How Many Cards?/Chapter 18
CHAPTER XVIII
THE NAME IN THE BOOK
"IT'S a pity you could not have stopped by for me on your way down to headquarters, the day!" Dennis observed reproachfully as late that afternoon he stretched out his lanky form in McCarty's comfortably dilapidated arm-chair. "Well you knew I was off duty until six this evening and then on solid for twenty-four hours! I'd have liked first rate to have seen Martin's face when he found how the dressmaker had tricked him with the Hill woman inside that wedding gown instead of the dummy!"
"I only went down to report to the inspector, not thinking Mrs. Hill would show up so soon," McCarty explained. "But what do you think of those letters I found where Hill had hid them under the vase?"
He had recounted to his companion the tale of the morning's adventures, and of all that he had learned about Cutter's establishment and those who frequented it, ending with his visit to the Creveling house, and spread the letters out on the desk before him.
"I'm thinking," Dennis observed, "that our fine gentleman, Mr. Creveling, was a crook and a blackguard, and he must have been flirting with that bullet a good while before it finally got him. But all this don't lead you any nearer to who fired it, Mac. You've enough to do finding him without chasing after those emeralds, too."
"I've given my word," McCarty responded soberly. "Hill is the sly fox, but that galoot of a wife of his, for all she's a fine figure of a woman, is too stupid to be anything but honest and if Creveling framed her it's up to me to get her off. As for the shooting, I've my own ideas about that and I'm not springing them on even you yet, Denny. What do you make of the handwriting of those seven words that were added at the bottom of Creveling's letter and sent back to him?"
"If I was Terhune now, with his little magnifying glasses, I might be able to tell you the color of the guy's hair that wrote it, and the maiden name of both his grandmothers, but being as I'm not it's little I make of it at all!" Dennis regarded the double sheet of note paper critically. "I'd never say, though, that he was the lad to murder anybody for all the letters are kind of bold and dashing.—See the way that one straggles and this bit of a blot where the ink dropped off the end of the pen? The hand that held the pen was shaking, Mac, but the one that held the gun didn't."
"True for you." McCarty folded the letters thoughtfully and put them in his pocket. "But it may have been the same hand for all that. It could have shook from excitement or anger beforehand yet been steady enough when the time came to act. But I've more to tell you, Denny: there are so many loose ends to this case that I made up my mind I'd give this day to pulling out of the tangle and one of them led straight back here, under this very roof!"
"Here?" Dennis glanced around him at the shabby, home-like room as though he expected something sinister to rear its head in the familiar surroundings.
"To the musty old shop of the little Frenchman downstairs," McCarty went on. "Do you mind I told you that when I had the interview with Mrs. Kip on Friday I had a kind of an idea I couldn't shake off that I'd seen her before, and not so long ago, at that? I could not place her and it's been bothering me till this afternoon when I went to see her again. While I was waiting for her to come down I looked around the reception room a bit and what did I see but an old cabinet with long-legged birds carved on it and lettering like a laundry ticket in one corner, and I knew it as well as I know the chair you're sitting in this minute, Denny; many's the time I saw it in old Girard"s shop below, when I went in to have a bit of a smoke with him of an evening, and he told me there was not another like it in the country. Then all at once it come to me that 'twas there I'd seen her on a night not a month ago, and I called to mind that there had been a man in a big fur coat with her and a car outside. I did not get sight of his face but the car was a long, low, open runabout with an engine like a racer and I recalled thinking how unseasonable it was with the snow and all. I remember her, too, because she was dressed so funny; a little hat with a long veil and a heavy enough motoring coat, but the coat was open and underneath it she had on an evening dress you could have made from a lace handkerchief and had some to spare."
"Did you ask Girard if he knew who the fellow was?" asked Dennis eagerly.
"He's gone away for the day, but I'll see him to-night," McCarty responded. "By the time Mrs. Kip had made up her mind she'd see me this afternoon I'd worked up an interest in antiques and Chink cabinets in particular that would have done credit to Girard himself. The first thing I asked her was where that one had come from and she said a friend had brought it to her straight from the Orient; that was answer enough for me to get it that she was afraid to drag in that man with the fur coat.—I gave it to her strong then that I knew she'd lied about her whereabouts on Thursday night at the time Creveling was killed."
"And what happened?" Dennis sat bolt upright in his chair. "Did she come across with the truth? Where—?"
"She did not!" McCarty interrupted grimly. "I've seen many a woman in a temper but never the beat of her! The half of it was put on; I could see that; for in the midst of her hysterics she was studying me with an eye as cold as a fish to see how I was taking it and if she was stalling me any. She's a born gambler, that Mrs. Kip, but she hasn't learned when to bluff and when to lay down her cards. She stuck to it that she'd gone to bed early and her maid could prove it, and that 'twas the day before that she'd fallen on the rug and hurt her arm."
