How Many Cards?/Chapter 8

by Isabel Ostrander

 

CHAPTER VIII

FROM THE LONG AGO

McCARTY completed his cleaning up process in rather an elaborate manner after the departure of Jimmie Ballard. Arraying himself in a new suit which had hung in his closet for more than two months awaiting an auspicious occasion for its display, he spent valuable and anxious moments over the selection of a necktie, which, while denoting prosperity by its evident costliness, should at the same time convey a suggestion of conservative dignity. That important decision made, he next debated with himself over the rival merits of a silk hat which he reserved, as a rule, for funerals, and a rakish fedora, but finally compromised on his habitual derby.

Tenderly polishing the gold-headed cane that the Amalgamated Brewers' Association had presented to his late uncle, he caught up a pair of shiny black kid gloves in which he had officiated as pall-bearer for that defunct gentleman, and, satisfied that his sartorial equipment left nothing to be desired, he left his rooms and started across the park.

For the moment the investigation into Eugene Creveling's death and its attendant mystery had faded from his mind. Instead it had reached back through the busy, hustling years to the long ago when a raw-boned, ragged young man and a curly-headed, ten-year-old scion of "the gentry" fished the streams of a far-off green country in the camaraderie which all anglers know, and a fat, rosy, dimpled princess of five came toddling down the lush hillside from a dilapidated castle to listen to stories of the Little People in the gathering twilight.

Yet when he had traversed the park and turned down the broad Avenue sentimental reminiscence had been superseded by a reversion to the stern realities of the present. Old, heart-warming memories were all right in their place but a crime had been committed and Special Deputy McCarty was out for evidence which might lead to its perpetrator.

A block or two north of the Creveling house he stopped before one, which, although smaller by half than the palatial home in which Creveling had met his death, was built upon the same general architectural lines. An electric brougham stood at the curb and as McCarty descended the steps to the entrance and reached out his hand to touch the bell the door was opened from within by a lanky footman and a trim little figure appeared on the threshold.

With raven-black hair coiled beneath a smart little blue turban and eyes that were a still deeper blue set in the clear, alabaster oval of her face the young woman paused and regarded him with grave inquiry. The little princess grown up!

McCarty flushed and swept off his hat, ignoring the fact that the footman still held the door open, staring with all his eyes.

"Mrs. O'Rourke?"

"Yes. What is it, please?" Her voice was low and clear without a trace of impatience, but her gaze traveled past him to the waiting car.

"Could you spare me a few minutes on a matter of great importance, ma'am? I've come from Police Headquarters—"

"Police—?" A little frown had gathered between her narrow, straight brows. "Oh, I presume it is in connection with the sudden death of our friend Mr. Creveling?"

McCarty bowed again.

"You have heard from Mrs. Creveling?"

"Yes. Her maid was sent to me with a message not an hour ago.—But come in; I can spare you a few minutes, of course, but I am afraid that I will be of little assistance to you. You are a detective?"

She added the question as she turned and led him past the round-eyed footman into a cool, dim drawing-room, motioning for him to take a seat.

McCarty regarded the fragile chair with some misgiving and settled his bulk gingerly upon it before he replied:

"Retired, ma'am, and it's only fair to tell you that I'm not here officially, so to speak. I'm an old friend of the inspector in charge of the case and he often calls on me to help him out by gathering general information for him when he's too busy to go after the side issues himself." McCarty beamed disingenuously upon her. "I'm sorry to be bothering you but the inspector wants me to see as many of the Crevelings' close friends as I can locate and find out if they have any idea why he would take his own life."

Mrs. O'Rourke drew a deep breath and her starry eyes widened.

"I thought—that is, Mrs. Creveling's message was to the effect that he had been shot!" Her tones vibrated through the stillness of the room. "I did not know that it was suicide. We—my husband and I—fancied that it was an accident of some kind. It did not occur to us—"

Her voice trailed off into silence and a faint wild-rose color appeared in the creamy whiteness of her delicate face.

"The medical examiner says that Mr. Creveling killed himself, but as a matter of form the inspector has to look into every possibility, ma'am, especially as up to now they've found no motive for suicide and Mrs. Creveling won't believe he did it himself," McCarty explained. "Might I ask you what message she sent you?"

