More Lives Than One/Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI
AT THE STUDIO
After Nelson had gone home, Barham sent for Claudine.
“How is Mrs. Selden?” he asked first.
“She’s a little calmer, sir. But now and then she has a spell—oh, a spell! Half hysterics, half grief. And—I’m sorry, Mr. Barham, but I can’t stay on.”
“What, Claudine, you would desert at this awful crisis?”
“I should never have left Madame Barham, I loved her. But Madame Selden—I do not love.”
“But stay for a time, Claudine, for my sake. What could I do with Madame Selden, without you? She wouldn’t take kindly to a new maid, I’m sure. Stay a month longer, Claudine, at double wages, will you?”
“Yes, Monsieur, I’ll do that. Don’t think me mercenary, but, I want to save up the money for—for”
“I know, Claudine, you’re to be married. Now, tell me, did my wife owe you money—aside from your wages?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” Claudine said, after a slight hesitation.
“How much?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
“Whew! Where did you ever get so much?”
“It was my savings. Madame said if I would lend them for a little bit, she would return it with a large fee—bonus.”
“You will be paid, don’t worry. Claudine, did she say anything else? Did she ever say that if you didn’t lend her what she wanted, she”
“Yes, Monsieur.” The maid spoke very simply. “She did. I understand—I knew it was a wrong—but what could I do? She knew something—ah, it was the tiniest peccadillo—but it was my Carl. He—he”
“Never mind, Claudine, I don’t want the details. Now, if I pay you double what Madame owed you, and double wages, will you stay with Madame Selden for a time—say, until your marriage, and also—say no word to any one of—of Madame Barham’s affairs?”
“I will—yes, Monsieur, I will.”
“Very well. Now, one thing more, Claudine. Who knew that Madame Barham was going to a fancy dress party that night?”
“Nobody—not even Madame Selden. Ah, yes, Madame Sayre came over—but for a moment, while I was dressing Madame, and perhaps she knew; I don’t know as to that. When Madame Sayre came, my Madame bade me leave the room.”
“I see. Very well, Claudine, you may go. Remember all I have said.”
Alone again, Barham gave himself up to thought once more. The man did little else but think these times. He had canceled his business engagements, he read not at all, he refused himself to all but the most insistent callers, and though kind and deferential to his mother-in-law, he saw as little of her as possible.
Marcia Selden forgave him this, for she was now deeply engrossed in going over her daughter’s possessions. Barham had given her all of Madeleine’s personal belongings, even her jewels, and it was no inconsiderable gift. He had recommended that some souvenirs be presented to friends, but this was merely suggestion, all decisions were to be Mrs. Selden’s own.
She was like a child with a new toy, and kept Claudine busy making frequently revised lists of the beneficiaries.
It was a troublesome process, for no sooner did Marcia Selden decide on a gift, than immediately the thing took on a new value in her eyes, and she wanted to keep it for herself.
Barham, discovering all this, thanked his lucky stars that he had chanced to provide her with such an absorbing occupation, as it left him more time to himself—more time to think.
After hearing of Rosamond Sayre’s call on Madeleine the night of the masquerade, he determined to see her, for there might be some bit of information to be gleaned from her.
The appointment to meet the detective at Nelson’s was not until four o’clock, so he telephoned Rosamond to ask for an interview before that.
She graciously consented to see him, which surprised him a little, as her note to him had been really a formal expression of sympathy.
As he neared her house, however, he found himself dreading the call he had come to make.
Yet, when they met, Rosamond’s manner put him quite at his ease, and he was glad he had come.
“You dear man,” she said, holding out both hands. “I’m glad to see you—do sit down. I’ve wanted to tell you in person how sorry I feel for you, and how I wish I could do something to help.”
“No, Rosamond—there’s nothing any one can do to help. I’m grateful for sympathy, of course—but—the truth is, nothing helps. The awfulness of the whole thing is beyond all help. Now, let’s be frank. I’ve come to ask you a straightforward question. You played Bridge a lot with Maddy, didn’t you?”
“All the time, practically.”
“Did she—did she ever borrow money from you?”
“All the time—practically.”
“Pay it back?”
“Not always—sometimes.”
“And—Rosamond, you’ve no idea how hard it is for me to say this—but I must—if you didn’t lend it—did she ever threaten”
Mrs. Sayre gave a broken little laugh.
“Of course she did, Andrew. She used to threaten all of us. You see, Maddy played in horrible luck, and she always wanted to recoup. But, good gracious, man, don’t take it so to heart! That was nothing, that she should say she’d tell our little secrets if we didn’t lend her a hundred or two. Why so upset over it?”
