More Lives Than One/Chapter 14
CHAPTER XIV
MARCIA SELDEN’S OPINIONS
Dickson listened to Hutchins’s story with a very sober expression.
“I may be wrong,” the Inspector said, finally, “but I certainly do believe that girl did it. For, on the face of it, Hutchins, what else is there to think? She is in love with Locke—that’s sure. I’m not so sure he is in love with her—and you know, ‘a woman scorned,’ is”
“Is the devil and all. But I can’t see that slip of a youngster killing anybody.”
“It was done on a sudden impulse—that’s clear. Nobody throws a heavy bronze weight premeditatedly. It looks like a woman’s deed to me. Of course, this presupposes an acquaintance—probably more than that—between Mrs. Barham and the artist. But we have to suppose that—there’s no other assumption that allows for her coming there at all.”
“She could have come out of the usual curiosity of the upper circles to see what the Bohemians do at their revels. That’s not an unknown proposition.”
“I see you’re prejudiced in the girl’s favor. I can’t blame you for that. But we must look facts in the face. The visiting lady had in her hand the lucky piece which is evidently greatly prized by Locke. He even sent a note to Charley to find it for him. Now, we know that Mrs. Barham had it in her hand when she died. Maybe she was killed for it.”
“Oh, that’s too fantastic!”
“Not at all. You don’t know what that thing may mean to these people. Haven’t you read stories about”
“Yes—I know. The Idol’s Eye—a great ruby or emerald stolen from a Persian god—but those things were real gems. This scarab is a curio”
“Scarabs—certain ones—are more valuable than any gems. However, that doesn’t matter—if it’s the superstitious value of the thing—which I am sure it is. Now, say that Mrs. Barham was mixed up with Locke, say that Miss Cutler was jealous of her, say that Mrs. Barham did steal the scarab—isn’t it at least possible that the girl, unable to get it back, and frenzied by rage and love both, picked up the bronze and threw it almost involuntarily, of course not meaning to kill her?”
“It is possible, certainly,” Hutchins looked anxious, “but I wish we could find some other theory.”
“I wish we could, too. But what else is there? Then you see, if the girl did it, and if Locke knows it, why, that’s the reason he has lit out. He’s afraid he’ll be questioned, and he’s shielding that girl.”
“That makes Locke in love with the girl.”
“Very likely he is. Perhaps the other woman was an old flame—well, I can’t explain all the turns and twists of an artist’s love affair—but I still think it was the girl who threw that book-end.”
“People have no business to have such things around,” growled Hutchins.
“Don’t be silly. In a moment of blind rage, anything handy becomes a weapon. Look how often a paper-cutter is used to stab, merely because it lies ready to hand. Let’s see the scarab, again.”
With the air of a wise owl Dickson studied the ancient stone.
“I don’t know much about these things in a scholarly way,” he frankly admitted, “but I do know this. If this thing is a real tip-topper among scarabs—and I think it is—a connoisseur would know all about it, and probably know this identical specimen. They’re all recorded—the famous ones.”
Hutchins looked surprised at this erudition on Dickson’s part.
“Then we can trace it,” he said.
“Yes—if it is a famous one. Take it up to the Metropolitan Museum, that’s the quickest and surest way to find out. Now, as to the glove—and there’s another sure fire clue. Haven’t you an odd glove in your collection of trinkets found on or near the spot?”
“Yes—and it seems to be a mate to this one. But that doesn’t prove anything.”
“Not alone, but in connection with the fact that Miss Cutler hid this glove, and the other was found right where she was seen to be—well, it’s decidedly cumulative evidence! Now, what we want is some—even one connecting link—between the artist and Mrs. Barham. Until we get that—why, any other man at the party may have been the villain of this tale, instead of Locke.”
“It was his scarab.”
“Yes—that’s so—and doubtless the whole tragedy centers around him. But, we must get a thread of connection, somehow. If you should go to Mr. Barham again—or to that Nelson—wouldn’t they tell you if they have run across anything?”
“I should think so—but Mr. Barham is getting queer about it all. At first he was ready to move heaven and earth to learn how or why his wife came to go to that party. Also he offered the reward, you know, for Locke. Also, he was keen to find and punish the murderer. But now, he’s—well, sort of apathetic. Doesn’t seem to care what we do, so long as we don’t bother him.”
“What does he do—with his time?”
“I don’t know. Nothing especial, I guess. But he has taken up some of the more important matters of his business—he’s a big consulting engineer, you know. He canceled everything at first—but he’s picking them up again.”
