The Tragedy of Z (16 page)

“Precisely.”

“Now, we've already accounted for one of the two missing sheets: it was in the envelope addressed to Fanny Kaiser and must have been used by Fawcett himself before the murder. Then the only sheet missing—the sheet burned in the grate which father himself established as having come from the pad on the desk—must have” been the sheet ripped off the pad, the bloody sheet which should have been there but wasn't.

“But if this missing sheet had blood on it, it must have been ripped off
after the murder,
because it was the murder which caused it to become bloody in the first place. Therefore, too, it was
burned
after the murder, and stamped on after the murder. Who burned it? Was the murderer the burner? But if the murderer was the burner and stamper, then Dow, who I've shown couldn't have been the burner and stamper, couldn't have been the murderer either!”

“Here, here!” cried the old gentleman softly. “Not so fast, Patience. You're
assuming
that murderer and stamper were one and the same individual. But can you prove it? For there's a way of proving it, you know.”

“Oh, good lord!” groaned father, staring morosely at his feet.

“Proof? Certainly! Suppose murderer and stamper were two people, as you say. According to Dr. Bull the murder occurred at ten-twenty. Carmichael was on watch outside the house from a quarter of ten until ten-thirty and saw
only one person
enter the house in that period, and the same person leave. Moreover, the house was gone over by the police and no one found to be hiding. No one left between the time Carmichael found the body and the time the police arrived. No one could have left by an exit except the one door Carmichael was watching, because all other doors and windows were found locked from the inside.…” Father groaned again. “Oh, but it's beautiful, Mr. Lane! Because this means that two people were not involved, only one from first to last; that therefore only one person was in the death-room, committed the murder, and burned and stamped upon the letter. But Aaron Dow, as I've shown, couldn't have been the stamper; therfore Aaron Dow couldn't have been the murderer either.

“Ergo,
Aaron Dow is as innocent as I used to be ten years ago!”

There I paused for breath, commendation, and fatigue.

Mr. Lane looked a little sad. “Inspector, I realize now what a useless member of society I've become. You've begotten a veritable Holmes, and what little function I performed in the world has been taken from me. My dear, that was a brilliant analysis. You're perfectly right—
as far as you've gone.”

“My God,” bellowed father, springing to his feet, “do you mean to tell me there's even more?”

“Considerably more, Inspector, and of greater importance.”

“You mean,” I said eagerly, “that I haven't drawn the natural conclusion? Of course, there's this—if Dow is innocent, then someone is framing him.”

“Yes?”

“And Dow's nemesis, the person who's framing him, is right-handed. He used his left to make the act of striking consistent with Dow had Dow been the murderer, but the subconscious use of his right foot shows he's really right-handed.”

“Hmm. That wasn't what I meant. You've overlooked or not considered other elements which admit of far more startling deductions, my dear!”

Father threw up his hands. As for me, I said meekly: “Yes?”

Mr. Lane threw me a sharp glance at that, and our eyes held for a moment. Then he smiled. “So you've made them, too, eh?”

He sank into a reverie, and I toyed with a blade of grass as I wondered whether to say …

“Listen!” growled father. “I'll get tough, too. Just happened to think of it. All right, Patty, answer this. How the devil can you be sure the guy that left that toeprint on the rug was the same one who stamped on the fire? I admit it's probably true, but if you can't prove it, by gee, where's your pretty theory?”

“Tell him, Patience,” said Mr. Lane gently.

I sighed. “Poor dear! You must be awfully confused. Didn't I just show that only one person was involved? Didn't I ask Carmichael if he stepped on the rug near the fireplace, and he said no? And didn't we learn from Mr. Hume that the prints could not have been made by Senator Fawcett? Then who else could have left that toeprint except the murderer-burner-stamper?”

“All right, all right! What do we do now?”

Mr. Lane raised his eyebrows. “My dear Inspector! Surely it's self-evident?”

“What's self-evident?”

“Our course of action. You must return to Leeds at once to see Dow.”

I frowned; this was too much for me. As for father, he was completely at sea. “See Dow? For the love of Mike, what for? The poor mutt gives me the jitters.”