"It did not come directly from her but from a mutual friend of ours who has come to town to stay with her during her trouble." Mrs. O'Rourke hesitated. "To a man it may sound horribly frivolous at such a time, but a woman would understand that the conventions must be observed. This friend merely stated the fact of Mr. Creveling's sudden death and requested that I arrange about mourning for Mrs. Creveling. I was starting for the modiste's when you came."

"Who is this mutual friend?" McCarty added as a quick thought flashed across his mind: "Mrs. Douglas Waverly?"

The lady nodded.

"My husband has gone to the house now to offer his services and I would have accompanied him, of course, but Mrs. Waverly said that Mrs. Creveling was utterly prostrated and could not see me until later. It—it must be terrible for her!"

McCarty regarded the exquisite, flower-like face opposite in contemplative silence for a moment. There had been a suggestion of horror in her hushed tones when she spoke of the tragedy but only in that quick almost involuntary exclamation had real feeling made itself manifest, and her softly curving lips trembled for the first time. It was evident that her sympathy went out in generous abundance to the bereaved wife, but what of her attitude toward the dead man whom she had called their friend? Beyond a well-bred air of almost perfunctory regret he could discern no trace of any emotion other than a sort of shocked repugnance at the manner of his taking off.

"Mr. Creveling was an intimate friend of yours, ma'am?" McCarty asked.

"Of my husband's," she replied quickly. "Of course, we were all in the same set and met constantly at social affairs, but I naturally saw more of his wife. Mr. Creveling was essentially a—a man's man; I mean that his men friends would know more of his personal affairs than any of the women in his wife's immediate circle."

McCarty eyed her warily. Was it possible that there was a significance in her words other than that she had intended to convey? She had spoken of the women like herself, those in his wife's circle; but what of other women? Could it be that unsavory rumors concerning the man now dead had reached even her ears?

Under his steady scrutiny she began to fumble with her glove and he noticed that her hands were little larger than those of a child. How tiny she was, and dainty, and Lord! how pretty! Irrelevantly his thoughts flashed back to the long ago. There was no trace of the childish treble in her low, softly vibrating tones, no suggestion of the rosy, tousle-headed baby in this well-poised woman with the colorless, brunette beauty of Ireland's highest type, and yet somehow he saw again, in her the little companion of far-off days.

Her voice breaking the silence brought him back sharply to the problem of the moment.

"My husband will return at any minute and if you wait for him I am sure he will give you any information in his power, but I am afraid he will be able to help you as little as I can. It seems almost incredible that this should have come to pass. Mr. Creveling had everything to live for; a charming wife, money, friends, all that the world holds precious. It is very sad."

She made a slight gesture as if about to rise and terminate the interview, but McCarty stayed her.

"It's more than that, ma'am. I was with the inspector when he talked with Mrs. Creveling and, as I said, she won't have it that he killed himself, not even by accident. If a motive can't be proved for suicide it's apt to make a lot of trouble for the Department" and bring notoriety on all their friends."

"You don't mean that Mrs. Creveling fancies some one actually killed her husband!" cried Mrs. O'Rourke in shocked amazement. "She must be hysterical, the blow has come so suddenly—!"

McCarty shook his head.

"I've seen many a hysterical woman when I was connected with the force, ma'am, and she was far from it. I'd say Mrs. Creveling was the most level-headed one in the whole business and she took the news without the flicker of an eyelash. From the minute she heard he had been shot she set her mind on finding his possible murderer and she was so determined about it that she's called in the biggest man in his line in the country, the criminologist, Wade Terhune."

"Terhune! I've heard of him, of course," Mrs. O'Rourke observed. After a pause she added: "No one can blame her for wanting to be sure, to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that her husband was responsible for his own death when it occurred in such a dreadful, mysterious way, but if the medical examiner as you say has proved that it was a case of suicide she is only harrowing herself needlessly. Why should she think that any one would want to take Mr. Creveling's life?"

"For the same reason that you say the idea of his killing himself is almost incredible, as far as I can make out, ma'am; that he had no cause," McCarty responded. "My experience before I retired, though, taught me that there's many a trouble in a man's life that no one knows anything about. However, since this is a case of suicide the sooner the inspector establishes a motive for it the quicker the thought of its being anything else will die out of Mrs. Creveling's mind and the more ready she'll be to drop an investigation that's bound to bring annoyance to a lot of innocent people. Your name and Mr. O'Rourke's being mentioned as among their best friends, the inspector sent me to ask you in confidence if Mr. Creveling had seemed to be troubled about anything lately and if he'd maybe dropped a hint as to what might have been on his mind."