“That’s natural and to be expected. Doubtless they’re most important deals, and he really has to give them his attention. And why shouldn’t he?”
“Why, indeed? Well, I’ll see him to-day, and Nelson, and I hope to goodness they’ll have something to tell me that will turn you off the track of that poor girl.”
“I hope so, Hutch, but don’t let your sympathy for Beauty in distress blind your eyes to facts and evidence.”
With a shrug of his broad shoulders, Hutchins went off, hoping against hope that he could clear Pearl Jane. It was too absurd to suspect that pretty little thing—but, as Dickson had put it, there was a chance that she had lost her temper, and had thrown the missile—women were uncertain at best.
And Hutchins had to admit to himself that Pearl Jane was exceedingly uncertain. He had seen her gentle, pathetic, sweet—and then sullen and obstinate—all in the same five minutes. Yes, hers was a peculiar personality.
After due deliberation he concluded to go to see Andrew Barham before he saw Nelson. He didn’t know himself just why he made this decision, but it was really due to a lurking hope that it would turn out better for the girl that way.
By telephoning, he learned that Barham was not at his office that day, but at his home. This was by no means unusual, and Hutchins started off for the Fifth Avenue house.
He was admitted and ushered into a sort of family living-room, where, to his surprise he found Mrs. Selden as well as her son-in-law.
“I asked to have you brought here, Mr. Hutchins,” the lady said, looking at him with a condescending interest, as if he were some necessary but unattractive piece of furniture. “I desire a few words with you myself.”
She paused, perhaps expecting some burst of delighted surprise at this honor, but Hutchins merely made a slight bow of acquiescence.
“What have you done toward the finding of my daughter’s murderer?” she asked, and her commanding air seemed to imply that she expected a full and satisfactory report of the police proceedings.
Mrs. Selden sat bolt upright, in a high-backed chair. Her gown was most fashionably made, though of the deepest mourning that could be devised. The hem of heavy crape reached nearly to her waist line, and the crape bodice had such a high neck and such long sleeves, that none of her throat and only her finger-tips could be seen. Her white hair showed large ornamental hairpins of black dull jet, and her handkerchief was as deeply black bordered as it is possible for a handkerchief to be.
Very aristocratic and very imposing was her appearance and manner, but Hutchins was by no means overcome with awe at her grandeur.
“We have done all that we found to do, Madam,” the detective returned, speaking respectfully, but by no means humbly. “Rest assured, the work is going on—but so far, the evidence is slender and the clues are few.”
“I am quite sure it is your fault if that is so,” Mrs. Selden spoke raspingly, “I doubt very much if your board or company or whatever is it, has put on sufficient men or sufficiently skillful men.”
“Mother,” Barham remonstrated, “Mr. Hutchins is himself the principal detective on the case, and his record is a fine one”
“Will you hush, Andrew! I do wish I might be permitted to say half a dozen words without interruption! I know you want to do the talking yourself, but let me remind you that Madeleine was my daughter, as well as your wife. And, I may add that I am far more deeply concerned and anxious about the discovery of her murderer than you appear to be. Mr. Hutchins, have you questioned everybody that was at that infamous revel?”
“If you refer to Mr. Locke’s studio party, yes, Madam, they have all been questioned.”
“And you made no arrest?”
“No information was received from the guests that warranted any arrest.”
“Ah, you couldn’t have questioned very closely—or very intelligently. For it is impossible that my daughter should have gone there without knowing some one—somebody who was present.”
“That seemed to be the case. Wherefore, we assumed that your daughter must have been acquainted with Mr. Locke himself.”
“With Mr. Locke! My daughter know a common artist! Never! She might have gone there to see about having her portrait painted”
“Mr. Locke is not a portrait painter.”
“Perhaps some other painter was there who does do portraits of society ladies.”
“I can think of none such,” and Hutchins hastily sized up this new idea in his mind. But it seemed to promise nothing.
“She would scarcely attend a party where she knew no one, merely to make arrangements for a portrait,” he said, as if thinking aloud.
“Do not presume to say what my daughter would or would not do, sir. That is outside your province. Remain within your own rightful boundaries of thought and speech.”
Hutchins looked at her. He had never been treated quite like this before. And, apparently, Andrew Barham didn’t dare call his soul his own, even in his own home.
But Barham was by no means afraid of his mother-in-law. His hesitancy to rouse her temper was partly because he so hated the scenes she made and partly because he really felt a tenderness for the mother of his wife.
