 CHAPTER XII In his book-lined, loosely furnished apartment Sunday afternoon, Hastings whittled prodigiously, staring frequently at the flap of the gray envelope with the intensity of a crystal-gazer. Once or twice he pronounced aloud possible meanings of the symbols imprinted on the scrap of paper. Something E-D-L-Y-D-E something, he worried. That might stand for repeatedly demanded, or repeatedly denied, or undoubtedly denoted, or a hundred. But that pursuit is the core of the trouble. They put the pursuit on him, sure as your knee high to a hope of heaven. The belief grew in him that out of those pieces of words would come solution of his problem. The idea was born of his remarkable instinct. Its positiveness partook of superstition, almost. He could not shake it off. Once he chuckled, appreciating the apparent absurdity of trying to guess the criminal meaning, the criminal intent, back of that writing. But he kept to his conjecturing. He had many interruptions. Newspaper reporters, instantly impressed by the dramatic possibilities, the inherent sensationalism of the murder, flocked to him. Referred to him by the people at Sloanhurst, they asked for not only his narration of what had occurred, but also for his opinion as to the probability of running down the guilty man. He would make no predictions, he told them, confining himself to a simple statement of facts. When one young sleuth suggested that both Sloan and Webster feared arrest on the charge of murder, and had relied on his reputation to prevent prompt action against them by the sheriff, the old man laughed. He knew the futility of trying to prevent publication of intimations of that sort. But he took advantage of the opportunity to put a different interpretation on his employment by the Sloans. Seems to me, he contributed, it's more logical to say that their calling in a detective goes a long way to show their innocence of all connection with the crime. They wouldn't pay out real money to have themselves hunted if they were guilty, would they? Afterwards he was glad he had emphasized this point. In the light of subsequent events it looked like actual foresight of Mrs. Brace's tactics. Soon after five Hendricks came in to report. He was a young man, stockily built, with eyes that were always on the verge of laughter, and lips that sloped inward as if biting down on the threatened mirth. The shape of his lips was symbolical of his habit of discourse. He was of few words. Webster, he said, standing across the table from his employer and shooting out his words like a memorized speech, been overplaying his hand financially. That's the rumor, nothing tangible yet. Gone into real estate and building projects. Associated with a crowd that has the name of operating on a shoestring. Nobody'd be surprised if they all blew up. As a real estate man, I take it, Hastings commented, slowly shaving off thin slivers of chips from his piece of pine. He's a brilliant young lawyer. That's it. Yes, sir, Hendricks agreed, the slope of his lips accentuated. Keep after that, tomorrow. What about Mrs. Brace? Restitute practically. In debt. Threatened with eviction. No resources. So money, lack of it, is bothering her as well as Webster. How much is she in debt? Enough to be denied all credit by the stores, between five and seven hundred I should say. That's about the top mark for that class of trade. All right, Hendricks, thanks. The old man commended warmly. That's great work for Sunday. Now, Russell's room? Yes, sir, I went over it. Find any steel on the floor? Hendricks took from his pocket a little paper parcel about the size of a man's thumb. Not sure, sir. Here's what I got. He unfolded the paper and put it down on the table, displaying a small mass of what looked like dust and lint. Wonderful what a magnet will pick up, ain't it, used his employer. I got the same sort of stuff at Sloanhurst this morning. I'll go over this, look for the steel particles right away. Anything else, sir, special? The assistant was already halfway to the door. He knew that a floor an inch deep in chips from his employer's whittling indicated laborious mental gropings by the old man. It was no time for superfluous words. After dinner, Hastings instructed, relieve Gore at the Wallman. Thanks. As Hendricks went out there was another telephone call, this time from Crown, to make amends for coolness he had shown Hastings at Sloanhurst. I was wrong, and you were right, he conceded handsomely. I mean about that brace woman. Better keep your man on her trail. What's up, Hastings asked amicably. That's what I want to know. I've seen her again. I couldn't get anything more from her except threats. She's going on the warpath. She told me, tomorrow I'll look into things for myself. I'll not sit here idle and leave everything to a sheriff who wants campaign contributions and a detective who's paid to hush things up. You can see her saying that, can't you? Wow. That all? That's all right now, but I've got a suspicion she knows more than we think. When she makes up her mind to talk, she'll say something. Mr. Hastings, Crown added, as if he imparted a tremendous fact, that woman's smart. I tell you, she's got brains, a head full of them. So I judged the detective agreed dryly. By the way, have you seen Russell again? Yes. There's another thing. I don't see where you get that stuff about his weak alibi. It's copper riveted. He says so, you mean. Yes. And the way he says it. But I followed your advice. I've advertised, through the police here and up and down the Atlantic coast, for any automobile party or parties who went along that Sloanhurst road last night between 10.30 and 11.30. Fine, Hastings congratulated, but get me straight on that. I don't say any of them saw him. I say there's a chance that he was seen. The old man went back, not to examination of Hendrick's parcel, but to further consideration of the possible contents of the letter that had been in the gray envelope. Russell, he reflected, had been present when Mildred Brace mailed it, and what was more important when Mildred Brace started out of the apartment with it. He made sudden decision. He would question Russell again. Carefully placing Hendrick's package of dust and lint in a drawer of the table, he set out for the 11th Street boarding house. It was, however, not Russell who figured most prominently in the accounts of the murder published by the Monday morning newspapers. The reporters, resenting the reticence they had encountered at Sloanhurst, and making much of Mrs. Brace's threats, put in the forefront of their stories an appealing picture of a bereaved mother's one-sided fight for justice against the baffling combination of the Sloanhurst secretiveness and indifference and the mysterious circumstances of the daughter's death. Not one of them questioned the validity of Russell's alibi. With the innocence of the dead girl's fiancee established, said one account, Sheriff Crown last night made no secret of his chagrin that Byrne Webster had collapsed at the very moment when the sheriff was on the point of putting him through a rigid cross-examination. The young lawyer's retirement from the scene, coupled with the Sloan families retaining the celebrated detective, Jefferson Hastings, as a buffer against any questioning of the Sloanhurst people, has given society, here and in Virginia, a topic for discussion of more than ordinary interest. Another paragraph that caught Hastings' attention as he read between mothfuls of his breakfast was this. Mrs. Brace, discussing the tragedy with the reporter last night, showed a surprising knowledge of all its incidents. Although she had not left her apartment in the Wall Men all day, she had been questioned by both Sheriff Crown and Mr. Hastings, not to mention the unusually large number of newspaper writers who besieged her for interviews. And it seemed that, in addition to answering the queries put to her by the investigators, she had accomplished a vast amount of keen inquiry on her own account. When talking to her, it is impossible for one to escape the impression that this extraordinarily intelligent woman believes she can prove the guilt of the man who struck down her daughter. "'Just what I was afraid of,' thought the detective, nearly every paper siding with her. His face brightened. "'All the better,' he consoled himself. More chance of her overreaching herself, as long as she don't know what I suspect. I'll get the meaning of that gray letter yet.' But he was worried. Burn Webster's collapse, he knew, was too convenient for Webster. It looked like pretense. Ninety-nine out of every hundred newspaper readers would consider his illness a fake, the obvious trick to escape the work of explaining what seemed to be inexplicable circumstances. To Hastings the situation was particularly annoying because he had brought it about. His own questioning had turned out to be the straw that broke the suspected man's endurance. "'Always blundering,' he uprated himself. Trying to be so all-shot smart, I overplayed my hand. He got Dr. Garnett on the wire. "'Doctor,' he said in a tone that implored, I'm obliged to see Webster to-day.' "'Sorry, Mr. Hastings,' came the instant refusal. But it can't be done.' "'For one question,' qualified Hastings, less than a minute's talk, one word, yes or no. It's almost a matter of life and death.' "'If that man's excited about anything,' Garnett retorted, it will be entirely a matter of death. Frankly, I couldn't see my way clear of letting you question him if his escaping arrest depended on it. I called in Dr. Wells last night, and I'm giving you his opinion as well as my own. "'When can I see him, then?' "'I can't answer that. It may be a week, it may be a month. All I can tell you today is that you can't question him now.' With that information Hastings decided to