“So sweet of you to see me, Miss Carwell, in all your grief, and I must apologize for troubling you.”
Miss Tighe, alias Morocco Kate, fairly gushed out the words as she extended a hand to Viola in the library. The first glance at the “large blonde,” as the maid had described her, shocked the girl. She could hardly repress a shudder of disgust as she looked at the bleached hair. But, nerving herself for the effort, Viola let her hand rest limply for a moment in the warm moist grip of Miss Tighe.
“Won't you sit down?” asked Viola.
“Thank you. I won't detain you long. I called merely on business, though I suppose you think I'm not a very business-like looking person. But I am strictly business, all the way through,” and she tittered. “I find it pays better to really dress the part,” she added.
“I was so sorry to hear about your dear father's death. I knew him—quite well I may say—he was very good to me.”
“Yes,” murmured Viola, and somehow her heart was beating strangely. What did it all mean? Who was this—this impossible person who claimed business relations, yes, even friendliness, with the late Mr. Carwell?
“And now to tell you what I came for,” went on Miss Tighe. “Your dear father—and in his death I feel that I have lost a very dear friend and adviser—your dear father purchased many valuable books of me. I sell only the rarest and most expensive bindings, chiefly full morocco. Your father was very fond of books, wasn't he?”
Viola could not help admitting it, as far as purchasing expensive, if unread, editions was concerned. The library shelves testified to this.
“Yes, indeed, he just loved them, and he was always glad when I brought his attention to a new set, my dear Miss Carwell. Well, that is what I came about now. Just before his terrible death—it was terrible, wasn't it? Oh, I feel so sorry for you,” and she dabbed a much-perfumed handkerchief to her eyes. “Just before his lamented death he bought a lovely white morocco set of the Arabian Nights from me. Forty volumes, unexpurgated, my dear. Mind you that—unexpurgated!” and Morocco Kate seemed to dwell on this with relish. “As I say, he bought a lovely set from me. It was the most expensive set I ever sold—forty-five hundred dollars.”
“Forty-five hundred dollars for a set of books!” exclaimed Viola, in unaffected wonder.
“Oh, my dear, that is nothing. These were some books,” and she winked understandingly.
“It isn't everybody who could get them! The edition was limited. But I happened on a set and I knew your father wanted them, so I got them for him. He made the first payment, and then he died—I read it in the papers. Naturally I didn't want to bother you while the terrible affair was so fresh, so I waited. And now I'm here!”
She seemed to be—very much so, as she settled herself back in the big leather chair, and made sure that her hair was properly fluffed around her much-powdered face.
“You are here to—” faltered Viola. “To get the balance for the books—that's it, dear Miss Carwell. Naturally I'm not in for my health, and of course I don't publish books myself. I'm only a poor business woman, and I work on commission. The firm likes to have all contracts cleaned up, but in this case they didn't press matters, knowing Mr. Carwell was all right; or, if he wasn't, his estate was. I've sold him many a choice and rare book—books you don't see in every library, my dear. Of course there were—ahem—some you wouldn't care to read, and I can't say I care much about 'em myself. A good French novel is all right, I say, but some of 'em well, you know!” and she winked boldly, and dabbed her face with the handkerchief which was quickly filling the room with an overpowering odor.
“You mean my father owes you money?” faltered Viola.
“Well, not me, exactly—the firm. But I don't mind telling you I get my rake-off. I have to so I can live. The balance is only three thousand dollars, and if you could give me a check—”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Viola, “but I have nothing to do with the business end of my father's affairs.”
“You're his daughter, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
“And you'll get all his property?” Morocco Kate was getting vindictive now.
“I cannot discuss that with you,” said Viola, simply. “All matters of business are attended to at the office. You will have to see Mr. Blossom.”