Still, he couldn’t quite allow this. So he said:
“Please, Mother, try to remember that Mr. Hutchins represents the dignity of the law, and so, even aside from his own merits, commands our respect and courtesy.”
Marcia Selden took him up.
“Andrew!” she exclaimed, “will you never cease scolding me? You omit no chance to reprimand me, to hold me up to the scorn of others. Shouldn’t you think, Mr. Hutchins, that a man would be a little kindly inclined to one who is the mother of his wife? But, no, all Mr. Barham ever says to me is by way of fault finding and reproach!”
The black handkerchief was pressed against the tearful eyes, and Hutchins, not feeling privileged to side with either, said nothing.
Barham repressed an angry impulse, and said, with a kind but long-suffering air:
“Not quite that, Mother. I never forget our relationship”
“But you’d like to forget it! You’d like to sever it! You wish I’d go away and live by myself.”
“I don’t admit that—but let’s not discuss it now. Mr. Hutchins is here on business, I think. Perhaps you will leave us alone for a little”
“That I won’t! And have you cook up some scheme by which the crime will be glossed over and forgotten, and the mystery of Maddy’s death will never be solved.”
Hutchins broke in then with a definite determination.
“Mrs. Selden,” he said, “if you will let me, I will give you an idea of what the police have done and are doing.”
“Are there any new developments?” Barham asked.
“There are,” Hutchins replied. And then, seeing no reason Mrs. Selden shouldn’t know the details as well as Barham himself, Hutchins told the whole story of the scarab.
He told of the mysterious note Charley had received, asking him to find the “lucky piece.” He told of Charley’s futile search, and subsequent call on the detective for help. He told of Charley’s description of seeing Pearl Jane bending over Mrs. Barham and taking something from her hand.
Andrew Barham listened with an inscrutable face and immovable countenance. He sat with folded arms, his eyes intently fixed on Hutchins’s face.
Mrs. Selden, on the contrary, was nervous and excited. She said little, for, when she interrupted, Hutchins peremptorily bade her be silent.
Also, she, too, was deeply interested. She twisted her handkerchief until it was a mere wisp, she picked at her gown, and she now and then broke into weeping.
But Barham didn’t look at her. He sat listening to Hutchins, saying no word, but seeming like a man in a trance.
Hutchins went on with the tale, and came to the scene at the home of Miss Cutler. He told of finding the scarab in the goldfish bowl, where she had so cleverly hidden it.
“Have you the scarab?” Barham asked, speaking for the first time during the recital. “Is it really valuable?”
“You know scarabs, Drew,” Mrs. Selden said, “you brought some home from Egypt, didn’t you?”
“Yes; Mother; but I’m not a real connoisseur. Mine are good specimens—but not by any means famous ones. Is Locke’s, Mr. Hutchins?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to take it to the Museum, and have it sized up. Want to see it? I doubt if it’s what you call famous.”
He took the stone beetle from his pocket and handed it over.
Andrew Barham examined it with interest; first courteously offering it for Mrs. Selden’s inspection. But she merely glanced at it, saying, “It looks like all the others to me.”
“I don’t think it is a King’s scarab,” Barham observed as he examined the thing; “I’ll just take it to my library a minute, while I look it up in a book I have.”
He was gone but a moment, and returned saying, “As I thought—it is a good one, but not a royal scarab. Doubtless, as you intimated, the value to Locke lay in its associations—or perhaps a superstition—rather than in its money value.”
He gave one more glance at the stone he held and then handed it back to Hutchins, who wrapped it in its bit of paper and returned it to his pocket.
Then Hutchins told them about the stained glove he had found hidden in Miss Cutler’s room, and at last his hearers began to realize that the detective was leading up to the announcement that the police suspected the girl of the murder. He had told the story slowly, for he wanted to catch, if possible, any facial expression or any involuntary exclamation that would hint at a knowledge on the part of husband or mother regarding Madeleine Barham’s acquaintance with Locke.
But he could get nothing of the sort, and, though his quick eyes and ears were eagerly waiting, there was positively nothing to be learned from Barham’s stony calm, or from Mrs. Selden’s nervous agitation.
And so, at the end of his recital, he merely asked Barham his opinion as to the possible guilt of Miss Cutler.