interview Judge Wilton. "'He's the next best,' he thought, that whispering across the woman's body. It's got to be explained and explained right. As a matter of fact he had refrained from this inquiry the day before so that his mind might not be clouded by anger. His deception by the judge had greatly provoked him. CHAPTER XIII Court had recessed for lunch when Hastings, going down a second-story corridor of the Alexandria County Courthouse, entered Judge Wilton's anti-room. His hand was raised to knock on the door of the inner office when he heard the murmur of voices on the other side. He took off his hat and sat down, welcoming the breeze that swept through the room, a refreshing contrast to the forenoon's heat and smother downstairs. He reached for his knife and a piece of pine, checked the motion and glanced swiftly toward the closed door. A high note of a woman's voice touched his memory for a moment confusing him. But it was for a moment only. While the sound was still in his ears he remembered where he had heard it before. From Mrs. Brace, when toward the close of his interview with her, she had shrilly denounced Byrne Webster. Mrs. Brace, her daughter's funeral barely three hours old, had started to make her threats good. While he was considering that, the door of the private office swung inward, Judge Wilton's hand on the knob. It opened on the middle of a sentence spoken by Mrs. Brace. Tell you, you're a fool if you think you can put me off with that! Her gleaming eyes were so furtive and so quick that they traversed the whole of Wilton's countenance many times. A fiery probe of each separate feature. The inflections of her voice invested her words with ugliness, but she did not shriek. You bully everybody else, but not me. They don't call you Hard Tom Wilton for nothing, do they? I know you. I know you, I tell you. I was down there in the courtroom when you sentenced that man. You had cruelty in your mind, cruelty on your face. Oh! And you're cruel to me, and taking an ungodly pleasure in it. Well, let me tell you, I won't be broken by it. I want fair dealing, and I'll have it. At that moment, facing full toward Hastings, she caught sight of him. His presence seemed a matter of no importance to her. It did not break the stream of her fierce invective. She did not even pause. He saw at once that her anger of yesterday was as nothing to the storming rage which shook her now. Every line of her face revealed malignity. The eyebrows were drawn higher on her forehead, nearer to the wave of white hair that showed under her black hat. The nostrils dilated and contracted with indescribable rapidity. The lips, thickened and rolling back at intervals from her teeth, revealed more distinctly that animal-exaggerated wetness which had so repelled him. You were out there on that lawn, she pursued, her glance flashing back to the judge. You were out there when she was killed. If you try to tell me you----- Stop it! Stop it! Wilton commanded, and as he did so, turned his head to an angle that put Hastings within his field of vision. The judge, with one hand on the doorknob, had been pressing with the other against the woman's shoulders, trying to thrust her out of the room, a move which she resisted by a hanging back posture that threw her weight on his arm. He put more strength now into his effort, and succeeded in forcing her clear of the threshold. His eyes were blazing under the shadow of his heavy overhanging brows, but there was about him no suggestion of a loss of self-control. I'm glad to see you, he told Hastings, speaking over Mrs. Brace's head, and smiling a deprecatory recognition of hopelessness of contending with an infuriated woman. She addressed them both. Smile all you please now, she threatened, but the accounts aren't balanced yet. Wait for what I choose to tell, what I intend to do. Suddenly she got herself in hand. It was as unexpected and thorough a transformation as the one Hastings had seen twenty-four hours before, during her declaration of Webster's guilt. She had the same appearance now as then, the same tautness of body, the same flat constrained tone. She turned to Wilton. I ask you again. Will you help me as I ask you? Are you going to deny me fair play? He looked at her in amazement, scowling. What fair play! he exclaimed, and without waiting for her reply, said to Hastings. She insists that I know young Webster killed her daughter, that I can produce the evidence to prove it. Can you disabuse her mind? She surprised them by going, slowly and with apparent composure, toward the corridor door. There she paused, looking at first one and then the other, with an evil smile so openly contemptuous that it affected them strongly. There was something in it that made it flagrantly insulting. Hastings turned away from her. Judge Wilton gave her look for look, but his already flushed face colored more darkly. Very well, Judge Wilton, she gave him insolent goodbye, in which there was also unmistakable threat. You'll do the right thing sooner or later, and, as I tell you, you're—get this straight, you're not through with me yet. She laughed, one low note, and impossible as it seemed, proclaimed with the harsh sound and absolute confidence in what she said. "'No are you, Mr. Hastings,' she continued, taking her time with her words, and waiting until the detective faced her again, before she concluded, "'You'll sing a different tune when you find I've got this affair in my hands—tight.'" Still smiling her contempt, as if she enjoyed a feeling of superiority, she left the room. When her footsteps died down the corridor, the two men drew long breaths of relief. Wilton broke the ensuing silence. "'Is she sane?' "'Yes,' Hastings said. So far as sanity can be said to exist in a mind consecrated to evil." The judge was surprised by the solemnity of the other's manner. "'Why do you say that?' he asked. Do you know that much about her?' "'Who wouldn't?' Hastings retorted. It's written all over her." Wilton led the way into his private office and closed the door. "'I'm glad it happened at just this time,' he said, when everybody's out of the building.' He struck the desk with his fist. "'By God!' he ground out through gritted teeth. "'How I hate these wild, unbridled women!' "'Yes,' agreed Hastings, taking the chair Wilton rolled forward for him. "'She worries me. Wonder if she's going to Sloanhurst?' "'That would be the logical sequel to this visit,' Wilton said. "'But pardon my show of temper. You came to see me?' "'Yes, and like her, for information. But,' the detective said, smiling, "'not for rough-house purposes.'" The judge had not entirely regained his equanimity. His face still wore a heightened collar. His whole bearing was that of a man mentally reviewing the results of an unpleasant incident. Instead of replying promptly to Hastings, he sat looking out the window, obviously troubled. "'Her game is blackmail,' he declared at last. "'On whom?' the detective queried. "'Arthur Sloan, of course. She calculates that he'll play to have her cease annoying his daughter's fiancée. And she'll impress Arthur, if Jarvis ever lets her get to him. Somehow she strangely compels credence.' "'Not for me,' Hastings objected, and did not point out that Wilton's words might be taken as an admission of Webster's guilt. The judge himself might have seen that.' "'I mean,' he qualified, "'she seems too smart a woman to put herself in a position where ridicule will be sure to overtake her. And yet that's what she's doing, isn't she?' The detective was whittling, dropping the chips into the waste-basket. He spoke with a deliberateness unusual, even in him, framing each sentence in his mind before giving it utterance. "'I reckon, Judge, you and I have had some four or five talks, that is, not counting Saturday evening and yesterday at Sloanhurst. That's about the extent of our acquaintance. That right?' "'Why, yes,' Wilton said, surprised by the change of topic. "'I mention it,' Hastings explained, "'to show how I felt toward you. You interested me. Excuse me if I speak plainly. You'll see why later on. But you struck me as worth studying, deep. And I thought you must have sized me up, catalogued me one way or the other. You're like me, waste no time with men who bore you. I felt certain, if you'd been asked, you'd have checked me off as reliable. Would you?' "'Unquestionably. And, if I was reliable then, I'm reliable now. That's a fair assumption, ain't it?' "'Certainly,' the Judge laughed shortly, a little embarrassed. "'That brings me to my point. You'll believe me when I tell you my only interest in this murder is to find the murderer, and while I'm doing it, to save the Sloans as much as possible from annoyance. "'You'll believe me also when I say I've got to have all the facts if I'm to work surely and fast. You recognize the force of that, don't you?' "'Why, yes, Hastings,' Wilton spoke impatiently this time. "'Fine,' the old man shot a maginial glance over the steel-rimmed spectacles. "'That's the introduction. Here's the real thing. "'I have an idea. You could tell me more about what happened on the lawn Saturday night.' After his involuntary immediate start of surprise, Wilton tilted his head, slowly blowing the cigar smoke from his pursed lips. He had a fine air of reflection, careful thought. "'I can elaborate what I've already told you,' he said finally. "'If that's what you mean, go into greater detail.' He watched closely the edge of the detective's face, unhidden by his bending over the wood he was cutting. "'I don't think elaborations could do much good,' Hastings objected. I referred to new stuff. Some fact or fact you might have omitted, unconsciously.' "'Unconsciously,' Wilton echoed the word, as a man does when his mind is overtaxed, Hastings took it up. "'Or consciously even,' he said quickly, meeting