More Lives Than One/Chapter 16
CHAPTER XVI
LORIMER LANE
Nick Nelson was not an astute man—he was not even sharp-sighted when it came to puzzling things out, but he had unbounded faith in his friends and unflinching loyalty.
He accepted at its face value Barham’s statement that he had exchanged the scarabs. He didn’t question him concerning the matter, he only thought it over afterward and decided on his own line of action.
This was neither more nor less than to put the matter up to an expert. Nelson couldn’t understand Barham—very well, then somebody else should explain him.
From Nelson’s point of view this was no disloyalty or treachery to his friend, for, as he had reasoned it out, Barham was queer, and if people were queer they must be investigated.
His faith in Barham was so absolute that though he knew the man had exchanged a fine scarab for one of lesser value, he did not for a single instant believe this meant any dishonesty or real wrong-doing.
Had he been asked, he couldn’t have said what he did believe regarding the incident, but, he thought, there must be some logical and satisfactory explanation for old Bar ham’s deed. Maybe the fine scarab was his and had been stolen from him—well, that did seem a bit far-fetched—but, anyway, Drew Barham was all right—and if he was so foolish as to let himself be suspected of being wrong—then somebody must look after him.
Nick Nelson had had previous experiences of Barham’s queerness, and invariably it had turned out that he was shielding or assisting somebody else. Anyway, it must be looked into by some one capable of looking into it. Drew was getting too queer.
And so, Nick Nelson went to the office of Lorimer Lane and enlisted the sympathies and then engaged the services of that clever and well known detective.
“Use your own judgment,” Nelson told him, “about letting Mr. Barham know you are in the game. If you think best, be frank with him—but if it seems more advisable, then just let him think you’re on the police side of the case.”
“Are there two sides?” Lane asked. “I’ve only the newspaper accounts to guide me, you know.”
“Not two opposing sides,” Nelson told him, “but of course the police are trying to solve the mystery of Mrs. Barham’s death and of Locke’s disappearance, while Mr. Barham—lately, at any rate—is trying to hush up the whole affair. Now, the police are interested in his scarab business—that I’ve just told you about, and they think Mr. Barham is a thief. I know better—I know that he changed these things for some good and sufficient reason”
“Can you suggest or imagine any good and sufficient reason?”
Lorimer Lane was not scoffing at Nelson’s assumption, on the contrary, he was seriously interested.
Middle-aged, reserved and rather taciturn, he was glad to take hold of this strange case, and this new turn of Barham’s regarding the scarabs was both astonishing and intriguing.
“No, I can’t—” Nelson confessed, “that’s why I have come to you. I know Andrew Barham as well as I know any man on earth, and I know him to be incapable of dishonesty in any form. Yet, I know when he told me he exchanged those scarabs, he did exchange them. Now, I want you to find out why.”
“On the face of it,” Lane said, “it looks very much as if he were shielding somebody at his own expense—that is, if you are right in banking so securely on his honesty.”
“Oh, I’m right in that,” Nick returned.
“Very well, I’ll take up the matter. Now, Mr. Nelson, tell me everything you know about it. Everything you can possibly think of that has any connection with it.”
And Nick Nelson spent the better part of two hours, detailing all he knew, both from the police reports and from his personal knowledge of the Barhams and their friends and acquaintances.
Lane was especially interested in anything concerning Tommy Locke—perhaps because it was regarding that elusive gentleman that Nelson’s information was the least definite.
“He seems a harmless sort,” Nick said; “not at all the kind of man you think of as a murderer. A mediocre artist, a good pal, a quiet sort of person generally. His servant adores him, his friends all like him, and the little girl, who is supposed to be his sweetheart, is desperately in love with him.”
“She’ll be a mine of information, then,” Lane observed. “I’m good at getting at the sweethearts.”
“She’s not so easy, though. For a young thing, and a demure, innocent looking person, she has a lot of reserve force of character that crops out unexpectedly. I don’t know her personally, you understand, though I’ve seen her, but Detective Hutchins has told me a lot about her. Sometimes I believe he thinks she’s mixed up in the actual crime, and then again, I feel sure he’s only pretending to do so, by way of urging Locke to put in an appearance to protect the girl.”
“If Locke knows all that is going on, and doesn’t come forward to look after his sweetheart, he’s a poor sort of chap.”
“I think he’s in communication with her, somehow. But she’s so uncommunicative, it’s hard to tell.”
“I’ll find out where she stands,” and Lane nodded his head in assurance. “The hardest proposition to tackle is Andrew Barham himself. From your description of him I fancy he can hold his own against a detective’s questioning.”
“Yes, he can. But if he takes a notion to confide in you—and I don’t see why he shouldn’t”
“What does he think of Locke?” Lane interrupted.
“He doesn’t express any definite opinion. His one question is, how did his wife happen to go to Locke’s studio. And, I must say we’re no nearer finding that out than we were the night of the murder.”
“The whole thing is so bizarre, the whole case so incredible that it ought to be easy,” the detective said.
“Easy?”
“Yes; the more strange and unusual the circumstances, the easier it is, usually, to ferret out their meaning. Well, I’ll go ahead in my own way, and I’ll report to you, Mr. Nelson. As to my attitude toward Mr. Barham, I shall be guided by circumstances, and by developments as they appear. There’ll be no trouble or rivalry between me and the police. I’ll promise you that. I know Hutchins—and he’ll be friendly with me.”
And so Lorimer Lane took up the Barham case. He laid aside some other matters, in order to give it his full attention, for to his mind it promised to be one of the most interesting problems he had ever tackled.