“Of course she did it!” cried Mrs. Selden, not giving Barham a chance to reply. “Could anything be clearer? I don’t know why you haven’t arrested her already! It’s so palpably true—she was jealous”
“Don’t go so fast. Mother,” Barham said quietly. “How could this unknown girl be jealous of our Maddy? You’re not imagining, are you, that Maddy had a vulgar intrigue with some artist? I can’t imagine any such case as that—if you can!”
Marcia Selden was silenced for once. She could easily imagine the girl’s jealousy, but she, too, was at a loss to apply that jealousy to her Madeleine.
“Nothing can ever make me believe that my wife knew these people socially,” Barham declared. “I cannot understand her presence there at all, but whatever her errand down there was, it was something other than social. Don’t ask me to explain her elaborate costume—quite evidently prepared for the occasion. I don’t know anything about that. Maybe it was mere idle curiosity of a society woman to see a bit of studio life. But it is impossible that Mrs. Barham was there as a social guest.”
His arms were still folded across his chest, his gaze was still cold and direct, and Hutchins saw at once that, whatever the truth of the matter might be, Andrew Barham believed implicitly in the statements he made.
“That is true,” Marcia Selden agreed. “I think, Andrew, you might exert yourself a little more to learn what took Maddy there. But I must agree with you”—she seemed to hate to do so—“that my daughter never went there as a guest. I mean as one of the social circle there. She had a later engagement at the home of a friend, so, you see, she merely stopped at the studio place, en route. Either it was to see about a portrait, or to satisfy a bit of curiosity—or both.”
“Could it have been in any way connected with Mrs. Barham’s—er—Bridge habits”
Alarmed lest Hutchins tell something disparaging to Maddy, which he hoped to keep from the knowledge of Mrs. Selden, Barham rose suddenly, and said:
“That reminds me, Mr. Hutchins, I have an important engagement. If Mrs. Selden will excuse us, will you walk along with me—toward my destination?”
The detective agreed, and once outside the door, Barham told him of the ruse.
“You know much concerning my wife’s Bridge debts,” Barham said, “and, if necessary, it will have to be made public. But unless it is—or, until it is, I want to keep it from Mrs. Selden. It would distress her beyond measure.”
Hutchins marveled at the character of a man who would be so careful of the sensibilities of a woman who so trampled on his own; but he only said:
“I can’t see now, Mr. Barham, the slightest connection between Mrs. Barham’s Bridge cronies and the tragedy of the studio. Unless such comes to light, her Bridge affairs need never reach the ears of the public.”
Their ways diverged then, Hutchins going to the Museum to inquire about the value of the scarab.
The authorities there told him practically the same as Barham had said. It was a genuine antique scarab—and was worth perhaps a hundred dollars. But it was by no means a museum piece or an especially fine specimen of its period.
So, Hutchins concluded, Locke valued it mostly for some sentiment or association. This, however, had no bearing on its value as evidence against Pearl Jane Cutler.
That young woman put in a pretty miserable day. She knew not whether she would be accused of murder—or being an accessory after the fact—whatever that meant! or what would happen to her. She confabbed with Kate Vallon, and then she went to Henry Post for advice and counsel.
They could say little, except to express sympathy and indignation at the suspicion cast on her.
“You didn’t do it, P. J., did you?” Post asked.
“No,” she said, dully—“but if I had, I should say I hadn’t.”
These artists seemed not to have very deep susceptibilities. Both Post and Rodman Jarvis, though good pals of Locke’s, had practically no help to offer Pearl Jane. In their circle, every man was for himself—and every woman also. They were not hard-hearted—they were merely cold-blooded and absorbed in their own affairs.
“They’ll never arrest the kid,” Post said to Jarvis. “Why worry? And, for all I know, there may have been some affair between Locke and the Barham woman. I keep out of such messes all I can.”
And Jarvis, though ready to do all he could for Locke in his absence, had no wish to take up Pearl Jane’s burdens.
Kate Vallon was devoted to the girl, and she wept with her and gave sound and really good advice, which included, among other things, a sudden and secret disappearance.
“It’s the only thing,” Kate said; “that’s what Tommy did, and you must go. I’ll help you off, and I know just the place for you to go.”
Rut Pearl Jane doggedly refused to do this. No reason would she give, and Kate retired in dudgeon.
Left to herself, Pearl Jane moped and worried, and at last, about ten o’clock, she began to think of going to bed.
And then her telephone bell rang.
“Hello,” she said, listlessly, and an answering voice said “Hello.”
Like a wave of revivifying joy, the sound went to her heart, and softly, as if half afraid, she breathed—“Tommy!”