The Affair Next Door (32 page)

"What!" I cried.

"
Having hidden the letter in her shoe
," repeated Mr. Gryce, with his
finest smile, "she had but to signify that the boots sent by Altman were
a size too small, for her to retain her secret and keep the one article
she traded upon from his envious clutch. You seem struck dumb by this,
Miss Butterworth. Have I enlightened you on a point that has hitherto
troubled you?"

"Don't ask me; don't look at me." As if he ever looked at any one! "Your
perspicacity is amazing, but I will try and not show my sense of it, if
it is going to make you stop."

He smiled; the Inspector smiled: neither understood me.

"Very well then, I will go on; but the non-change of shoes had to be
accounted for, Miss Butterworth."

"You are right; and it
has
been, of course."

"Have you any better explanation to give?"

I had, or thought I had, and the words trembled on my tongue. But I
restrained myself under an air of great impatience. "Time is flying!" I
urged, with as near a simulation of his own manner in saying the words
as I could affect. "Go on, Mr. Gryce."

And he did, though my manner evidently puzzled him.

"Being foiled in this his last attempt, this smooth and diabolical
villain hesitated no longer in carrying out the scheme which had
doubtless been maturing in his mind ever since he dropped the key of his
father's house into his own pocket. His brother's wife must die, but not
in a hotel room with him for a companion. Though scorned, detested, and
a stumbling-block in the way of the whole family's future happiness and
prosperity, she still was a Van Burnam, and no shadow must fall upon her
reputation. Further than this, for he loved life and his own reputation
also, and did not mean to endanger either by this act of
self-preservation, she must perish as if from accident, or by some blow
so undiscoverable that it would be laid to natural causes. He thought he
knew how this might be brought about. He had seen her put on her hat
with a very thin and sharp pin, and he had heard how one thrust into a
certain spot in the spine would effect death without a struggle. A wound
like that would be small; almost indiscernible. True it would take skill
to inflict it, and it would require dissimulation to bring her into the
proper position for the contemplated thrust; but he was not lacking in
either of these characteristics; and so he set himself to the task he
had promised himself, and with such success that ere long the two left
the hotel and proceeded to the house in Gramercy Park with all the
caution necessary for preserving a secret which meant reputation to the
one, and liberty, if not life, to the other. That he and not she felt
the greater need of secrecy, witness their whole conduct, and when,
their goal reached, she and not he put the money into the driver's hand,
the last act of this curious drama of opposing motives was reached, and
only the final catastrophe was wanting.

"With what arts he procured her hat-pin, and by what show of simulated
passion he was able to approach near enough to her to inflict that cool
and calculating thrust which resulted in her immediate death, I leave to
your
imagination. Enough that he compassed his ends, killing her and
regaining the letter for the possession of which he had been willing to
take a life. Afterwards—"

"Well, afterwards?"

"The deed he had thought so complete began to assume a different aspect.
The pin had broken in the wound, and, knowing the scrutiny which the
body would receive at the hands of a Coroner's jury, he began to see
what consequences might follow its discovery. So to hide that wound and
give to her death the wished-for appearance of accident, he went back
and drew down the cabinet under which she was found. Had he done this at
once his hand in the tragedy might have escaped detection, but he
waited, and by waiting allowed the blood-vessels to stiffen and all
that phenomena to become apparent by means of which the eyes of the
physicians were opened to the fact that they must search deeper for the
cause of death than the bruises she had received. Thus it is that
Justice opens loop-holes in the finest web a criminal can weave."

"A just remark, Mr. Gryce, but in this fine-spun web of
your
weaving,
you have not explained how the clock came to be running and to stop at
five."

"Cannot you see? A man capable of such a crime would not forget to
provide himself with an alibi. He expected to be in his rooms at five,
so before pulling down the shelves at three or four, he wound the clock
and set it at an hour when he could bring forward testimony to his being
in another place. Is not such a theory consistent with his character and
with the skill he has displayed from the beginning to the end of this
woful affair?"

Aghast at the deftness with which this able detective explained every
detail of this crime by means of a theory necessarily hypothetical if
the discoveries I had made in the matter were true, and for the moment
subjected to the overwhelming influence of his enthusiasm, I sat in a
maze, asking myself if all the seemingly irrefutable evidence upon which
men had been convicted in times gone by was as false as this. To relieve
myself and to gain renewed confidence in my own views and the
discoveries I had made in this matter, I repeated the name of Howard,
and asked how, in case the whole crime was conceived and perpetrated by
his brother, he came to utter such equivocations and to assume that
position of guilt which had led to his own arrest.

"Do you think," I inquired, "that he was aware of his brother's part in
this affair, and that out of compassion for him he endeavored to take
the crime upon his own shoulders?"

"No, madam. Men of the world do not carry their disinterestedness so
far. He not only did not know the part his brother took in this crime,
but did not even suspect it, or why acknowledge that he lost the key by
which the house was entered?"

"I do not understand Howard's actions, even under these circumstances.
They seem totally inconsistent to me."

"Madam, they are easily explainable to one who knows the character of
his mind. He prizes his honor above every consideration, and regarded it
as threatened by the suggestion that his wife had entered his father's
empty house at midnight with another man. To save himself that shame, he
was willing not only to perjure himself, but to take upon himself the
consequences of his perjury. Quixotic, certainly, but some men are
constituted that way, and he, for all his amiable characteristics, is
the most dogged man I ever encountered. That he ran against snags in his
attempted explanations, seemed to make no difference to him. He was
bound that no one should accuse him of marrying a false woman, even if
he must bear the opprobrium of her death. It is hard to understand such
a nature, but re-read his testimony, and see if this explanation of his
conduct is not correct."