“But it's of the utmost importance, Inspector.” Mr. Lane rose quickly from the hummock and slipped the cotton robe about his shoulders. “You must see Dow before his trial.…” He became very thoughtful all at once, and his eyes sparkled suddenly. “By Jove, Inspector, I do believe, on second thought, I'd enjoy getting into this myself! Do you think there's room for me, or will your friend John Hume order me out of Leeds?”

I cried: “Bully!” and father actually looked cheerful: “Y' know, that's a real idea. Damned if I wouldn't feel better if you handled this yourself, with all due respect to Patty.”

“But why do you want to see Dow?” I asked.

“My dear Patience, we've built a perfectly beautiful theory out of certain facts. Now”—Mr. Lane flung a bare arm over father's shoulders and took my hand—“now we'll stop theorizing and conduct some experiments. And even then,” he added with a frown, “we're not out of the woods.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“We're as far from discovering,” the old gentleman said quietly, “who really killed Senator Fawcett as we were a week ago!”

10. TEST IN A CELL

At The Hamlet we had met a caliban, who was the incredible Quacey; we had basked in the cherubic smiles and been served by the deft hands of a Falstaff, who was Mr. Lane's major-domo and general factotum; and now, as if to complete the illusion, we were piloted out of those spacious grounds by a red-haired and grinning Occidental
gharry-walla,
whom the old gentleman persisted in calling Dromio. Dromio, whose pride of profession approached the sublime, drove Mr. Lane's glittering limousine with the finesse of a Philadelphia lawyer and the facility of a
première danseuse;
and our journey upstate under his guidance became a thing of beauty and a joy which I wistfully hoped might last forever.

It had been especially pleasant because of Drury Lane's rich chuckling conversations with father. For the most part I was content to sit between them and listen dreamily to their talk of old times, and particularly to the old gentleman's reminiscences of the theater. Growing more fond of him with every passing moment, I came to learn something of the secret of his charm. He managed always to leaven gravity with a gentle wit; everything he said seemed precisely so, without argument or question; and moreover what he said was interesting. He had led a fuller life than most, crammed with Promethean friendships; he had known intimately everyone worth knowing during the golden age of drama.… Altogether a fascinating man.

A pleasant companion on a journey, as Syrus the mimeographer has pointed out somewhere, is as good as a carriage; and here we had both of the most excellent quality. How quickly it was over! All too soon we rolled down into the Valley, with the river gleaming off to one side and the prison and Leeds somewhere in the immediate distance; and I realized with a shiver that this was one case of journeying where death might very well be waiting at the journey's end. Aaron Dow's sharp little face began to dance in the haze of the hills, and for the first time since we had left The Hamlet I gave way to gloomy thoughts; for through the long hours of the trip the case of Aaron Dow had been firmly wrapped away in the tissue of silence and not even his name had been mentioned—so that for some time I had forgotten the dark nature of our mission. I wondered now, now that it came back to me, if we were not riding on a hopeless errand of mercy, impotent to save that poor creature from jerking out his cheap little life in the embrace of the electric chair.

As we purred along the main highway to Leeds, the personal talk died, and for a long time we sat in silence, similarly touched, I think, by an uneasy conviction of futility.

Then father said: “Well, Patty, I guess we'd better put up at a hotel in town. We can't impose on the Clays again.”

“Anything you say, father,” I said wearily.

“Pshaw!” said the old gentleman. “You'll do nothing of the sort. Since I've joined forces with you, I suppose I have a voice in the plan of campaign. I suggest, Inspector, that you and Patience impose on Elihu Clay just a little longer.”

“But why?” protested father.

“For various reasons, none of which is in itself important, but which
in toto
seem to dictate the move as a matter of strategy.”

“We can say,” I sighed, “that we've come back to take up the Fawcett investigation again.”

“It's true,” said father thoughtfully, “that I'm not finished with that damn' plug-ugly.… But how about you, Mr. Lane? You can't very well—I mean——”

“No,” smiled the old gentleman. “I shan't bother the Clays. But I've an idea.… Where does Father Muir live?”