“Huh! LeGrand Blossom! No use seeing him. I've tried. But I'll try again, and say you sent me.” The voice was back to its original dulcet tones now. “That's what I'll do, my dear Miss Carwell. I'll tell LeGrand Blossom you sent me. He needn't think he can play fast and loose with me as he has. If he doesn't want to pay this bill, contracted by your father in the regular way—and I must say he was very nice to me—well, there are other ways of collecting. I haven't told all I know.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Viola hotly. “Oh, there's time enough to tell later,” was the answer. “I haven't been in the rare edition business for nothing, nor just for my health. But wait until I see LeGrand Blossom. Then I may call on you again!” And with this rather veiled threat Morocco Kate took her leave.
“What horrible person was that?” asked Miss Mary Carwell, who met Viola in the hail after her visitor's departure. “She was positively vulgar, I should say, though I didn't see her.”
“Oh, she was just a book agent. I sent her to Mr. Blossom.”
“To Mr. Blossom, my dear! I didn't know he was literary.”
“Neither was this person, Aunt Mary. I think I shall go and lie down. I have a headache.”
And as she locked herself in her room shed bitter tears on her pillow. Who was this person who seemed to know Mr. Carwell so well, who boasted of how “good” he was to her? Why did Colonel Ashley want to gain all the information he could about her?
“Oh, what does it all mean?” asked Viola in shrinking terror. “Is there to be some terrible—some horrible scandal?”
She put the question to Colonel Ashley a little later.
“Who is this woman?”
The colonel considered a moment before replying. Then, with a shrewd look at Viola, he replied:
“Well, my dear, she isn't your kind, of course, but I've known her, and known of her, for several years. She, and those she associates with, work the de luxe game.”
“The de luxe game? What is it?”
“In brief, it's a blackmailing scheme. A woman of the type of Miss Tighe, to give her one of her names, associates herself with some men. They arrange to have a set of some books—usually well known enough and of a certain value—bound in expensive leather—full morocco—hand tooled and all that. They call on rich men and women, and induce them to buy the expensive and rare set, of which they say there is only one or two on the market.
“Sometimes the sales are straight enough—particularly where women are the buyers—but the books, even if delivered, are not worth anything like the price paid.
“But, in the case of wealthy men the game is different.”
“Different?”
“Yes, particularly where a woman like Morocco Kate is the agent. They are not satisfied with the enormous profit made on selling a common edition of books, falsely dressed in a garish binding, but they endeavor to compromise the man in some business or social way, and then threaten to expose him unless he pays a large sum,—ostensibly, of course, for the books.
“Morocco Kate, who called on you, has more than one killing to her credit in this game, and she has managed to keep out of jail because her victims were afraid of the publicity of prosecuting. And it was so foolish of them for, in most cases, it was just mere foolishness on their part, and nothing criminally, or even morally, wrong, though they may have been indiscreet.”
“And you think my father—”
“I don't know anything about it, Viola, my dear!” was the prompt answer. “Your father may have dealt in a legitimate way with this woman, buying books from her because she cajoled him into it, though he could have done much better with any reputable house. As I say, he may have simply bought some books from her, and not have made the final payments on account of his death. Whether the contract he entered into is binding or not I can't say until I have seen it.”
“But I found nothing about books among his papers!”
“No? Then perhaps it was a verbal contract. Or he may have been—” The colonel stopped. Viola guessed what he intended to say.
“Do you think he was—Do you think this woman may make trouble?” she asked bravely.
“I don't know. We must find out more about her. If she comes again, hold her and send for me. I didn't want her to see me to-day to know that I was on this case. But I don't mind now.”
“Oh, suppose there should be some—some disgrace?”
“Don't worry about that, Viola. But now, I have some rather startling news for you.”
“Oh, more—”
“Not exactly trouble. But Captain Poland has gone away—his place is closed.”
“The captain gone away!” faltered the girl.
“Yes. I wondered if you knew he was going. Did he intimate to you anything of the kind?”
The colonel watched Viola narrowly as he asked this question.