“But—but, Rosamond, it isn’t so trifling a matter as you say. There’s—there’s a pretty bad name goes with that sort of thing.”
“Oh, well, don’t use it in connection with Maddy. Forget it, Drew, nobody is going to hold it up against her. Especially now—the poor girl is gone. Have you any—any idea”
“Who killed her? No, not the slightest. And that’s another thing, Rose. Claudine says you were over at the house that night, and up in Maddy’s room while she dressed. Did she tell you where she was going?”
“I was only there for a minute—and—well, I may as well tell you, she called me over to ask me for some money.”
“She did! And you let her have it?”
“Oh, yes, that is, I agreed to take it to Emmy Gardner’s for her. I did so—but the poor girl never came to get it.”
Barham mused. “What did you think that night, when she failed to come?”
“I—oh, I didn’t think much about it. Maddy always did as she liked. Harrison went with me, and we spoke of Madeleine’s absence, but we didn’t think of it seriously at all.”
“No, I suppose not. Didn’t she tell you, Rose, that she planned to go to the Locke place before she went to Emmy’s?”
The man looked at her earnestly, as if much depended on her answer.
But Mrs. Sayre said, “No, I don’t think she did. No, I remember now—she said she was going on an errand first, but she didn’t say where.”
“And didn’t she have on that fancy dress?”
“No; she only had a kimono—a mere dressing gown.”
“And you came right home, from our house—and you went right to the Gardners’? Forgive me if I seem inquisitive—I’ve a notion in my head.”
“I came home, and dressed,” Mrs. Sayre said, striving to remember. “Then I went down to my dressmaker’s for a few minutes for an important fitting, and then I came back and picked up Harrison and we went to Emmy’s.”
“What time did you get there?”
“A little after eleven—I remember we were the last to arrive. Why all the catechism, Drew?”
“Nothing,” and his brows came together in perplexity. “I just want to find somebody to whom Madeleine mentioned that artist chap. How did she come to go there?”
“Can’t you imagine?” and pretty Mrs. Sayre wrinkled her own brows in similar puzzlement.
“No, I simply cannot. I never supposed she knew such people.”
“What do you mean by such people?”
“People outside her own circle or circumstances.”
“Well, apparently she did. What are you going to do, Drew, as to finding out”
“The truth? I’m not obliged to do anything, Rose, the police have it in charge. And to tell you the truth, I believe I’d rather never know the murderer than to have Madeleine’s past dragged out to the light and all this miserable Bridge business made public.”
“I don’t blame you!” and Mrs. Sayre nodded her head, emphatically. “I should think you’d very much rather have the whole affair hushed up and utterly forgotten. Do have it that way—Drew, all Maddy’s friends would prefer it, I know.”
“It isn’t up to me to decide,” Barham said, with a sigh, and soon thereafter he took his leave.
“I still can’t find out where Madeleine heard of Locke,” he mused, as he went on to Nelson’s office. “I can’t seem to find out anything! Well, there’s one thing I am sure of!” and by that time he was at the door.
“Well, Mr. Barham,” Hutchins said, “your reward offer has borne fruit already.”
“What, you’ve found Locke?” and Barham showed real interest.
“Not quite, but a man has put in an appearance who claims to be Tommy Locke’s brother.”
“Has he a brother?”
“According to this chap he has. But between you and me, I ha’e ma doots. You see, any one can lay claim to the relationship and, since Locke isn’t here to pass on it, who’s to prove or disprove it?”
“Can’t you wait a bit, and see if Locke turns up?”
“Just what we’re going to do. Now, Mr. Nelson, suppose you tell Mr. Barham your plan.”
“Why, Drew, I’ve been thinking that I might go down to the Locke place and rake over everything. I know the detectives have done it, but I think I might find some clue they overlooked.”
Barham gave a slight smile. “I remember hearing a man of your stamp say, not long ago, that he had no detective instinct.”
“That’s just it,” cried Nelson, triumphantly, “I believe a man with common sense and a good pair of eyes in his head might find out more than one of these transcendent sleuths.”
“It doesn’t sound much to me—but if you’re anxious to go, go ahead. What, exactly, are you going to look for? Footprints?”
“No.” Nelson refused to smile. “No, but I believe in among Locke’s letters or papers”
“He hasn’t any,” said Hutchins.
