And you have no suspicion yourself
of any secret which she might
have been guarding?"
Miss Wells shook her head until
her prim side curls bobbed in
emphasis.
"Did she ever give any reason for
her seclusion, or living behind locked
doors?"
Again the prim curls bobbed.
"Of course, it must have struck
you as peculiar?"
"Most things that Jane Stebbins
did was peculiar, even the way she
acted toward that good-for-nothing,
Sol Prentiss."
I masked my sudden eagerness by
a moment's silence.
"I understand they were once good
friends?"
Miss Wells tossed her head.
"But that was over and done with
twenty years ago! Why Jane Stebbins
should carry on with the man
again at her time of life —"
THE statement of the marshal of
the widow's coldness toward the
sweetheart of her youthful days
flashed back to me. I hazarded a
query at a venture.
"But that attitude of Mrs. Stebbins
was quite recent?"
"And that's why I could not
understand it! Her keeping the man
at arm's length for years, and then
all of a sudden thawing to him and
letting him call spruced up just as
though he were a courtin' of her — I
gave Jane a piece of my mind. Much
good it did me, though!"
I walked slowly back to the hotel.
As I passed the Prentiss yard the
man with the hoe we had seen in
the garden appeared from the barn.
He stared at me as he entered the
house. Over my shoulder I could see
him peering at my retreating figure
from the door.
At the hotel I found a telegram
from my reporter-assistant. It read:
"John Randall died in State
Penitentiary six months ago; Paul
Randall died at his home here three
weeks ago."
I tore the message into shreds.
After all the clue had seemed too
pressing — too obvious. I always
distrust the obvious.
Abruptly I realized that I had not
been to bed for forty-eight hours.
The ardor of the chase — the thrill
of the man-hunt, if you will — had
smothered my weariness. But the
receipt of the telegram had snapped
the tension. I reeled toward the
bed and threw off my clothes. My
eyes closed almost before I touched
the pillows.
IT is wonderful the mental
distance sometimes bridged by four
hours of sleep. It was eight o'clock
when I awoke. I resolutely refrained
from thought of the case until my
persuasion had induced the presiding
genius of the hotel dining-room to
serve me coffee and steak after the
iron-clad "closing" hour of seven!
Bainford surely set a stimulating
example in early habits even to a
city-bred detective!
I was finishing my coffee when the
operator at the depot slouched
toward me with another telegram. The
enclosed message was as direct and
powerful a mental spur as champagne.
Over the signature of my young
newspaper friend were the
tidings:
"Find I have been preceded in my
quest of the Randall data by a
stranger answering description of Sol
Prentiss, who attracted much attention
by his persistency in probing
the life of Mrs. Stebbins and husband.
SOL PRENTISS! I tore the telegram
musingly into bits. In the back of
my mind I was reviewing the picture
of a stoop-shouldered man plying
a monotonous hoe. Sol Prentiss!
I walked to the door and peered
down the deserted street. A slate-gray
sky was threatening rain. On
a sudden impulse I ascended to my
room secured an umbrella and hat,
and started forth into the
night-wrapped street.
In the course of a mile, I encountered
just three persons, all of whom
stared after me until the darkness
hid my form. Bainford was not used
to pedestrianism in the wee sma'
hours of the night — after eight
o'clock.
Before me suddenly blinked the
light of a cottage. I paused at the
gate. This was a slice of good
fortune I had not been expecting! I
turned into the yard and knocked at
the door. There was a sound of
shuffling steps, and Sol Prentiss
stood staring at me from the doorway.
"May I trespass for a few
moments on your time?" I began. "I
am a detective. I wish to talk to
you about Mrs. Stebbins."
I WAS already pushing my way in.
He eyed me sullenly through a
pair of closely-set, hardening eyes, and
stepped slowly aside. In the glow
of the lamp on the table, I had my
first good view of him — a sparsely
built, narrow-cheeked man with thin
gray hair and a moustache the color
of rusted iron.
"You were one of Mrs. Stebbins'
friends, I believe?" I continued.
He blinked at me. "What of it?"
"You were in the habit of calling at her
house.
"Well?"
"When was the last time you saw
Mrs. Stebbins alive?"