the other's eyes. The judge moved sharply, bracing himself against the back of the chair. "'What do you mean by that?' Skilled in the law yourself, thoroughly familiar with the rules of evidence. It's more than possible that you might have reviewed matters, and decided that there were things which, if they were known, would do harm instead of good. Obscure the truth, perhaps. Or hinder the hunt for the guilty man instead of helping it on. That's clear enough, isn't it? You might have thought that?' The look of sullen resentment in the judge's face was unmistakable. "'Oh, say what you mean,' he retorted warmly. "'What you're insinuating is that I've lied.' "'It don't have to be called that.' "'Well, then, that I, a judge, sworn to uphold the law and punish crime, have elected to thwart the law and to cheat its officials of the facts they should have. Is that what you mean?' "'I'll be honest with you,' Hastings admitted, unmoved by the other's grand manner. "'I've wondered about that, whether you thought a judge had a right to do a thing of that sort.' Wilton's hand, clenched on the edge of the desk, shook perceptibly. "'Did you think that, Judge?' the detective persisted. The judge hesitated. "'It's a point I've never gone into,' he said finally, with intentional sarcasm. Hastings snapped his knife-blade shut and thrust the piece of wood into his pocket. "'Let's get away from this beating about the bush,' he suggested, voice on a sterner note. "'I don't want to irritate you unnecessarily, Judge. I came here for information, stuff I'm more than anxious to get. And I go back to that now. Won't you tell me anything more about the discovery of the woman's body by the two of you, you and Webster?' "'No, I won't. I've covered the whole thing, several times.' "'Is there anything that you haven't told? Anything you've decided to suppress?' Wilton got up from his chair and struck the desk with his fist. "'See here, Hastings. You're getting beside yourself. Representing Miss Sloan doesn't warrant your insulting her friends. Suppose we consider this interview at an end. Some other time, perhaps?' Hastings also had risen. "'Just a minute, Judge,' he interrupted, all at once assuming the authoritative air that had so amazed Wilton the night of the murder. "'You're suppressing something, and I know it.' "'That's a lie,' Wilton retorted, the flush deepening to crimson on his face. "'It ain't a lie,' Hastings contradicted, holding his self-control. "'And you watch yourself. Don't you call me a liar again, not as long as you live. You can't afford the insult.' "'Then don't provoke it. Don't—' "'What did Webster whisper to you across that corpse?' Hastings demanded, going nearer to Wilton. "'What's this?' Wilton's tone was one of consternation. The words might have been spoken by a man stumbling on an unsuspected horror in a dark room. They stared at each other for several dragging seconds. The detective waved a hand toward the Judge's chair. "'Sit down,' he said, resuming his own seat. There followed another pause, longer than the first. The Judge's breathing was labored, audible. He lowered his eyes and passed his hand across their thick lids. When he looked up again, Hastings commanded him with unwavering expectant gaze. "'I've made a mistake,' Wilton began huskily and stopped. "'Yes,' Hastings said, unbending. "'How?' "'I see it now. It was a matter of no importance in itself. I've exaggerated it by my silence into disproportionate significance.' His tone changed to curiosity. "'Who told you about the whispering?' The detective was implacable, emphasizing his dominance. "'First, what was it?' When Wilton still hesitated, he repeated, "'What did Webster say when he put his hand over your mouth to prevent your outcry?' The Judge threw up his head as if in sudden resolve to be frank. He spoke more readily with a clumsy semblance of amiability. He said, "'Don't do that. You'll frighten Lucille.' I tried to nod my head, agreeing. But he misunderstood the movement, I think. He thought I meant to shout anyway. He tightened his grip. "'Keep quiet. Will you keep quiet?' He repeated two or three times. When I made my meaning clear, he took his hand away. He explained later what had occurred to him the moment Arthur's light flashed on. He said it came to him before he clearly realized who I was. "'It—I swear, Hastings, I hate to tell you this.' It suggests unjust suspicions. Of what value are the wild ideas of a nervous man, all to pieces anyway, when he stumbles on a dead woman in the middle of the night?' "'They were valuable enough,' Hastings flicked him, for you to cover them up, for some reason. What were they?' Wilton was puzzled by the detective's tone, its abstruse insinuation. But he answered the question. He said his first idea, the one that made him think of Lucille, was that Arthur might have had something to do with the murder. Why? Why did he think Sloan had killed Mildred Brace? Because she had been the cause of Lucille's breaking her engagement with Byrne, and Arthur knew that. Arthur had been in a rage. "'All right,' Hastings checked him suddenly, and getting to his feet, fell to pacing the room, his eyes always on Wilton. I'm acquainted with that part of it.' He paid no attention to Wilton's evident surprise at that statement. He had a surprise of his own to deal with. The unexpected similarity of the judge's story with Lucille's Sloan's theorizing as to what Webster had whispered across the body in the moment of its discovery. The two statements were identical, a coincidence that defied credulity. He caught himself doubting Lucille. Had she been theorizing, after all? Or had she relayed to him words that Wilton had put into her mouth? Then, remembering her grief, her desperate appeals to him for aid, he dismissed the suspicion. "'I'd stake my life on her honesty,' he decided. Her intuition gave her the correct solution, if Wilton's not lying now.' He put the obvious question. "'Judge, am I the first one to hear this from you?' and received the obvious answer. "'You are. I didn't volunteer it to you, did I?' "'All right. Now, did you believe, Webster? Wait a minute. Did you believe his fear wasn't for himself when he gagged you that way?' "'Yes, I did,' replied Wilton, in a tone that lacked sincerity. "'Do you believe it now?' "'If I didn't, do you think I'd have tried for a moment to conceal what he said to me?' "'Why did you conceal it?' "'Because Arthur Sloan was my friend, and his daughter's happiness would have been ruined if I'd thrown further suspicion on him. "'Besides, what I did conceal could have been of no value to any detective or sheriff on earth. It meant nothing so long as I knew the boy's sincerity and his innocence as well as Arthur's.' "'But,' Hastings persisted, "'why all this concern for Webster, after his engagement, had been broken?' "'How's that?' Wilton countered. "'Oh, I see. The break wasn't permanent. Arthur and I had decided on that. We knew they'd get together again.' Hastings halted in front of the judge's chair. "'Have you kept back anything else?' he demanded. "'Nothing,' Wilton said, with a return of his former sullenness. "'And?' he forced himself to the avowal. "'I'm sorry I kept that back. It's nothing.' Hastings' manner changed on the instant. He was once more cordial. "'All right, judge,' he said heartily, consulting his ponderous watch. "'This is all between us. I take it you wouldn't want it known by the sheriff, even now?' Wilton shook his head in quick negation. "'All right. He'd needn't, if things go well. And the person I got it from won't spread it around. That satisfactory?' The judge's smile, in spite of his best effort, was devoid of friendliness. The dark flush that persisted in his countenance told how hardly he kept down his anger. Hastings put on his hat and ambled toward the door. "'By the way,' he proclaimed an afterthought. "'I've got to ask you one more favor, judge. If Mrs. Brace troubles you again, will you let me know about it at the earliest possible moment?' He went out, chuckling. But the judge was as mystified as he was resentful. He had detected, in Hastings' manner, he thought, the same self-satisfaction, the same quiet elation, which he and Byrne had observed at the close of the music room interview. Going to the window, he addressed the summer sky. "'Who the devil does the old fool suspect? Arthur or Byrne?' End of CHAPTER XIII Recording by Roger Maline CHAPTER XIV OF NO CLUE This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline No Clue by James Hay CHAPTER XIV Mr. Crown forms an alliance. "'If you've as much as five hundred dollars at your disposal, pin money savings perhaps, anything you can check on without the knowledge of others, you can do it,' Hastings urged, ending a long argument. "'I take it to her myself,' Lucille still protested, although she could not refute his reasoning. "'It's the only way that would be effective, and it wouldn't be so difficult. I had counted on your courage, your unusual courage.' "'But what will it accomplish? If I could only see that clearly?' She was beginning to yield to his insistence. They were in the rose garden, in the shade of a little arbor from whose roof the great red flowers drooped almost to the girl's hair. He was acutely aware of the pathetic contrast between her white, ravaged face and the surrounding scene, the fragrance, the roses of every color swaying to the slow breeze of late afternoon, the long, cool shadows. He found it hard to force her to the plan, and would have abandoned it, but for the possibilities it presented to his mind. "'I've already touched on that,' he applied himself to her doubts. "'I want you to trust me there, to accept my solemn assurance that, if Mrs. Brace accepts this money from you on our terms, it will hasten my capture of the murderer. I'll say more