“Well, that’s suspicious in and of itself. If that man tore up or destroyed all his papers the day before he dis appeared, then that proves, to my mind, that he meant to disappear. There’s that.”
“There’s that,” Andrew agreed. “But where does that get you?”
“That’s what I want to know, Mr. Barham,” Hutchins said.
“Oh, well,” Nelson gave in, “if you two are both down on my plan, I’ll give it up. What better can either of you propose?”
“I propose we give it all up,” Barham said, speaking gravely.
“The whole hunt?” exclaimed Hutchins; “withdraw the reward?”
“Well, Mr. Hutchins, let us put all our cards on the table. You have found out, I understand, some very damaging information against my wife. Please do not try to spare my feelings. I can meet the blow. I am prepared for it. Just how much did you find out?”
“Since I know you want me to be frank, I will simply state that I learned that Mrs. Barham was in the habit of using a form of society blackmail to extort money from her friends.”
“From what I have learned, I believe that to be the truth.”
Barham spoke with an infinite sadness in his voice, but with his head erect, and face impassive, as if he cared for no word of regret or sympathy from any one.
It was true that the man’s sensitive pride revolted at the thought of any pity or even kindness. He preferred to bear his burden alone, and except from his very few near and dear friends he wanted no recognition of the state of the case, beyond the bare facts that must be faced.
“First, Mr. Hutchins, I shall ask you to keep this matter from Mrs. Selden, if it be possible. I think I am within my legal rights as well as ethical in asking this. She is an old lady and devoted to her daughter’s memory. The grief of such a disclosure would almost kill her.”
“Rest assured, Mr. Barham, she shall never learn it from me—or from any of our people.”
“Next, I should like to hush up the whole affair. If this is not possible—with the full consent of the police—then I am ready to face the music—to let the law take its course. But, I am quite prepared to pay a goodly sum to have the case forgotten—and this is in no sense compounding a felony, or even doing anything dishonorable. It is merely an expression of my willingness to let the murderer of my wife go free, in order that the wrong-doing of my wife may not be made public. Is there a chance of that, Mr. Hutchins?”
“Not a chance!” the detective shook his head. “Of course, the plan you propose is out of the question, as you yourself would see, if you thought over it a little more. Also, the machinery already set in motion cannot now be stopped. The posters are out, offering a reward of Ten Thousand Dollars for the capture of the murderer, or any information that leads to that result.”
“Not for the finding of Locke?” asked Barham.
“No; I received your message in time to omit that part of it.”
“Yes, I changed that,” Barham said, in answer to Nelson’s unspoken question. “You see, it can do no good to get Locke, if he isn’t the murderer. I mean, it isn’t worth ten thousand dollars to get him just to talk to.”
“No,” Nelson agreed. But he didn’t quite understand. Surely, Barham had been most anxious to capture Locke.
“Now, go ahead with your hunt,” Barham said, “and, look here, Nick, I rather cotton to that plan of yours to go and search the Locke apartment—and I believe I’ll go with you.”
“Good!” Nelson cried. “I’m sure it is a good idea, and I do believe we might find something of interest if not evidence. Shall we go now?”
“Would it be better to go at night?”
“No,” Hutchins said, “let’s go now—let’s all go. I’d like to see how you people work.”
“I don’t dignify it by such a high sounding term as that,” Nelson smiled. “More like playing at detecting. But there’s always a chance.”
So the three, in Barham’s car, went down to the studio of the missing Thomas Locke.
The place looked much as it did the day Nelson attended the inquest there, but not much as Barham had seen it the night of the Bal Masque. Then it had been gay with lanterns and flowers. Now it was in its plain, everyday furnishings, and, though properly in order, and tidily cleared up by the Chinaman, yet he had not been allowed to sweep or dust, lest he disturb what might eventually be clues or evidence.
“Uninteresting place,” Barham said, glancing round the studio. “No color—no atmosphere.”
“Now, I like it,” Nelson said. “It is restful compared to the glaring and tawdry effects in many such places.”
“Well, go on with your sleuthing, Nick, I’ll watch you,” and Barham sat down in one of the fireside chairs.
Nelson looked a little at a loss, but began to make a raid on a desk that stood in a corner.
“Here’s a big bunch of letters, Drew, you look these over, while I dig up more.”
But inside of ten minutes Barham informed him that the sheaf contained nothing at all but receipted bills for canvases, paints and brushes.
Nor did further search produce anything of more importance. Nelson went back to the smoking room—and, disinclined to go there again, Barham remained in the studio. Hutchins followed Nelson, hoping to get a grain or a nugget of information.