"No, I couldn't say that Mr. Creveling betrayed any sign that would lead one to think he was worried, much less that he contemplated suicide," Mrs. O'Rourke said slowly. "If anything, he has seemed to be in more than his usual spirits, but I have seen little of him during the latter part of the season. Mrs. Creveling has been away, you know. My husband ran into him frequently about town, I believe; he would be better able to answer your question.—Oh, here he is now!"

The front door closed with a muffled jar and strong but springy footsteps crossed the hall. The next instant the curtains at the entrance to the drawing-room were thrust aside and a tall young man stood looking in upon them.

McCarty caught his breath. If the chubby little Lady Peggy had changed almost beyond recognition John Cavanaugh O'Rourke had not. The same clean-cut, freckled, sensitive face, the same thatch of brick-red hair still irrepressibly curly, the same clear gray eyes with the boyish twinkle barely subdued in them! McCarty could with difficulty restrain the exclamation which leaped to his lips.

"Come in, John." Mrs. O'Rourke rose from her chair. "This man has been sent here by some official of the police department to make inquiries about Eugene, to learn if we know of any reason why he killed himself. I told him that you would be able to answer his questions better than I—"

"There's no answer!" Mr. O'Rourke came forward frankly. "There doesn't seem to be a reason in the world why the old boy should have done himself in. But why have you come to us?"

His tone was friendly and McCarty smiled broadly in response.

"Well, sir, your name was given to the inspector together with the Waverlys and Fords and several more as being among Mr. Creveling's closest friends and those most likely to know if he was in any trouble. I'm not properly connected with the force, though I was once, and the inspector calls me in now and then to help him out with details he hasn't time for. I've already seen Mr. Waverly, but I thought I'd come to you before any one else. If you've seen Mrs. Creveling you'll know what attitude she's taken in the matter and if in spite of the medical examiner's report she insists it couldn't have been suicide—"

"I know." Mr. O'Rourke nodded with a quick jerk of the head, and added: "Look here, haven't I seen you before? Your face is familiar, somehow, and your voice, but I can't place you."

"You have, sir, and my lady, too, but 'tis long years gone. That's why I came to you first. All Mr. Creveling's friends are likely to be dragged in if Mrs. Creveling persists in disregarding the medical report and I wanted to save 'the' O'Rourke from what annoyance I could."

"‘"The" O'Rourke!'" The young man's voice was suddenly husky. "No one in America has ever called me that!"

"You were not 'the' O'Rourke when I left the old country, sir," McCarty responded quietly. "Your father was alive then, God rest his soul. You were just a bit of a lad with a thatch of hair like a shanty afire who hunted and fished with me many's the time, and Lady Peggy, sailing her presence, was all petticoats and curls, and forever tumbling down—"

"Oh, and you didn't tell me!" A warm, soft light glowed in Mrs. O'Rourke's eyes and she held her tiny gloved hand out impulsively. "Who are you? I ought to remember—?"

"My name's McCarty, ma'am, though 'twill mean nothing to you, you were that young—"

"But it means something to me!" O'Rourke clapped him heartily on the shoulder. "Timothy McCarty, by all the powers! Timmie McCarty, who knew all the deepest pools and the thickest coverts, and where the Little People danced at the turn of the moon! You came to New York to seek your fortune—"

"And landed in the police force." McCarty's face grew suddenly grave. "I'm retired now, and a landed proprietor with tenants of my own, but now and again when my old chief calls on me I take a hand in the game once more in an unofficial way, of course. I happened along the Avenue last night when the policeman on the beat discovered the body of Mr. Creveling—'tis too long a story to go into now but 'twill be all out in the afternoon papers—and when the inspector got there he kept me on. If the motive for suicide can be established—well and good. Mr. Terhune can potter around with his microscope and his little scientific machines as long as it pleases him and Mrs. Creveling will authorize him, but the matter will be dropped from the records of the department. If, however, no reason for Mr. Creveling's killing himself can be found and no actual proof that he did do it beyond the opinion of the medical examiner, then the inspector'll have to have everybody that knew him up on the carpet. That means notoriety for all his friends and I thought if you could give me privately a tip on why he maybe put himself out of the way I could see that you and my lady would both be left out of it."