than that. You are my only possible help in the matter. Won't you believe me?' She sat quite still, a long time. Looking steadily at him with unseeing eyes. "'I shall have to go to that dreadful woman's apartment. Be alone with her. Make a secret bargain!' She enumerated the various parts of her task, wonder and repugnance mingling in her voice. "'That horrible woman! You say yourself, Mr. Hastings. She's horrible!' "'Still,' he repeated. "'You can do it.' A little while ago she had cried out, both hands clenched in the arm of the rustic bench, her eyes opening wide in the startled look he had come to know. "'If I could do something, anything, for Byrne!' Dr. Wells said only an hour ago he had no more than an even chance for his life. Half the time he can't speak. And I'm responsible. I am. I know it. I try to think I'm not, but I am!' He recurred to that. Dr. Wells said the ending of Mr. Webster's suspense would be the best medicine for him. And I think Webster would see that nobody but you could do this, in the very nature of things. The absolute secrecy required, the fact that you buy her silence, pay her to cease her accusations against Byrne, don't you see? He'd want you to do it.' That finished her resistance. She made him repeat all his directions, precautions for secrecy. "'I wish I could tell you how important it is,' he said. "'And keep this in mind always. I rely on your paying her the money without even a suspicion of it getting abroad. If accidents happen and you're seen entering the wall-man, what more natural than that you want to ask this woman the meaning of her vague threats against Sloanhurst? But of money, your real object, not a word. Nobody's to have a hint of it.' "'Oh, yes, I see the necessity of that.' But she was distressed. Suppose she refuses.' Her altered frame of mind, an eagerness now to succeed with the plan she had at first refused, brought him again his thought of yesterday. If she were put to it, if she could save only one and had to choose between father and fiancée, her choice would be for the fiancée.' He answered her question. She won't refuse, he declared, with a confidence she could not doubt. If I thought she would, I'd almost be willing to say we'd never find the man who killed her daughter. "'When I think of Russell's alibi—' Have we mentioned Russell?' he protested, laughing away her fears. "'Anyway, his old alibi's no good, if that's what's troubling you. Wait and see.' He was in high good humour. In that same hour the woman for whom he had planned this trap was busy with a scheme of her own. Her object was to form an alliance with Sheriff Crown. That gentleman, to use his expressive phrase, had been putting her over the jumps for the past forty minutes, bringing to the work of cross-questioning her all the intelligence, craftiness, and logic at his command. The net result of his fuselage of interrogatories, however, was exceedingly meager. As he sat, caressing his chin and thrusting forward his bristly mustache, Mrs. Brace perceived in his eyes a confession of failure. Although he was far from suspecting it, he presented to her keen scrutiny an amazing figure. She observed that his shoulders drooped, and that as he slowly produced a handkerchief and mopped his forehead, his movements were eloquent of gloom. In fact, Mr. Crown felt himself at a loss. He had come to the end of his resourcefulness in the art of probing for facts. He was about to take his departure, with the secret realisation that he had learned nothing new, unless an increased admiration of Mrs. Brace's sharpness of wit might be catalogued as knowledge. She put his thought into language. You see, Mr. Crown, you're wasting your time shouting at me, bullying me, accusing me of protecting the murderer of my own daughter. There was a new note in her voice, a hint, ever so slight of a willingness to be friendly. He was not insensible to it. Hearing it, he put himself on guard, wondering what it pretended. I didn't say that, he contradicted, far from graciousness. I said you knew a whole lot more about the murder than you'd tell. Tell me, anyway. But why should I want to conceal anything that might bring the man to justice? Last if I know, he conceded, not without signs of irritation. So far as he could see, not a feature of her face changed. The lifted eyebrows were still high upon her forehead, interrogative and mocking. The restless, gleaming eyes still drilled into various parts of his person and attire. The thin lips continued their moving pictures of contempt. And yet he saw, too, that she presented to him now another countenance. The change was no more than a shadow, and the shadow was so light that he could not be sure of its meaning. He thought it was friendliness, but that opinion was dulled by recurrence of his admiration of her smartness. He feared some imposition. You've adopted Mr. Hastings' absurd theory, she said, as if she wondered. You've subscribed to it without question. What theory? That I know who the guilty man is. Well, he was still on guard. It surprises me, that's all, a man of your intellect, your originality. She sighed, marveling at this addition to life's conundrums. Why, he asked bluntly. I should never have thought you'd put yourself in that position before the public. I mean letting him lead you around by the nose, figuratively. Mr. Crown started forward in his chair, eyes popped. He was indignant and surprised. Is that what they're saying, he demanded? Naturally, she said, and with the one word, laid it down as an impossibility that they could have said anything else. That's what the reporters tell me. Well, I'll be dog-gone, the knuckle-like chin dropped. They're saying that, are they? Disturbed as he was, he noticed that she regarded him with apparently genuine interest, that perhaps she added to her interest a regret that he had displayed no originality in the investigation, a man of his intellect. They couldn't understand why you were playing Hastings' game, she proceeded, playing it to his smallest instructions. Hastings' game? What the thunder are they talking about? What do they mean, his game? His desire to keep suspicion away from the Sloans and Mr. Webster. That's what they hired him for, isn't it? I guess it is, by gravy. Mr. Crown's long-drawn sigh was distinctly tremulous. That old man pockets his fee when he throws Jean Russell into jail. Why, then, isn't it his game to convince you of Jean's guilt? Why isn't it his game to persuade you of my secret knowledge of Jean's guilt? Why—so that? Let me say what I started, she in turn interrupted him. As one of the reporters pointed out, why isn't it his game to try to make a fool of you? The smile with which she recommended that rumor to his attention incensed him further. It patronized him. It said, as openly as if she had spoken the words, I'm really very sorry for you. He dropped his hands to his widespread knees, slid forward to the edge of his chair, thrust his face closer to hers, peered into her hard face for her meaning. Making a fool of me, is he? he said in the brutal key of unrepressed rage. A quick motion of her lifted brows, a curve of her lower lip, indubitably a new significance of expression stopped his outburst. By George, he said taken aback. By George, he repeated, this time in a coarse exultation. He thrust himself still closer to her, certain now of her meaning. What do you know? he lowered his voice and asked again. Mrs. Brace, what do you know? She moved back farther from him. She was not to be rushed into anything. She made him appreciate the difficulty of getting next to her. He no longer felt fear of her imposing on him. She had just exposed for his benefit how Hastings had played on his credulity. He felt grateful to her for that. His only anxiety now was that she might change her mind, might refuse him the assistance which this new and subtle expression had promised a moment ago. If I thought you'd use— She began, broke off, and looked past his shoulder at the opposite wall. The pupils of her eyes, sharp points of light, lips drawn to a line almost invisible. Her evident prudence fired his eagerness. If I'd do what, he asked. If you thought I'd—what? Let me think, she requested. He changed his posture, with a great show of watching the sunset sky, and stole little glances at her smooth, untroubled face. He believed now that she could put him on the trail of the murderer. He confessed to himself, unreservedly, that Hastings had tricked him, held him up to ridicule, to the ridicule of a nation, for this crime held the interest of the entire country. But here was his chance for revenge. With this smart woman's help, he would outwit Hastings. If you'd use my ideas confidentially, she said at last, eyeing him as if she speculated on his honesty. If I were sure that— Why can't you be sure of it? he broke in. My job is to catch the man who killed your daughter. I've got two jobs. The other is to show up old Hastings. Why wouldn't I do as you ask, exactly as you ask? She tantalized him. And remember that what I say is ideas only, not knowledge? Sure, certainly, Mrs. Brace. And, even when you arrest the right man, say nothing of what you owe me for my suggestions? You're the kind of man to want to do that sort of thing. Give me credit for helping you. Even that pleased him. If you specify silence, I give you my word on it. He said, with a fragment of the pompous manner he had brought into the apartment more than an hour ago, You'll take my ideas, my theory, work on it, and never bring me into it in any way? If you make that promise, I'll tell you what I think. What I'm certain is the answer to this puzzle. When or lose, right or wrong idea, you have my oath on it. Very well! she said that with the air of one embarking on a tremendous venture and scorning all its possibilities of harm. I shall