“In a little house by himself outside the prison walls,” I replied. “Doesn't he, father?”

“Uh-huh. Not a bad idea at that. Didn't you say you knew him?”

“Very well indeed. A dear soul. I believe I'll pay him a visit and,” he chuckled, “save myself a hotel bill. You come with me, and then Dromio will drive you over to the Clays.”

Father directed our chauffeur, and we skirted the town and began the long climb up the hill, with the ugly gray mammoth above as our goal. We shot past the Clay house and soon after, not a hundred yards from the main entrance to the prison, we came upon a little frame house swathed in ivy, its stone wall splattered with early roses, with a porch whose large roomy rockers cried out for occupancy.

Dromio blew a blast on his horn, and the front door opened just as Mr. Lane went up the walk. In the doorway appeared Father Muir, cassock awry, gentle old face painfully screwed up as he strove to see through his thick lenses who might be visiting him.

A vast amazement and a slow delight dawned on his face as he recognized his visitor. “Drury Lane!” he cried, grasping Mr. Lane's hands with fervor. “I can't believe my eyes! What are you doing up here? Heavens, I'm glad to see you. Come in, come in.”

We did not hear Mr. Lane's low reply, and for a moment the priest babbled on. Then the good padre spied us in the car and, gathering up the skirts of his cassock, hurried down the walk.

“You honor me,” he cried. “Really, I—” The old man's wrinkled little face was beaming. “Won't you come in? I've prevailed upon Mr. Lane to stay—he tells me he's in Leeds on a visit—but you'll come in for at least a cup of tea, I'm sure.…”

I was about to reply when I saw the old actor, from the porch, shake his head in a sharp way.

“We're so sorry,” I said quickly, before father could open his mouth, “but we're at the Clays. We're stopping there, you know. Some other time, although it's very sweet of you, Father.”

Dromio lugged two heavy valises from the car to the porch, grinned at his master, and returned to take us back down the hill. The last we saw of the two old men was Mr. Lane's tall figure disappearing into the house before Father Muir, who paused to look back at us with sad regret.

We had no difficulty in re-establishing ourselves as guests in the Clay house; in fact, there was no one at home but Martha, the elderly housekeeper, when we drove up; and she took us for granted. So we resumed possession of our old bedrooms as a matter of course, and when an hour later Jeremy and his father returned from the quarries for luncheon we were waiting calmly on the porch—more calmly in outward appearance, I fear, than we felt. But there was no reservation behind the warmth of Elihu Clay's greeting; and as for Jerry, that young man gaped and goggled at sight of me as if I were some apparition who had once visited him with highly pleasurable results and whom he had never expected to see again. The first thing he did when he regained his composure was to hurry me behind the house to a little arbor well screened by leaves and attempt to kiss me, stone-dust on his face and all; whereupon, as I evaded his practiced clutch and felt his lips slither over the tip of my left ear I knew I was, in a manner of speaking, back home and
in statu quo ante.

That very afternoon we were roused from the porch by the clamor of an automobile horn; and looking up we saw the long body of the Lane car slipping into the driveway. Dromio grinned at the wheel, and Mr. Lane waved from the tonneau.

When the introductions were over, Mr. Lane said: “I'm very curious, Inspector, about that poor man in the Leeds county jail,” as if he had merely heard the story of Aaron Dow somewhere and was making an idle inquiry.

Father took up his cue without blinking. “The old chaplain told you about him, I s'pose. Sad case. Why, were you thinking of going into town?”

I wondered why Mr. Lane was wary of mentioning his acute interest in the case. Surely he didn't suspect—I glanced at the Clays. Elihu Clay was smiling with vacuous delight at the old gentleman's authentic figure, and Jeremy stared with awe. It occurred to me that Drury Lane was a famous man; and I could see from his easy, oblivious manner that he was accustomed to public adulation.

“Yes,” he said. “Father Muir thinks I may be able to help him. I
should
like to see the poor fellow. Would you arrange it for me, Inspector? I understand you have
entrèe
with the district attorney.