“No, I never knew he contemplated ending the season here so early,” Viola said. “Usually he is the last to go, staying until late in October. Is there anything—”
“That is all I know—he is gone,” said the detective. “I wanted to ask him about that fifteen-thousand-dollar matter, but I shall have to write, I suppose. And the sooner I get the letter off the better.”
“Please write it here,” suggested Viola, indicating the table where pens, ink and stationery were always kept. “I am going to look again among the papers of the private safe to see if there was anything about books—the Arabian Nights, she said it was.”
“Yes, that's her favorite set. But don't worry, my dear. Everything will come out all right.”
And as Viola left him alone in the library, the detective added to himself:
“I wonder if it will?”
Colonel Ashley wrote a brief, business-like letter to Captain Poland, addressing it to his summer home at Lakeside, arguing that the yachtsman would have left some forwarding address.
Then, lighting a cigar, the colonel sat back in a deep, leather chair—the same one Morocco Kate had sat in and perfumed—and mused.
“There are getting to be too many angles to this,” he reflected. “I need a little help. Guess I'll send for Jack Young. He'll be just the chap to look after Jean and follow that French dope artist to his new place, provided he leaves here suddenly. Yes, I need Jack.”
And having telephoned a telegram, summoning from New York one of his most trusted lieutenants, Colonel Ashley refreshed himself by reading a little in the “Compleat Angler.”
Jack Young appeared at Lakeside the next day, well dressed, good looking, a typical summer man of pleasing address.
“Another diamond cross mystery?” he asked the colonel.
“How is your golf?” was the unexpected answer.
“Oh, I guess I can manage to drive without topping,” was the ready answer. “Have I got to play?”
“It might be well. I'll get you a visitor's card at the Maraposa Club here, and you can hang around the links and see what you can pick up besides stray balls. Now I'll tell you the history of the case up to the present.”
And Jack Young, having heard, and having consumed as many cigarettes as he considered the subject warranted, remarked:
“All right. Get me a bag of clubs, and I'll see what I can do. So you want me to pay particular attention to this dope fiend?”
“Yes, if he proves to be one, and I think he will. I'll have my hands full with Blossom, Morocco Kate and some others.”
“What about Poland and Bartlett?”
“Well, Harry is still held, but I imagine he'll be released soon, Jack.”
“Nothing on him?”
“I wouldn't go so far as to say that. You know my rule. Believe no one innocent until proved not guilty. I can keep my eye on him. Besides, he's pretty well anchored.”
“You mean by Miss Viola?”
“Yes.”
“How about the captain?”
“He's a puzzle, at present. But I wish you'd find out if that chauffeur has a girl. That's the best way to do, or undo, a man that I know of. Find out if he has a girl. That'll be your trick.”
“All right—that and golf. I'm ready.”
And Jack Young worked to such good advantage that three days later he had a pretty complete report ready for his chief.
“Jean Forette has a girl,” said Jack; “and she's a little beauty, too. Mazi Rochette is her name. She's a maid in one of the swell families here, and she's dead gone on our friend Jean. I managed to get a talk with her, and she thinks he's going to marry her as soon as he gets another place. A better place than with the Carwells, she says he must have. This place was pretty much on the blink, she confided to me.”
“Or words to that effect,” laughed the colonel.
“Exactly. I'm not much on the French, you know. Still I got along pretty well with her. She took a notion to me.”
“I thought you might be able to get something in that direction,” said the colonel with a smile. “Did you learn where Jean was just prior to the golf game which was the last Mr. Carwell played?”
“Yes, he was with her, the girl says, and she didn't know why I was asking, either, I flatter myself. I led around to it in a neat way. He was with her until just before he drove Mr. Carwell to the links. In fact, Jean had the girl out for a spin in the new car, she says. She's afraid of it, though. Revolutionary devil, she calls it.”