trust you fully. First, let me sketch all the known facts, everything connected with the tragedy, and everything I know concerning the conduct of the affected individuals since. He was leaning far toward her once more, a child-like impatience stamped on his face. As she proceeded, his admiration grew. For this there was ample ground. The newspaper paragraph Hastings had read that morning, commenting on her mastery of all the details of the crime, had scarcely done her justice. Before she concluded, Crown had heard from her lips little incidents that had gone over his head. She put new and accurate meaning into facts time and time again, speaking with the particularity and vividness of an eyewitness. Now, she said, having reconstructed the crime and described the subsequent behavior of the tragedy's principal actors, now, who's guilty? Exactly, echoed Crown with a click in his throat. Who's guilty? What's your theory? She was silent, eyes downcast, her hands smoothing the black, much-worn skirt over her lean knees. Recital of the gruesome story, the death of her only child, had left her unmoved, had not quickened her breathing. In telling you that, she resumed, her restless eyes striking his at rapid intervals. I think I'll put you in a position to get the right man, if you'll act. Oh, I'll act, he declared largely. Don't bother your head about that. Of course, it's only a theory. Yes, I know, and I'll keep it to myself. Very well. Arthur Sloan is prostrated, can't be interviewed. He can't be interviewed for the simple reason that he's afraid he'll tell what he knows. Why is he afraid of that? Because he knows too much for his own comfort, and too much for his daughter's comfort. How does he know it? Because he saw enough, night before last, to leave him sure of the murderer's identity. He was the man who turned on the light, showing Webster and Judge Wilton bending over Mildred's body. It occurred at a time when usually he is in his first sound sleep, from bromides. Something must have happened to awake him, an outcry, something. And yet he says he didn't see them, Wilton and Webster. By gravy, exclaimed the sheriff, awestruck. Either, she continued, Arthur Sloan saw the murderer done, or he looked out in time to see who the murderer was. The facts substantiate that. They are corroborated by his subsequent behavior. Immediately after the murder he was in a condition that couldn't be explained by the mere fact that he's a sufferer from chronic nervousness. When Hastings asked him to take a handkerchief, he would have fallen to the ground, but for the judge's help. He couldn't hold an electric torch. And ever since he's been in bed, afraid to talk. Why, he even refused to talk to Hastings, the man he's retained for the family's protection. He did, did he? How do you know that, Mrs. Brace? Isn't it enough that I know it, or advance it as a theory? Did I thought possibly Jarvis the valet told you? She ignored that. Now, as to the daughter of the house, there was only one possible reason for Lucille Sloan's hiring Hastings. She was afraid somebody in the house, Webster of course, would be arrested. Being in love with him she never would have suspected him unless there had been concrete, undeniable evidence of his guilt. Do you grasp that reasoning? Sure I do, Mr. Crowne condemned himself. What I'm wondering is why I didn't see it long ago. She, too, you recall, was looking out of a window on that side of the house, scarcely fifteen yards from where the crime was done. It's not hard to believe that she saw what her father saw, the murderer, or the murderer. Mr. Crowne, if you can make her or her father talk, you'll get the truth of this thing, the truth, and the murderer. And look at Judge Wilton's part. You asked me why I went to his office this morning. I went because I'm sure he knows the truth. Didn't he stay right at Webster's side when Old Hastings interviewed Webster yesterday? Why? To keep Webster from letting out, in his panic, a secret which both of them knew. The sheriff's admiration by this time was boundless. He felt driven to give it expression. Mrs. Brace, you're a lulu. A lulu by gravy. Sure, that was his reason. He couldn't have had any other. As for Webster himself, she carried on her exposition without emotion, without the slightest recognition of her pupil's praise, he proves the correctness of everything we've said so far. That secret which the judge feared he would reveal, that secret which Old Hastings was blundering after, that secret, Mr. Crown, was such a danger to him that, to escape the questioning of even stupid Old Hastings, he could do nothing but crumple up in the floor and feign illness, prostration. Why, don't you see, he was afraid to talk. Everything you say hits the mark, agreed Crown, smiling happily. Center shots! Center shots! You've been right from the very beginning. You tried to tell me all this yesterday morning, and fool that I was, fool that Hastings was. He switched to a summary of what she had put into his mind. It's right. Webster killed her, and Sloan and his daughter saw him at it. Even Wilton knows it. And he, a judge. It seems impossible. By gravy he ought to be impeached. A new idea struck him. Mrs. Brace, imperturbable, exhibiting no elation, was watching him closely. She saw his sudden change of countenance. He had thought, she didn't reason this out. Russell saw the murder, the coward, and he's told her. He ran away from... Another suspicion attacked him. But that was Jarvis's night off. Has she seen Jarvis? Impelled to put this fresh bewilderment into words, he was stayed by the restless, brilliant eyes with which she seemed to penetrate his lumbering mind. He was afraid of her. He was afraid of her. He was afraid of losing her cooperation. She was too valuable an ally to affront. He kept quiet. She brought him back to her purpose. Then you agree with me? You think Webster's guilty? Think! He almost shouted his contempt of the inadequate word. Think! I know! Guilty? The man's black with guilt. I'm sure of it, she said, curiously skillful in surrendering to him all credit for that vital discovery. What are you going to do now that you know? Make him talk. Turn him inside out. Playing sick, is he? I'm going back to Sloanhurst this evening. I'm going to start something. You can take this from me. Webster'll loosen that tongue of his before another sun rises. But that was not her design. You can't do it, she objected, her voice heavy with disappointment. Dr. Garnet, your own coroner, says questioning will kill him. Dr. Garnet's as thoroughly fooled as Hastings and, she prodded him with suddenly sharp tone, you. That's right. He was crestfallen, plucking at his chin. That's hard to get around. But I've got to get around it. I've got to show results, Mrs. Brace. People, some of the papers even, are already hinting that I'm too easy on a rich man and his friend. Yes, she said evenly. And you told I understood you'd act on our theory. I've got to. I've got to act. His confusion was manifest. He did not know what to do, and he was silent, hoping for a suggestion from her. She let him wait. The pause added to his embarrassment. What would, that is, he forced himself to the appeal. I was wondering, anything occur to you? See any way out of it? Of course I know nothing about such procedure, she replied to that slowly as if she groped for a new idea. But if you've got the proof from somewhere else, enough to warrant the arrest of Webster. Her smile deprecated her probable ineptness. If Arthur Sloan, he fairly fell upon the idea. Right, he said, clapping his hands together. Sloan's no dying man, is he? And he knows the whole story. Right you are, Mrs. Brace. He can shake and tremble and whine all he pleases. But tonight he's my meat. My meat! Right! Talk! You bet he'll talk! She considered, looking at the opposite wall. He was convinced that she examined the project, viewing it from the standpoint of his interest, seeking possible dangers of failure. Nevertheless, he hurried her decision. It's the right thing to do, isn't it? I should think so, she said at last. You, with your mental forcefulness, your ability as a questioner, why, I don't see how you can fail to get at what he knows. Beside, you have the element of surprise on your side. That will go far toward sweeping him off his feet. He was again conscious of his dead of gratitude to this woman and tried to voice it. This is the first time, he declared, big with confidence. I felt that I had the right end of this case. When she had closed the door on him, she went back to the living room and set back in its customary place the chair he had occupied. Her own was where it always belonged. From there she went into the bathroom, and, as Hastings had seen her do before, drew a glass of water which she drank slowly. Then, examining her hard, smooth face in the bedroom mirror, she said aloud, Pretty soon now somebody will talk business, with me. There was no elation in her voice, but her lips were, for a moment, thick and wet, changing her countenance into a picture of inordinate greed. End of Chapter 14 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 15 Of No Clue This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline No Clue By James Hay Chapter 15 In Arthur Sloan's room Hastings went back to Sloanhurst that evening for another and more forceful attempt to argue Arthur Sloan into frankness. Like Mrs. Brace he could not get away from the definite conclusion that Lucille's father was silent from fear of telling what he knew. Moreover, he realized that without a closer connection with Sloan, his own handling of the case was seriously impeded. Lucille was on the front porch, evidently waiting for him, although he had not notified her in advance of his visit. She went hurriedly down the steps and met him on