"And what did the maid say?" demanded Dennis.
McCarty shrugged.
"What would any. girl say that had a soft berth and was afraid of losing it?" he retorted. "The minute Mrs. Kip called her in I could see she had her story all fixed and 'twas a waste of time to even listen to it. When she'd left the room I remarked to Mrs. Kip that I supposed her companion Miss Frost would corroborate it and when she said 'Yes' I asked her to write out the address in Chicago that Miss Frost had gone to."
"And what was the good of that when you knew all the time that Miss Frost was no more in Chicago than we are this minute?"
For answer McCarty pulled a folded slip of paper from his pocket.
"To get a look at her handwriting."
Dennis' eyes bulged.
"Mac, you don't think 'twas a woman—?"
"I'm no expert, and those seven words might have been written by a woman," McCarty replied guardedly.
"And some man kept the appointment for her!" Dennis finished. "Let's have a look at that slip."
McCarty passed it over and his companion scrutinized it doubtfully.
"It might be the same, at that," he said at last as he returned it. "Especially if the writing at the bottom of Creveling's note was disguised a bit, as it likely was, seeing that not even an initial was signed to it. Did you get any answer to that advertisement you put in the papers about Mrs. Kip's fur neck piece?"
"Not up to yesterday afternoon when I called at the Bulletin office" McCarty rose. "It's half-past five. Come and I'll have an early bite with you before you go back on duty, for no lunch did I have, and I'm going to drop in at the O'Rourkes' and come home after to talk to Girard."
"The O'Rourkes', is it?" Dennis asked as he reached for his hat. "'Tis high society you're moving in these days."
"I knew them in the old country when she was a baby and he just a broth of a boy, as I'm after telling you," McCarty remarked. "If there's a drop of the old blood in him, Cutter and his crowd will strip him of his last cent and him thinking all the time that the game is a straight one and them as clean sports as he. I'd not butt in now, but they may scent scandal and exposure coming and make a killing off him before they beat it. I've an idea that Waverly is four-flushing financially just the way Creveling was, and is in on a percentage of Cutter's games. Anyway, I'll not let 'the' O'Rourke be stung if a word in his ear will save him!"
But when McCarty stood in the genial, democratic presence of John Cavanaugh O'Rourke he did not find it so easy to utter that saving word. Adroitly he turned the conversation from the mystery of Creveling's death to a discussion of his friends and heard a eulogy of Nicholas Cutter which left him at a loss as to how to proceed upon his mission. After all, "the" O'Rourke was a gentleman and McCarty had been but a gawky, out-at-elbows lout, bred of the farms and byres. Would the former listen to a word from such a source against one who, though a scamp and a scoundrel, was nevertheless of aristocratic stock? The ex-roundsman drew a deep breath and plunged.
"You were good enough when I talked with you last, sir, to say I should let you know if there was any way you could help to clear up the matter of Mr. Creveling's death. Will you answer me one question, not to be repeated to the inspector but as man to man?"
"Of course, Timmie." The old name came instinctively to O'Rourke's lips. "If that valet Hill, whom you have arrested—?"
"Hill has been let go again. We took him on the murder charge for another purpose entirely and it worked." McCarty paused. "The question I wanted to ask you was about Mr. Cutter. I know he's of a fine old family and you think he is a friend of yours—"
"'Think'?" O'Rourke caught him up quickly. "He's the best pal in the world!"
"So a lot more have thought, sir, until they left his card table with nothing but the clothes they stood in." McCarty met with a steady gaze the fire which flashed suddenly in the other's eyes. "I know all about those little games of his, you see, and I suppose you'll be ready to kick me out but 'tis only because of the old days I'm speaking now. Did it ever occur to you, sir, that they were being run crooked?"
For a moment it seemed that O'Rourke's anger would burst forth but he turned away instead with a forced laugh.
"You're away off, Timmie! Nick Cutter is a thorough sportsman all the way through and his play is dead on the level. Of course he wouldn't care to have it published broadcast that a few of his intimate friends meet as a regular thing at his house for a gentlemen's game, because of the beastly notoriety and your ubiquitous police system over here; he might actually be raided! I suppose you've been talking to some cad who lost and then beefed about it. Cutter wouldn't ask a chap of that sort to sit in but a man doesn't always know his friends."
"That's what I'm trying to tell you, sir. A man can't always tell whether people are on the square or playing him for a sucker. I've heard more than one ugly report concerning him in the last few days but I've said nothing at headquarters." McCarty added slyly: "I like a hand or two at poker myself now and then, and I'm not regularly connected with the department any more, you know. 'Tis none of my business to go bleating about a gentlemen's game and spoil their sport. I only wanted to warn you in case anything might be wrong."