McCarty paused expectantly and Mrs. O'Rourke's eyes traveled from him to her husband, but the young man shook his head and with his hands thrust deep in his pockets turned and began to pace the floor.

"That's the deuce of it!" he muttered. "Creveling was my friend and I am as anxious as any one could be to see the mystery of his death cleared up, but I cannot for the life of me conceive any reason why he should have killed himself. It couldn't have been any financial trouble for he's—"

"Well?" asked McCarty, for the other had caught himself up abruptly and stood staring down at the hearth rug.

"I—I understood that he was fixed for life; that his father knowing his recklessness where money was concerned had tied up a portion of his inheritance in a trust fund of some sort so that he could not dig into the entire principal, but I may be wrong. Alexander—George Alexander, his partner—is in a better position to inform you on that score than I am. Now that I think of it, it seems to me that Creveling has been a bit queer lately; not despondent exactly, but moody. Perhaps there was something preying on his mind."

Mrs. O'Rourke opened her lips to speak but closed them again and McCarty saw in a sidelong glance that she was still staring fixedly at her husband, who kept his eyes studiously lowered. A dull flush had risen beneath the freckles and an odd note of constraint had come into his voice.

"It's your opinion then that he met with financial reverses?" McCarty affected to take no note of the change in Mr. O'Rourke's manner.

"I don't say that; the fact is, that I have no opinion whatever on the matter." The young man raised his eyes slowly. "I've known him for several years as one man knows another in the same crowd, especially when their wives are on an intimate footing, but nothing has ever happened to bring us closer together than on a basis of general goodfellowship. He has never discussed his affairs with me and he'd be far more likely to confide in Doug. Waverly or Nick Cutter. You've seen Waverly, you say? Couldn't he suggest any motive for suicide?"

"No more than yourself, sir."

"But you haven't interviewed Cutter yet, have you?" There was a singular note of eagerness now in the younger man's tones.

"No, sir; I've not had time." McCarty picked up his hat from the table where he had placed it and turned to Mrs. O'Rourke. "I'll say good day, my lady, and thank you for seeing me. I'm sorry if I've troubled you—"

"I'm not 'my lady' here, you know." She smiled faintly as she gave him her hand. "You say that you're not officially connected with the investigation into this dreadfully sad affair, Mr. McCarty? It is a pity, for we shall both be interested naturally in learning the truth; I mean the—the motive for the suicide. At any rate, you will come to see us again now that you have found us, won't you? I have a warm spot in my heart, as John has, for a friend from the old country and there will always be a welcome for you."

"'Welcome?'" Mr. O'Rourke advanced and held out his hand. "I should say there would be! We've got to have a good, long talk about the old days, Timmie McCarty, you rascal! You must come and dine with us soon, just we three together, and we'll celebrate the reunion in the proper way. In the meantime, if there's anything I can do to help your friend, the inspector, to clear up this matter of poor Creveling's death just let me know."

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't 'sir' me!" He laughed genially. "I was 'Johnnie' when we went fishing together, aye, and poaching, too!—Good-by. Don't forget to drop in on us whenever you can."

McCarty took his leave of them, conscious that Lady Peggy's troubled eyes followed him questioningly to the very door. There was more than one question in his own mind also as he strode off down the Avenue. What sudden thought had wrought the change in "the" O'Rourke's manner? At first frankly admitting that he knew of no reason for suicide on Creveling's part, he had promptly hedged and attempted by suggestion to shift the responsibility of a reply to other shoulders, notably those of Mr. Nicholas Cutter. Why? Had he indeed accepted suicide as the solution of Creveling's death or did he secretly incline toward the conviction held by Mrs. Creveling?

Whatever his opinion in the case, it was evident that his wife had her doubts, in spite of her air of amazed incredulity on learning of Mrs. Creveling's attitude. That slip she had made in saying that both she and her husband would be interested in learning "the truth" and then changing it quickly to "motive for the suicide" had been slight but significant, yet her surprise had been as genuine as McCarty 's own at her husband's hesitancy and change of front.

What did she know or suspect? McCarty had had his own reasons for disclaiming any official connection with the investigation as well as for the assumption of unquestioning belief in the medical examiner's diagnosis, but had Lady Peggy's womanly intuition warned her of its fallacy or was there something more tangible in her mind and that of "the" O'Rourke, some doubt or suspicion which she was surprised to find that her husband shared?