the walk. When he began an apology for having to annoy her so frequently, she cut short his excuses. Oh, but I'm glad you're here, so glad. We need your help. The sheriff's here. She put her hand on his coat's sleeve. He could feel the tremor of it as she pulled, unconsciously, on the cloth. She turned toward the veranda steps. What's he doing? He asked, detaining her. He's in father's room, she said in feverish haste, asking him all sorts of questions, saying ridiculous things. Really, I'm afraid for father's health. Can't you go in now? Couldn't Judge Wilton manage him? Isn't the Judge here? No. He came over at dinnertime, but he went back to the Randalls. Father didn't feel up to talking to him. Crown, she explained, had literally forced his way into the bedroom, disregarding her protests and paying no attention to the pretense of physical resistance displayed by Jarvis. The man seems insane, she said. I want you to make him leave father's room, please. She halted near the library door, leaving the matter in Hastings' hands. Since entering the house, he had heard Crown's voice, raised to the key of altercation, and now, when he stepped into Sloan's room, the rush of words continued. The sheriff, unaware of the newcomer, stood near the bed, emphasizing his speech with restless arms and violent motions of his head, as if to galvanize into response the still and prostrate form before him. On the opposite side of the bed stood the sepulchral Jarvis, flashing malign looks at Crown, but chiefly busy, with unshaking hands, preparing a beverage of some sort for the sick man. Sloan lay on his back, eyes closed, face under the full glare of the reading light. His expression indicated both boredom and physical suffering. Have to make an arrest, Crown was saying. You're making me take that action, ain't you? I come in here, consider it as I know how to be, and I ask you for a few facts. Do you give them to me? Not by a long shot. You lie there in that bed and talk about leaping angels and say I bore you. Well, Mr. Sloan, that won't get you a thing. You're where I said you were. It's either Webster that'll be arrested or yourself. Now, I'm giving you another chance. I'm asking you what you saw, and you can tell me or take the consequences. Hastings thought, he's up that gum stump of his again and don't know how to quit talking. Sloan made no answer. Well, thundered Crown, I'm asking you. Mourning martyrs, Sloan protested in a thin, querulous tone. Jarvis, the bromide. All right, the Sheriff delivered his ultimatum. I'll stick to what I said. Webster may be too sick to talk, but not too sick to have a warrant served on him. He'll be arrested because you won't tell me. Hastings spoke, then. Gentlemen, he greeted pleasantly. Mr. Sloan, good evening. Mr. Sheriff, am I interrupting a private conference? Fiery friends, wailed Sloan. Another! Hastings gave his attention to Crown. He was certain that the man, balked by Sloan's refusal to talk, would welcome an excuse for leaving the room. Let me see you a moment, will you? He put a hand on the Sheriff's shoulder, persuading, it's important, right now. But I want to know what Mr. Sloan's going to say, crown blustered. If he'll tell, Hastings stopped him with a whisper. That's exactly what he'll do, soon. He led the Sheriff into the hall. They went into the parlor. Now Hastings began, in genial tone. Did you get anything from him? Not a dad-blamed thing. Crown was still blustery. But he'll talk before I'm through. You can put your little bets down on that. All right. You've had your chance, Adam. Better let me see him. Crown looked his distrust. He was thinking of Mrs. Brace's warning that this man had made a fool of him. I'm not trying to put anything over on you, the Detective assured him. Fact is, I'm out here for the newspaper men. They've had nothing from him. They've asked me to get his story. I'll give it to you before I see them. What do you say? Crown still hesitated. If after you've heard it, Hastings added, you want to question him further, you can do it, of course. But this way we take two shots at it. To that the other finally agreed. Hastings found Sloan smoking a cigarette, his eyes still closed. Jarvis was behind a screen near the door, now and then clinking glass against glass as he worked. The old man took a chair near the bed and waited for Sloan to speak. He waited a long time. Finally the invalid looked at him from under lowered lids, slyly like a child peeping. Hastings returned to the look with a pleasant smile, his shrewd eyes sparkling over the rims of his spectacles. Well, Sloan said at last in a whiny tone, what do you want? First, Hastings apologized, I want to say how sorry I am I didn't make myself clearly understood night before last when I told Ms. Sloan I'd act as mouthpiece for this household. I didn't mean I could invent a statement for each of you or for any of you. What I did mean amounts to this. If you, for instance, would tell me what you know, all you know about this murder, I could relay it to the reporters and to the sheriff, who's been annoying you so this evening. As flat-headed fiends Sloan cut in, writhing under the light coverlet, another harangue. Hastings kept his temper. No harangue about it. But it's come to this, Mr. Sloan, your handicapping me and the reporters and the sheriff don't trust you. Why? Why don't they trust me? shrilled Sloan, writhing again. I'll tell you in a very few words, because you refused to testify at the inquest yesterday giving illness as an excuse. That's one reason. The howling hellions. Wasn't I ill? Didn't I have enough to make me ill? Jarvis, a little whiskey. Dr. Garnet hasn't told them so, the reporters. He won't tell them so. In fact, Hastings said, with less show of cordiality, from all he said to me I gather he doesn't think you an ill man, that is dangerously ill. And because of that they say what, these reporters? This sheriff? What? They're in ugly mood, Mr. Sloan. They're saying you're trying to protect somebody by keeping still about a thing which you should be the first to haul into daylight. That's it, in a nutshell. Sloan had stopped trembling. He sat up in the bed and stared at the detective out of steady, hard eyes. He waved away the whiskey Jarvis held toward him. And you want what, Mr. Hastings? He inquired, a curiously effective sarcasm in his voice. A statement covering every second from the time you waked up Saturday night until you saw the body. A statement! Reporters! He was snarling on that. What's got into you, anyway? What are you trying to do? Make people suspect me of the murder? Make them suspect burned? He threw away the cigarette and shook his fist at Hastings. He gulped twice before he could speak again. He seemed on the point of choking. In an ugly mood, are they? Well, they can stay in an ugly mood. You too! And that hydrophobic sheriff! Quivering and crucified saints! I've had enough of all of you! All of you! Understand? Get out of here! Get out! Although his voice was shrill, there was no sound of weakness in it. The trembling that attacked him was the result of anger, not of nervousness. Hastings rose astounded by the outbreak. I'm afraid you don't realize the seriousness of— Oh, get out of here! Sloan interrupted again. You've imposed on my daughter with your talk of being helpful, and all that, Rod, but you can't hoodwink me! What the devil do you mean by letting that sheriff come in here and subject me to all this annoyance and shock? You'd save us from unpleasantness! He spoke more slowly now, as if he cudgled his brain for the most biting sarcasm, the most unbearable insolence. Don't realize the seriousness! Flat-headed fiends! Are you any nearer the truth now than you were at the start? Try to understand this, Mr. Hastings. You're discharged. Fired! From now on, I'm in charge of what goes on in this house. If there's any trouble to be avoided, I'll attend to it. Get that, and get out! Hastings, opening his mouth for angry retort, checked himself. He stood a moment silent, shaken by the effort it cost him to maintain his self-control. Huff! Sloan's nasal twangy exclamation was clearly intended to provoke him further. But without a word he turned and left the room. Passing the screen near the door, he heard Jarvis Snicker, a discreet echo of Sloan's goading ridicule. On his way back to the parlor, the old man made up his mind to discount Sloan's behavior. I've got to take a chance, he counseled himself. But I know I'm right in doing it. A big responsibility, but I'm right. Then he submitted this report. He says nothing new, Crown. Far as I can make out, nothing unusual waked him up that night, except chronic nervousness. He turned on that light to find some medicine. He knew nothing of the murder until Judge Wilton called him. Huff! growled Crown. And you fall for that? Hastings eyed him sternly. It's the statement I'm going to give to the reporters. The sheriff was silent, irresolute. Hastings congratulated himself on his earlier deduction that Crown, unable to frighten Sloan into communicativeness, was thankful for an excuse to withdraw. Hendricks had reported the two-hour conference between Crown and Mrs. Brace late that afternoon. Hastings decided now the man's in cahoots with her, his ally, and he won't act until he's had another session with her. And she won't advise an arrest for a day or two anyway. Her game is to make him play on Sloan's nerves for a while. She advises threats, not arrests, which suits me to a tee. He fought down a chuckle, thinking of that alliance. Crown corroborated his reasoning. All right, Hastings, he said doggedly. I'm not going back to his room. I gave him his chance. He can take the consequences. What consequences? I'd hardly describe him to his personal representative, would I? But you can take this from me. They'll come