"Thanks, old man, but there's no need." O'Rourke's good-nature was completely restored and now his merry, boyish eyes twinkled with a sudden inspiration. "Tell you what I'll do to convince you; I'll take you along and stand sponsor for you at the next game if you like. Cutter won't mind as long as you are there unofficially and you can see for yourself that everything is as right as can be. I'll stake you—"
"I'd like to take you up on that some time sir, but I'll buy my own chips," McCarty said with a chuckle which covered his own satisfaction at having gained his point. "If I lose I'll not be squealing at headquarters about it, but raising the rents again on my tenants.—By the way, you played there last Tuesday night, didn't you?"
"Yes. Why?" O'Rourke asked. "That was the last time I saw 'Gene Creveling alive."
"Mr. and Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Baillie Kip and Mr. Waverly were there too, weren't they?" persisted McCarty.
"Yes." There was a puzzled look in O'Rourke's gray eyes.
"That made eight of you, all told."
"Yes, but we didn't all play. I mean, not at the same time," O'Rourke amended. "Creveling dropped out early and Waverly took his hand."
"I see. Then they didn't sit in the same game together. Have they for the past couple of weeks?"
"I don't remember. I don't think they have, at that.—What the devil are you getting at, Timmie?"
"Just this, sir. Did they speak at all to each other on Tuesday night?" McCarty asked bluntly. "Have you heard nothing about there being bad blood between them lately?"
"Why—no." O'Rourke paused reflectively. "I've heard nothing about any quarrel and they were usually thicker than thieves, but it's funny about Tuesday night. They did not speak at all, now that I remember! Creveling was away ahead of the game but he threw down his cards and cashed in just after Waverly came. Cutter was banking, of course, and while he settled up with Creveling, Waverly talked to Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Kip. Then when Creveling had said a general good night and gone, Waverly dropped into his chair and the game went on.—I say, though, you don't mean that they could have had a serious quarrel! That any one has been trying to connect Waverly with—with what happened to Creveling? It's utterly absurd—!"
"Oh, no!" McCarty interrupted hastily. "We know where Mr. Waverly was all Thursday night, even if there had been any suspicion against him. There's been some talk of a quarrel, though, that involved somebody else and we had to look into it, of course.—Well, I'll be getting along, now, sir. If Mr. Cutter and the other gentlemen don't mind, I'd like mighty well to sit in one of their games. 'Twould be something to remember."
"Oh, Cutter'll be glad to have you; you'd be a friend at court, you know, if your colleagues at headquarters got inquisitive about what was being pulled off, and if a friend of mine from the old country wasn't welcome to play with the rest I'd quit the game myself!" O'Rourke laughed. "But come and say hello to Margaret before you go; she's writing letters in her own little sitting-room but she'll not take it kindly if you leave without a word with her."
The apartment into which McCarty was ushered was hung all in pale, cool greens with great bowls of jonquils standing all about and Lady Peggy appeared to his enraptured gaze very like a spring flower herself in her softly flowing lavender robe as she looked up from her desk and held out her little hand with a smile of welcome.
"Good evening, Mr. McCarty. When are you coming to dine with us as you promised?" she asked. "We've years of friendship that wasn't lost but just mislaid to pick up again, you know, and I'm hungry for a talk about the home people and the home land."
McCarty flushed redly and his eyes fell. It was a minute before he found his voice.
"Thank you kindly, Lady Peggy. I'd be honored to come sometime when you've an evening to spare and my work is done," he stammered. "There's none of my own left in the old country now, and 'tis long since I stopped writing, so I'll have to ask the news of you."
"I'll have plenty for you!" she smiled. "Do you remember Father Culhane? I hear from him regularly and he gives me all the gossip of the parish, from the price of pigs to the latest baby!"
Ten minutes of pleasant chatter followed and then McCarty tore himself determinedly away to get to the shop beneath his rooms before Monsieur Girard had retired for the night. He found a light glowing dimly from the rear but the door was bolted and he rapped smartly upon the glass panel.
Mincing footsteps sounded from within and a withered little man opened the door and peered out.
"Ah, it is you, my friend! Entrez!" He bowed jerkily and waved with a grand manner toward the back of the shop, where behind faded brocade curtains which once had graced the boudoir of a king's favorite he had arranged a sort of study for himself. Here was his Voltaire and his box of long, slender, odoriferous cigars, his chess-board and the 'cello from which haunting strains rose now and again to McCarty's rooms, to fill him with sentimental melancholy or lively exasperation, according to his mood. Here, too, Monsieur Girard kept his shop accounts and entertained the few who came to see him, for he was an old man and lonely.
"Say, Girard, a funny thing happened to-day!" McCarty began. "I came to tell you about it earlier but you were away."
"Out to the cemetery." Monsieur Girard pulled a second chair up to the grate where a scant handful of coals were glowing. "Sit close, for there is still the chill of winter in the air. My bones, they felt it out there in the damp of new-turned earth!—But what has happened to-day?"