Left to himself, Barham opened a few of the cabinet drawers. Nelson had been through them all and, as he said, they held nothing but painting things or trifling knickknacks.
“Where’s the Chinaman?” Nelson asked, as they returned to Barham.
“It’s his day off,” Hutchins explained. “Though he has most days off now. He doesn’t seem to know what to do. You know he heard from Locke, Mr. Barham?”
“No, did he?”
“Yes, and Locke said he could pay the small bills—the Chink has petty cash—and that he, Locke, would settle the larger accounts.”
“Then, Mr. Hutchins, you must realize that Locke will never return. To my mind, it is self-evident that though he is near by—at least, in the city—he is clever enough to remain hidden.”
“Not necessarily in the city,” said Nelson. “He may have telephoned on a long distance.”
“Right,” Barham agreed. “At any rate, he is quite capable, as it looks to me, of taking care of himself, and keeping in hiding as long as he chooses. I think, if you please, Mr. Hutchins, I will take a look in the den. I hesitated, as it is a place of painful associations, but there is a chance I might see something of informative value.”
But when Andrew Barham stood in the little room, at the very spot where his wife was, doubtless, felled to her death, he could see no shred, no bit of evidence.
The tears were in his eyes as he turned away.
One of the heavy bronze book-ends still stood on the table, the other had been taken away by the police as the weapon of murder.
And then, still in a spirit of investigation, the three went into Locke’s bedroom and bathroom. Nothing met their eyes that offered any ground for surmise or conclusion. Slowly they retraced their way downstairs.
“Come on, Drew,” said Nelson, as he followed the detective down.
“In a minute,” Barham replied, pausing for another glance into the den.
It was by no means a morbid curiosity, but there were many conflicting feelings in Andrew Barham’s mind just then.
He wondered.
On the way home in the car—Hutchins having remained, behind—Barham said, “I can’t see, Nick, that the police are making any headway whatever. I can’t see but Locke has them just where he wants them—if he wants them anywhere.”
“Where does he want them?”
“Oh, I mean, he has things all his own way. Apparently, he means never to come back. There’s not a thing in the place of value—that’s what I noticed especially—there’s not a personal thing that he could possibly care for—oh, of course, there are his pictures—but I can’t imagine any one caring greatly for those.”
“Mere sketches, they looked to me—and yet, I rather liked them. Good, soft coloring, and all that.”
“All alike, weren’t they?”
“Pretty much. Well, granting Locke is out of it, and his stuff there, as you say, of no value, then—don’t you see, the police are going to concentrate all their efforts on finding out something in Madeleine’s past life that will explain the murder.”
Barham sighed deeply. “Of course they are. Of course I see it. And that’s where you come in. What can we do to stop them?”
“I can’t think of anything. Your offer of money went nowhere.”
“Nowhere at all. I suppose we can’t build up a man of straw for them to hang their suspicions on.”
“And it isn’t that now, Drew. Just now, they’ve enough of that scandal about Madeleine to whet their appetites for more. They’re like a pack of vultures; they want to get a lot of back history”
“Oh, I say, Nick! That might apply to a newspaper, a yellow one—but not to the police!”
“Well, to these detectives. They’re so eager to get a feather to stick in their cap, that they’d go any lengths to dig up horrid old gossip to help along!”
“But, if the horrid old gossip chances to be the truth— as it is in this case, who can blame them? Lord knows I want to hush up the whole affair—but if it can’t be done, it can’t.”
“Then you think it must all come out?”
“Looks so. I can hush up the women—not one of that Bridge pack but would keep her mouth shut for a few hundred dollars. And they have an affection for Maddy, too. They hadn’t so much when she was alive, but now they’re tender toward her memory. It’s the police who will make the trouble—and the reporters—and worst of all, the exaggeration. If they’d tell the truth—that would be bad enough. But they’ll multiply everything by four and then double it.”
“Yes, I suppose they will. Did you notice that picture of the girl—on the side table in the den?”
“No; what girl?”
The one I told you about, with the queer name—Pearl Jane. She had bobbed hair—rather curly.”
“No, I didn’t see any such picture.”
“Oh, well, I think I set another picture over it, as I was digging about. That’s why. Wild goose chase, going down there at all. But I really thought we might turn up something.”
“There’s no chance for clues, Nick, if that’s what you mean. Whoever killed Maddy was too clever to leave a clue. That much is evident to me.”
“Yes, and to me, too,” said Nelson.