soon enough, and rough enough. Hastings made no reference to having been dismissed by Sloan. He was glad when Crown changed the subject. Hastings, you saw the reporters this afternoon. I've been wondering. They asked me, did they ask you whether you suspected the valet Jarvis? Of what? Killing her. No, they didn't ask me. Funny, said Crown, illidies. They asked me. So you said. Hastings reminded, looking hard at him. Well, Crown blurted it out. Do you suspect him? Are you working on that line at all? Hastings paused. He had no desire to mislead him. And yet there was no reason for confiding in him, and delay was at present the Hastings' plan. I'll tell you, Crown, he said finally. I'll work on any line that can lead to the guilty man. What do you know? Who, me? Crown's tone indicated the absurdity of suspecting Jarvis. Not a thing. But it gave Hastings food for thought. Was Mrs. Brace in communication with Jarvis? And did Crown know that? Was it possible that Crown wanted to find out whether Hastings was having Jarvis shadowed? How much of a fool was the woman making of the sheriff anyway? Another thing puzzled him. Why did Mrs. Brace suspect Arthur Sloan of withholding the true story of what he had seen the night of the murder? Hastings' suspicion, amounting to certainty, came from his knowledge that the man's own daughter thought him deeply involved in the crime. But Mrs. Brace, was she clever enough to make that deduction from the known facts? Or did she have more direct information from Sloan Hearst than he had thought possible? He decided not to leave the sheriff entirely subject to her schemes and suggestions. He would give Mr. Crown something along another line. A break, as it were, on impulsive action. You talk about arresting Webster right away, or Sloan, he began, suddenly confiding. You wouldn't want to make a mistake, would you? Crown rose to that. Why? What do you know, especially? Well, not so much, maybe. But it's worth thinking about. I'll give you the facts, confidentially, of course. Hub Hill's about a hundred yards from this house, on the road to Washington. When automobiles sink into it, hub deep, they come out with a lot of mud on their wheels, black, loamy mud. Ain't any other mud like that hub hill mud anywhere near here? It's just special and peculiar to Hub Hill. That so? Yes, agreed Crown, absorbed. All right, how, then, did Eugene Russell keep black hub hill mud on his shoes that night, if he went the four miles on foot to where Otis picked him up? Eh? said Crown, chin fallen. By the time he'd run four miles, his shoes would have been covered with the red mud of that mile of dirt road, or the thin mud of the road. They'd have thrown off that hub hill mud pretty quick, wouldn't they? Thunder, marvelled Crown, that's right. And those shoes were in his room. I saw him. He gurgled far back in his throat. Say, how did he get from hub hill to where Otis picked him up? That's what I said. I said, I said, I said, I said, I said, I said, I said, I said, I said, I said, I said, declared Hastings very bland. How? To Lucille, after Crown's departure, the detective declared his intention to stand by her, to stay on the case. He repeated his statement of yesterday. He suspected too much and knew too little to give it up. He told her of the responsibility he had assumed in giving the Sheriff the fictitious Sloan statement. That is, it's not fictitious in itself. It's what your father has been saying. But I told Crown, and I'm going to tell the newspaper men, that he says it's all he knows, really. And I hate to do it, because honestly, Miss Sloan, I don't think it is all. I'm afraid he's deceiving us. She did not contradict that, it was her own opinion. However, the old man made excuse, I had to do it in view of things as they are. And he's got to stick to it, now that I've made it official, so to speak. Do you think he will? She did not see why not. She would explain to him the importance, the necessity of that course. He's so mistaken in what he's doing, she said, I don't understand him, really. You know how devoted to me he is. He called me into his room again an hour or two ago, and tried to comfort me. He said he had reason to know everything would come out as it should. But he looked so, so uncertain. Oh, Mr. Hastings, who did kill that woman? I think I'll be able to prove who did it. Let's see, he spoke with a light cheerfulness. And at the same time with sincerity. I'll be able to prove it in less than a week after Mrs. Brace takes that money from you. She said nothing to that, and he leaned forward sharply, peering at her face, illegible to him in the darkness of the veranda. So much depends on that, on you, he added. You won't fail me, to-morrow? I'll do my best, she said, earnestly, struggling against depression. She must take that money, he declared with great emphasis. She must. And you think she will? Miss Sloan, I know she will, he said, a fatherly encouragement in his voice. I am seldom mistaken in people, and I know I've judged this woman correctly. Money's her weakness. Love of it has destroyed her already. Offering this bribe to anybody else situated as she is would be ridiculous, but she, she'll take it. Lucille sat a long time on the veranda after Hastings had gone. She was far more depressed than he had suspected. She had to endure so much, she thought. The suspense, which grew heavier as time went by, the notoriety, Burn Webster still in danger of his life, her father's inexplicable pose of indifference toward everything, the suspicions of the newspapers and the public of both her father and Burn, and the waiting, waiting, waiting, for what? A little moan escaped her. What if Mrs. Brace did take the marked money? What would that show? That she was acting with criminal intent, Hastings had said. But he had another, and more definite, object in urging her to this undertaking. He expected from it a vital development which he had not explained. She was sure. She worried with that idea. Her confidence in Hastings had been without qualification, but what was he doing? Anything? Judge Wilton was forever saying, Trust Hastings, he's the man for the case. And that was his reputation. People declared that if anybody could get to the bottom of all this mystery, he could. Yet two whole days had passed since the murder, and he had just said another week might be required to work out his plan of detection, whatever that plan was. Another week of this. She put her hot palms to her hotter temples, striving for clarity of thought. But she was dazed by her terror, her isolated terror, for some of her thoughts were such that she could share them with nobody, not even Hastings. If the Sheriff makes no arrest within the next few days, I'll be out of the woods, he had told her. Delay is what I want. There again was discouragement, for here was the Sheriff threatening to serve a warrant on Byrne within the next twenty-four hours. She had heard Crown make the threat, and to her it had seemed absolutely final, unless her father revealed something which Crown wanted, whether her father knew it or not. Byrne was to be subjected to this humiliation, this added blow to his chance for recovery. She sprang up, throwing her hands wide and staring blindly at the stars. The woman who she was to bribe cast a deep shadow on her imagination. Sharing the feeling of many others, she had reached the reluctant conclusion that Mrs. Brace in some way knew more than anybody else about the murder and its motives. It was, she told herself, a horrid feeling and without reason. But she could not shake it off. To her, Mrs. Brace was a figure of sinister power, an agent of ugliness, waiting to do evil, waiting for what. By a great effort she steadied her jangled nerves. Hastings was counting on her, and work, even work in the dark, was preferable to this idleness, this everlasting summoning up of frightful possibilities without a ray of hope. She would do her best to make that woman take the money. Tomorrow she would be of real service to Bern Webster. She would atone in some small measure for the sorrow she had brought upon him, discarding him because of empty gossip. Would he continue to love her? Perhaps if she had not discarded him, Mildred Brace would not have been murdered. A groan escaped her. She fled into the house, away from her thoughts. End of Chapter 15. Recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 16 of No Clue. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. No Clue by James Hay. Chapter 16. The Bribe. It was nine o'clock the following evening when Lucille Sloan, sure that she had entered the Wallman unobserved, rang the bell of Mrs. Brace's apartment. Her body felt remarkably light and facile as if she moved in a tenuous, half-real atmosphere. There were moments when she had the sensation of floating. Her brain worked with extraordinary rapidity. She was conscious of an unusually resourceful intelligence, and performed a series of mental gymnastics, framing in advance the sentences she would use in the interview confronting her. The constant thought at the back of her brain was that she would succeed. She would speak and act in such a way that Mrs. Brace would take the money. She was buoyed by a fierce determination to be repaid for all the suspense, all the agony of heart that had weighed her down throughout this long, leaden-footed day, the past twenty-four hours unproductive of a single enlightening incident. Mrs. Brace opened the door, and with a scarcely perceptible nod of the head, motioned her into the living room. Neither of them spoke until they had seated themselves on the chairs by the window. Even then the silence was prolonged, until Lucille realized that her tongue was dry and uncomfortably large for her mouth. An access of trembling shook her. She tried to smile and knew that her lips were twisting in a ghastly grin. Mrs. Brace moved slowly to and fro on the armless rocker, her swift appraising eyes taking in her visitor's distress. The smooth face warrants customary, inexpressive calm. Lucille, striving desperately to arrive at some opinion of what the woman thought, saw that she might as well try to find emotion in a statue. I—I—the girl finally attained a quick flurried utterance. Want to thank you for—for having this—this talk with me. What do you want to talk about, Miss Sloan? The low metallic voice was neither friendly nor hostile. It expressed more than anything else a sardonic, bullying, self-sufficiency. It both angered and encouraged Lucille. She perceived the futility of polite introductory phrases here. She could go straight to her purpose, be brutally frank. She gave Mrs. Brace a brilliant, disarming smile, a proclamation of fellowship. Her confidence was restored. I'm sure we can talk sensibly together, Mrs. Brace, she explained, dissembling her indignation. We can get down to business at once. What business, inquired the older woman, with some of the manner Hastings had seen, an air of lying and weight. I said on the phone it was something of advantage to you, didn't I? Yes, you said that. And, of course, I want something from you. Naturally. I'll tell you what it is. Lucille spoke now with cool precision, as yet untouched by the horror she had expected to feel. It's a matter of money. Mrs. Brace's tongue came out to the edge of the thin line of her lips. Her nostrils quivered, once, to the sharply in-drawn breath. Her eyes were more furtive. Money, she echoed. For what? There's no good of my making long explanations, Mrs. Brace, Lucille said. I've read the newspapers, every line of them, about our trouble. And I saw the references to your finances, your life, your life, your life. The lack of money. Yes, Mrs. Brace's right hand lay on her lap. The thumb of it began to move against the forefinger rapidly. The motion a woman makes in feeling the texture of claw. Or the trick of a bank clerk separating paper money. Yes, I read also what you said about the tragedy. Today I notice that the only note of newness in the articles in the papers came from you. From your saying that, in a few days, three or four at the outside, that was your language, I'm quite sure, you'd produce evidence on which an arrest would be made. I've intelligence enough to see that the public's interest in you is so great, the sympathy for you is so great, that your threats, I mean predictions or opinions, color everything that's written by the reporters. You see? Do I see what? Despite her excellent pose of waiting with nothing more than a polite interest, Lucille saw in her a pronounced alteration. That was not so much in her face as in her body. Her limbs had a look of rigidity. Don't you see what I mean? Lucille insisted. I see that you can make endless trouble for us, for all of us at Sloanhurst. You can make people believe Mr. Webster guilty, and that Father and I are shielding him. People listen to what you say. They seem to be on your side. Well, I wondered if you wouldn't stop your interviews, your accusations. The younger woman's eagerness, evident now in the variety of her gestures, and the rapid procession of pallor and flush across her cheeks, persuaded Mrs. Brace that Lucille was acting on an impulse of her own, not as an agent to carry out another's well-designed scheme. The older woman, at that idea, felt safe. She asked, And you want what? I've come here to ask you to tell me all you know, or to be quiet altogether. I'm afraid I don't understand fully, returned Mrs. Brace, with an exaggerated bewilderment. Tell all I know? That is, if you do know anything you haven't told, Lucille urged her. Oh, don't you see? I'm saying to you that I want to put an end to this dreadful suspense. Mrs. Brace laughed disagreeably. Her face was harder, less human. You mean I'm amusing myself, exerting myself needlessly as a matter of spite? Do you mean to tell me that? No, no! Lucille denied, impatient with herself for lack of clearness. I mean I'm sure you're attacking an innocent man. And I'm willing. I'm anxious. Oh, I hope so much, Mrs. Brace, to make an agreement with you, a financial arrangement. She paused the fractional part of a second on that, and seeing that the other did not resent the term, she added, to pay you to stop it. Isn't that clear? Yes, that's clear. Understand me, please. What I ask is that you say nothing more to the reporters, the sheriff, or the Washington police that will have the effect of hounding them on against Mr. Webster. I want to eliminate from the situation all the influence you've exerted to make Mr. Crown believe Mr. Webster's guilty and my father's protecting him. Let me think, Mrs. Brace said coolly. Lucille exalted inwardly. She'll do it! She'll do it! The hard eyes dissected her eager face. The girl drew back in her chair, thinking now she suspects who sent me. At last the older woman spoke. The detective, Hastings, would never have allowed you to come here, Ms. Sloan. Excuse my frankness, she interjected with a smile she meant to be friendly. But you're frank with me. We're not mincing matters, and I have to be careful. He had have warned you that your errands practical confession of your knowledge of something incriminating burned Webster. If you didn't suspect the man even more strongly than I do, you'd never have been driven to this. She leaned the rocker back and crossed her knees, the movement throwing into high relief the hard lengthness of her figure. She gazed at the wall over Lucille's head, as she dealt with the possibilities that presented themselves to her analysis. Her manner was that of a certain gloating enjoyment, a thinly covered semi-orderly greediness. She's not even thinking of her daughter, Lucille thought, and went pale a moment. She's as bad as Mr. Hastings said. Worse. Then too, Mrs. Brace continued, your father discharged him last night. Lucille remembered the detective's misgivings about Jarvis. How well said this woman found that out? And you've taken matters into your own hands. Did your father send you here to me? Why, no! The other smiled slyly, the tip of her tongue again visible, her eyebrows high in interrogation. Of course, she said, you wouldn't tell me if he had. He would have warned you against that admission. It's Mr. Webster about whom I'm most concerned, Lucille reminded, sharpness in her vibrant young voice. My father's being annoyed is merely incidental. Oh, of course, of course, Mrs. Brace grinned with broad sarcasm. Lucille started. The meaning of that could not be misunderstood. She charged that the money was offered at Arthur Sloan's instigation, and that the concern for Byrne Webster was merely pretense. Mrs. Brace saw her anger and placated it. Don't mind me, Miss Sloan, a woman who's had to endure what I have. Well, she doesn't always think clearly. Perhaps not, Lucille assented, but she was aware of a sudden longing to be done with the degrading work. Now that we understand each other, Mrs. Brace, what do you say? Mrs. Brace thought again. How much, she asked at last, her lips thickening. How much, Miss Sloan, do you think my silence is worth? Lucille took a roll of bills from her handbag. The woman's chair slid forward, answering to the forward-leaning weight of her new posture. She was lightly rubbing her palms together, as with head a little bowed, she stared at the money in the younger woman's hand. I have here five hundred dollars, Lucille began. What! Mrs. Brace said that roughly, and in violent anger, drew back the legs of her chair grating on the floor. For a moment Lucille gazed at her, uncomprehending. Oh, she said uncertainly. You mean it isn't enough? Enough, Mrs. Brace's rage and disappointment grew, her lowered brows a straight line close down to her eyes. But I could get more, Lucille exclaimed, struggling with disgust. This, she added, with ready invention, can serve as a part payment, a promise of, ah, the older woman exclaimed, that's different, I misunderstood. She put down the signals of her wrath, succeeding in that readjustment so promptly that Lucille stared at her in undisguised amazement. You must pardon me, Miss Sloan. I thought you were making me the victim of your ridicule, some heartless joke. Then we can come to an agreement? That is, if this money is the first, she broke the sentence. Mrs. Brace had put up her hand and now held her head to one side, listening. There was a step clearly audible outside in the main hall. The next moment the doorbell rang. They sat motionless. When the bell rang again, Mrs. Brace informed her with a look that she would not answer it. But the ringing continued, became a prolonged jangle. It got on Lucille's already strained nerves. Suppose you slip into the bedroom, Mrs. Brace whispered. Oh, no! Lucille whispered back. She was weighed down by black premonition. She hoped Mrs. Brace would not open the door. The bell rang again. You'll have to, Mrs. Brace said at last. I won't let anybody in, and I have to answer it. You'll send them away, whoever it is, at once? At once! I don't want you seen here any more than you want to be seen. Lucille started toward the bedroom. At the first step she took, Mrs. Brace put a hand on her arm. That money, she demanded in a low whisper, I'll take it. And do what I asked? Stop attacking us? Yes, yes! Lucille gave her the money. There were no lights in the bedroom. Lucille, for fear of stumbling or making a noise, stood to one side of the door frame, close to the wall. Mrs. Brace's footsteps stopped. There was the click of the opening door. Then there came to Lucille the high-pitched, quarriulous voice which she had been afraid she would hear. It was her father's. End of Chapter 16. Recording by Roger Maline