And still I mechanically repeated: "I do not understand."

Mr. Gryce may not have been a patient man under all circumstances, but
he was patient with me that day.

"It was his ignorance, Miss Butterworth, his total ignorance of the
whole affair that led him into the inconsistencies he manifested. Let me
present his case as I already have his brother's. He knew that his wife
had come to New York to appeal to his father, and he gathered from what
she said that she intended to do this either in his house or on the
dock. To cut short any opportunity she might have for committing the
first folly, he begged the key of the house from his brother, and,
supposing that he had it all right, went to his rooms, not to Coney
Island as he said, and began to pack up his trunks. For he meant to flee
the country if his wife disgraced him. He was tired of her caprices and
meant to cut them short as far as he was himself concerned. But the
striking of the midnight hour brought better counsel. He began to wonder
what she had been doing in his absence. Going out, he haunted the region
of Gramercy Park for the better part of the night, and at daybreak
actually mounted the steps of his father's house and prepared to enter
it by means of the key he had obtained from his brother. But the key was
not in his pocket, so he came down again and walked away, attracting the
attention of Mr. Stone as he did so. The next day he heard of the
tragedy which had taken place within those very walls; and though his
first fears led him to believe that the victim was his wife, a sight of
her clothes naturally dispelled this apprehension, for he knew nothing
of her visit to the Hotel D— or of the change in her habiliments
which had taken place there. His father's persistent fears and the quiet
pressure brought to bear upon him by the police only irritated him, and
not until confronted by the hat found on the scene of death, an article
only too well known as his wife's, did he yield to the accumulated
evidence in support of her identity. Immediately he felt the full force
of his unkindness towards her, and rushing to the Morgue had her poor
body taken to that father's house and afterwards given a decent burial.
But he could not accept the shame which this acknowledgment naturally
brought with it, and, blind to all consequences, insisted, when brought
up again for examination, that he was the man with whom she came to that
lonely house. The difficulties into which this plunged him were partly
foreseen and partly prepared for, and he showed some skill in
surmounting them. But falsehoods never fit like truths, and we all felt
the strain on our credulity as he met and attempted to parry the
Coroner's questions.

"And now, Miss Butterworth, let me again ask if your turn has not come
at last for adding the sum of your evidence to ours against Franklin Van
Burnam?"

It had; I could not deny it, and as I realized that with it had also
come the opportunity for justifying the pretensions I had made, I raised
my head with suitable spirit and, after a momentary pause for the
purpose of making my words the more impressive, I asked:

"And what has made you think that
I
was interested in fixing the guilt
on Franklin Van Burnam?"

The surprise which this very simple question occasioned, showed itself
differently in the two men who heard it. The Inspector, who had never
seen me before, simply stared, while Mr. Gryce, with that admirable
command over himself which has helped to make him the most successful
man on the force, retained his impassibility, though I noticed a small
corner drop from my filigree basket as if crushed off by an inadvertent
pressure of his hand.

"I judged," was his calm reply, as he laid down the injured toy with an
apologetic grunt, "that the clearing of Howard from suspicion meant the
establishment of another man's guilt; and so far as we can see there has
been no other party in the case besides these two brothers."

"No? Then I fear a great surprise awaits you, Mr. Gryce. This crime,
which you have fixed with such care and seeming probability upon
Franklin Van Burnam, was not, in my judgment, perpetrated either by him
or any other man. It was the act of a woman."

"A WOMAN?"

Both men spoke: the Inspector, as if he thought me demented; Mr. Gryce,
as if he would like to have considered me a fool but dared not.

"Yes, a
woman
," I repeated, dropping a quiet curtsey. It was a proper
expression of respect when I was young, and I see no reason why it
should not be a proper expression of respect now, except that we have
lost our manners in gaining our independence, something which is to be
regretted perhaps. "A woman whom I know; a woman whom I can lay my hands
on at a half-hour's notice; a young woman, sirs; a pretty woman, the
owner of one of the two hats found in the Van Burnam parlors."

Had I exploded a bomb-shell the Inspector could not have looked more
astounded. The detective, who was a man of greater self-command, did not
betray his feelings so plainly, though he was not entirely without them,
for, as I made this statement, he turned and looked at me;
Mr. Gryce
looked at me.

"Both of those hats belonged to Mrs. Van Burnam," he protested; "the one
she wore from Haddam; the other was in the order from Altman's."

"She never ordered anything from Altman's," was my uncompromising reply.
"The woman whom I saw enter next door, and who was the same who left the
Hotel D— with the man in the linen duster, was not Louise Van Burnam.
She was that lady's rival, and let me say it, for I dare to think it,
not only her rival but the prospective taker of her life. O you need not
shake your heads at each other so significantly, gentlemen. I have been
collecting evidence as well as yourselves, and what I have learned is
very much to the point; very much, indeed."

"The deuce you have!" muttered the Inspector, turning away from me; but
Mr. Gryce continued to eye me like a man fascinated.

"Upon what," said he, "do you base these extraordinary assertions? I
should like to hear what that evidence is."

"But first," said I, "I must take a few exceptions to certain points you
consider yourself to have made against Franklin Van Burnam. You believe
him to have committed this crime because you found in a secret drawer of
his desk a letter known to have been in Mrs. Van Burnam's hands the day
she was murdered, and which you, naturally enough, I acknowledge,
conceive he could only have regained by murdering her. But have you not
thought of another way in which he could have obtained it, a perfectly
harmless way, involving no one either in deceit or crime? May it not
have been in the little hand-bag returned by Mrs. Parker on the morning
of the discovery, and may not its crumpled condition be accounted for by
the haste with which Franklin might have thrust it into his secret
drawer at the untoward entrance of some one into his office?"