His mind busied with vain conjecture, McCarty passed the Creveling house and continued south to Sixty-third Street, where he turned east to the address given him as that of Mrs. Baillie Kip. Jimmie Ballard's description of her as an unsuccessful social climber and the mystery of her recent admission to the exclusive circle in which the Crevelings had moved, made him curious not only as to her personality but to observe her reaction to the news of the tragedy. She could not be on as intimate terms with the Crevelings as friends of years' standing, but would she, too, scout the suggestion of suicide?

Her house was small, a mere slice between two larger ones, but gay with window boxes ablaze with color. An express wagon was drawn up at the curb before it and as McCarty reached the foot of the steps the door opened and a man appeared bearing upon his hunched back a huge, dark-green wardrobe trunk plentifully splattered with labels.

With a grunt he slammed it down upon the sidewalk and turned to unhook the backboard of the wagon and the tag fastened to the single handle at its top was directly beneath McCarty's eyes. In a glance he read the inscription written neatly in small but wavering characters:

"Miss Letitia Frost

Hotel Fitz-Maurice

New York City."

The front door was still open and a trim little maid in a smartly frilled apron regarded him curiously as he mounted the steps. On a sudden impulse he asked for Miss Frost.

"She's gone, sir. Went suddenly just this morning," the girl volunteered. "She's taken her dog with her, too, so if you're the man from the Greendale kennels come to see about boarding it—"

"I am not," McCarty interrupted with dignity. "If Miss Frost is not here I would like to see Mrs. Kip. Please tell her it is a matter of the greatest importance."

The girl hesitated, then somewhat doubtfully ushered him into a small reception room glittering with mirrors and spindle-legged gilt furniture and heady with perfume from the silken cushions heaped in every available space.

McCarty sniffed, choked, tried a chair which creaked alarmingly and finally planted himself in the center of the room facing the doorway, and waited.

He heard an indistinguishable murmur of feminine voices from above, the girl's and another, high-pitched and petulant. Then came a pause, the rustle of silk upon the stairs, and a plump young woman with hennaed hair and heavy-lidded hazel eyes stood before him. Her right arm was in a sling and her face drawn as with pain.

"I am Mrs. Kip. You wished to see me?"

"Yes, ma'am. I won't keep you but a moment." He added: "I've come from Mrs. Eugene Creveling's house—"

"Oh!" The lady flung out her free hand. "If you are a reporter I have positively nothing to say! I know the Crevelings, of course, and I am deeply shocked to learn of what has happened, but I do not care to discuss it."

"You mean Mr. Creveling's death, ma'am? How did you hear of it?" McCarty asked quickly. "'Tis not in the papers yet."

"I was awakened this morning by a message which was brought to me—but I really have no more to say!" She turned toward the door and as the light fell upon her face he saw that there were deep rings about her eyes and the rouge, in spite of the artistry of its application, stood out in blotches against the unnatural pallor of her cheeks.

"At what time did this message reach you?" McCarty stood his ground.

"About nine o'clock, I think. I had retired early but passed a wretchedly wakeful night. I slipped on a—a rug yesterday and fell, spraining my arm—" She broke off, biting her reddened lips. "I must ask you to excuse me—!"

"Who sent that message, Mrs. Kip?" McCarty interrupted sternly.

"I do not care to say; it was a confidential communication from a—a close friend of the Crevelings," she stammered, and then drew herself up. "Why do you ask me all these questions? Who are you? My maid says you inquired for my companion Miss Frost."

"Yes, ma'am. Will you tell me where she has gone?" McCarty ignored the interrogations.

"To Chicago," Mrs. Kip replied hastily. "A—a relative of hers is ill and sent for her." Then her manner changed and as though impelled beyond the dictates of her own prudence she asked, "How did it happen? Who shot Mr. Creveling?"

"Himself, ma'am. When I saw Mr. Waverly this morning just before he sent you that message 'twas thought that a murder had been committed, but it's been proven that Mr. Creveling died by his own hand."

Mrs. Kip wavered and the color swept back in a warm tide over her face.

"Suicide?" she murmured. "How—how dreadful! I sympathize with Mrs. Creveling but I know nothing of their affairs, nothing, and I refuse to be catechized further! My maid will show you to the door."