"I ran across a piece of yours: that old Chinese cabinet with birds on it! That is, if you were telling me the truth about it when you said it was the only one of its kind in this country," he added craftily.
"It is the only one of its kind in existence, my friend!" the old man retorted with dignity. "Why do you doubt?"
"Because I understood the lady to say that it had been brought to America for her."
"Ah, these new-rich!" Monsieur Girard shrugged expressively. "They will make up the fairy tale to aggrandize themselves, is it not so? If you saw my cabinet Chinois you must have been at the house of Madame Baillie Kip. It does not surprise me. Monsieur McCarty; you must have seen other beautiful things from my shop here during the last few days, only you did not chance to recognize them."
"I did?" McCarty stared. "You've been reading about the Creveling case, haven't you?—You don't mean to say that he was a customer of yours!"
"He and several of his friends." The old man shook his head. "It is very sad. Monsieur Creveling has been coming to my shop for two or three years past; not often, you comprehend, but when he did come it was usually for something of rare value. It was he who purchased that cabinet for Madame Kip."
Across McCarty's mental vision there flashed again the man in the fur coat and he asked:
"How long ago? It seems to me I saw that cabinet here only lately."
"No, my friend. It is six months, at the least.—But wait, I will tell you to the day." He rose and going to the high spindle-legged desk he took a small, flat volume, from a drawer and ruffled its pages. "Ah, here it is! Monsieur Creveling purchased it for Madame Kip on the twentieth of October. Before that I had sent to her from him a scent bottle and a fan or two—mere bijouterie. The cabinet was his first gift to her of value and his last! Shall I tell you? It is indiscreet, perhaps, that I gossip now, but it is a piquant little histoire which might have come from the pages of De Maupassant!"
He paused with a reminiscent smile and McCarty, who gathered only that he was on the trail of some new dope which would be of possible use in the case, sat up straighter in his chair.
"Let's have it, Girard. He quit making presents to her, do you mean? Why?"
"That is the histoire, Monsieur McCarty. Madame Kip, she have no knowledge of the artistique, no love of beautiful things as have most women, even of the people; it is the price only to her which matters! If a thing is of expense, voila it is to be desired; if it is exquisite but of little value in money, she has not eyes to see!" There was immeasurable scorn in his voice. "It is a month after the gift of the cabinet to her that Madame comes to me and brings back the two fans; she must have money, I must sell them for her. Eh, bien, that is to me an affair of business, but when I tell her their value she flies into a rage! She had thought them worth much more and she accuses me of trying to cheat her! I refuse then to sell them for her, I show her to the door, but she makes the apology and in the end leaves them for what they may bring.
"Not two days later Monsieur Creveling comes; he desires to know if I have found for him a vase to match one which he has, and when my back is turned he sees the fans in the case! He asks how it is that they are there and me, what can I say? I cannot make of myself in his eyes a receiver of stolen goods! He buys them, giving me twice what I asked, twice what he paid before, and takes them away, but his smile, it is not pleasant!
"I send the money to Madame Kip, saying only that it is the price which I have received for her fans but the next day she is here once more and this time her anger, it is affreuse! She says that I have 'sold her out' but I do not comprehend; it is only her fans that I have sold! Alors, Monsieur Creveling sends no more bijouterie to Madame from my shop! It is droll, is it not?"
"It is that!" McCarty laughed, but his quick brain was piecing together the story, fitting it into the mosaic of fact and theory which he had formed. "Girard, you old devil, I'll bet you did it on purpose!—But she's still a customer of yours, isn't she? Didn't I see her in here after closing hours one night not a month ago? She had on an evening dress with a motoring cloak thrown over it and she came in an open car with a man in a fur coat."
Monsieur Girard nodded.
"It was she. Another friend of hers who is an occasional customer told her of a snuff-box which had just reached me from France. It was of gold set with amethysts of rare color and said to be of the time of Louis the Just, and since there could be no doubt of its value, Madame must have it! It was purchased for her that night, Monsieur, by the man in the fur coat."
"And who was he?" McCarty asked. "Didn't you know him, too? Didn't you get his name?"
"But, yes. He gave me a check and it was under his name that I recorded the sale here in my book." He turned again to the flat volume and ran through its pages rapidly. "Here, Monsieur McCarty! Come, you shall see it for yourself."
McCarty rose with alacrity and crossing to his host, bent over the ledger and read the name written there in Monsieur Girard's small, fine hand. The next minute he started back in amazement.
"For the love of the Saints!" he ejaculated. "And 'twas not a month ago! Think of your putting it down in your little book, so neat and certain! Many's the time I've thought to myself that it was the poor business man you were, with everything higgledy-piggledy in your shop and dust that you could scrape oft with a knife, but I'll take it all back! Keep that little book safe, Girard, for it may be of more use than you know!"