“Hum! If Jean was with her just before he picked up Carwell to go to the game—well, the thing is turning out a bit different from what I expected. Jack, we still have plenty of work before us. Did I tell you Morocco Kate was mixed up in this?”
“No! Is she?”
“Seems to be.”
“Good night, nurse! Whew! If he fell for her—”
“I don't believe he did, Jack. My old friend was a sport, but not that kind. He was clean, all through.”
“Glad to hear you say so, Colonel. Well, what next?”
They sat talking until far into the night.
There was rather a sensation in Lakeside two days later when it became known that the coroner's jury was to be called together again, to consider more evidence in the Carwell case.
“What does it mean?” Viola asked Colonel Ashley. “Does it mean that Harry will be—”
“Now don't distress yourself, my dear,” returned the detective, soothingly. “I have been nosing around some, and I happen to know that the prosecutor and coroner haven't a bit more evidence than they had at first when they held Mr. Bartlett.”
“Does that mean Harry will be released?”
“I think so.”
“Does it mean he will be proved innocent?”
“That I can't say. I hardly think the verdict will be conclusive in any case. But they haven't any more evidence than at first—that he had a quarrel with your father just before the fatal end. As to the nature of the quarrel, Harry is silent—obstinately silent even to his own counsel; and in this I can not uphold him. However, that is his affair.”
“But I'm sure, Colonel, that he had nothing to do with my father's death; aren't you?”
“If I said I was sure, my dear, and afterward, through force of evidence and circumstance, were forced to change my opinion, you would not thank me for now saying what you want me to say,” was the reply. “It is better for me to say that I do not know. I trust for the best. I hope, for your sake and his, that he had nothing to do with the terrible crime. I want to see the guilty person discovered and punished, and to that end I am working night and day. And if I find out who it is, I will disclose him—or her—no matter what anguish it costs me personally—no matter what anguish it may bring to others. I would not be doing my full duty otherwise.”
“No, I realize that, Colonel. Oh, it is hard—so hard! If we only knew!”
“We may know,” said the colonel gently.
“Soon?” she asked hopefully.
“Sooner than you expect,” he answered with a smile. “Now I must attend the jury session.”
It was brief, and not at all sensational, much to the regret of the reporters for the New York papers who flocked to the quiet and fashionable seaside resort. The upshot of the matter was that the chemists for the state reported that Mr. Carwell had met his death from the effects of some violent poison, the nature of which resembled several kinds, but which did not analyze as being any particular one with which they were, at present, familiar.
There were traces of both arsenic and strychnine, but mingled with them was some narcotic of strange composition, which was deadly in its effect, as had been proved on guinea pigs, some of the residue from the stomach and viscera of the dead man having been injected into the hapless animals.
Harry Bartlett was not called to the stand, but, pale from his confinement, sat an interested and vital spectator of the proceedings.
The prosecutor announced that the efforts of his detectives had resulted in nothing more. There was not sufficient evidence to warrant accusing any one else, and that against Harry Bartlett was of so slender and circumstantial a character that it could not be held to have any real value before the grand jury nor in a trial court.
“What is your motion, then?” asked the coroner.
“Well, I don't know that I have any motion to make,” said Mr. Stryker. “If this were before a county judge, and the prisoner's counsel demanded it, I should have to agree to a nolle pros. As it is I simply say I have no other evidence to offer at this time.”
“Then the jury may consider that already before it?” asked Billy Teller.
“Yes.”
“You have heard what the prosecutor said, gentlemen,” went on the coroner. “You may retire and consider your verdict.”
This they did, for fifteen minutes—fifteen nerve-racking minutes for more than one in the improvised courtroom. Then the twelve men filed back, and in answer to the usual questions the foreman announced:
“We find that Horace Carwell came to his death through poison administered by a person, or persons, unknown.”
There was silence for a moment, and then, as Bartlett started from his seat, a flush mantling his pale face, Viola, with a murmured “Thank God!” fainted.
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