As a preliminary measure, he visited the studio apartment of Locke.
Glenn was still there on guard, and though he was interested in seeing the new detective he had little confidence that his powers were superior to those of Hutchins and his assistants.
“I’ll just go over the place,” and Lane nodded affably to Glenn and went off by himself.
He noted every bit of furniture and decoration in the studio with critical intentness, now and then making a brief note of something and again, merely nodding in satisfaction at finding something indicative.
On entering Locke’s bedroom, he closed the door, and spent a long time in his examinations. The bathroom, too, claimed his absorbed attention, and when he found on the glass shelf above the washstand a small bottle of powdered pumice stone, he chuckled with satisfaction.
“I am on the right track!” he told himself. “Oh, what a case!”
Next he scanned the smoking-room—and studied carefully the spot where the victim had open found.
The police had forbidden any meddling there, and Lane noted carefully every sign he could find. There was little, however, that seemed to mean anything, but he viewed with interest the white line along the rug, which the police had concluded was powder from the vanity-case also discovered near by.
“But it isn’t!” Lane said to himself. “Powder would be sprinkled grains—or else a soft, wide smear. This is a sharp, clean line—it’s, well, I don’t know what it is—but I have a pretty fair idea!”
On he went, poking into closets and cupboards, opening drawers and looking behind doors, until he was absolutely familiar with everything in the place.
“Any light on the dark subject?” Glenn asked, as the detective reappeared.
“Not much so far—but a glimmer here and there. And I’m sure I have the right starting-point. Where’s the Chinaman?”
“In the pantry. Want him?”
“I’ll go there,” and Lane appeared before Charley.
He wasted no time on unimportant questions, but said, abruptly, “When have you heard from Mr. Locke?”
“No more hear. He gone good-by,” said the Chinaman.
“You are all paid up?”
“All and some more.”
“All bills paid?”
“All.”
“And on the first of the month you leave?”
“I leave.”
“And Mr. Locke told you over the telephone that you would never see or hear from him again?”
“Yes, he tell so.”
“All right, Charley, that’s all.”
Still with that satisfied expression on his face, Lorimer Lane started off to call on Miss Cutler.
He was by no means sure what course he should pursue with this somewhat remarkable young woman. From what he had heard of her, he didn’t think she could be easily intimidated—perhaps it would be wisest to treat her as a confidante.
But he had great faith in his own intuitions and concluded he would be guided by them when they should meet.
Pearl Jane met him as one might receive a casual caller, and Lane concluded at once that he must step carefully if he would make good with this self-possessed young person.
She asked him to be seated, and then sat down herself, with a demurely expectant face.
“You want to question me?” she said.
“If you please,” Lane returned courteously. “And, Miss Cutler, do not look on me as a prying inquisitor.”
“Not at all—why should I?” she returned, her big violet eyes expressing the most innocent surprise.
Lane was disconcerted. He hated to acknowledge it to himself, but he was bothered by those eyes. Either the girl was absolutely in the dark concerning the mystery he was trying to solve, or she knew more than any one else. He was not sure which.
He resolved on a bold stroke.
“Miss Cutler,” he said, bending forward and speaking in a low tone, “do you know Mr. Locke’s secret?”
At least he had got under her guard.
“His secret!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know he had one! Oh, you mean do I know where he is?”
“No; I don’t mean that at all. I mean do you know what he is—who he is?”
“I know Mr. Locke for a good friend, an artist, and an honorable gentleman. If you mean do I know his family or his antecedents—I do not. There was a man who claimed to be his brother—but I believe the police discredited his story.”
She was again in command of herself—but Lane was sure that his sudden question had disturbed her. He was sure that she did know that Locke had a secret—a big one—and he was equally sure that she was as ignorant of what it was as he was himself—perhaps more so.
He concluded that the way to manage her was by sudden surprising questions or statements, and he watched her closely as he said: “You call him an honorable man, and yet you suspect him of the murder of Mrs. Barham!”
The shot told. Pearl Jane went white, and her hands clenched as she struggled to preserve her composure.
She thought quickly but steadily. Her brain was clear, though her nerves were jumping. But she had one fixed principle to follow. Tommy had told her to tell the truth. He had emphasized that. So she did.
She parried only a moment. “Is that a statement or a question?” she said.
Lane stared at her. She certainly was surprising.
“I’ll make it a question,” he said; “do you think Mr. Locke killed Mrs. Barham?”
“It’s hard to answer,” she said, with a thoughtful look. “I can’t think it—and yet—yes, I do suspect him.”
“And you still deem him an honorable man?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do honorable men commit murder?”
“That question I can’t answer. I dare say they have done so.”
“Well, Miss Cutler, this talk gets us nowhere. Now, for facts. What makes you suspect Mr. Locke?”
“Only because I saw him go downstairs and out of his front door. Then, when I immediately afterward went up the back stairs, I saw the body of Mrs. Barham there on the floor.”
“And so you concluded Mr. Locke had killed her?”
“I don’t say I concluded that. I say I suspected it.”
“Why should he kill her?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“You’re sure you didn’t kill her yourself?”
Pearl Jane allowed herself the slightest glimmer of a smile, as she replied: “I’m positive of that.”
“Well you ought to know. And you still love and respect Mr. Locke, even if he is a murderer?”
“Oh, he isn’t that.”
“You contradict yourself”
“I don’t care if I do. I tell the truth. The truth may be contradictory. You see—circumstances make me suspect Mr. Locke with my mind—but”
“But your heart tells you he’s innocent!”
“Yes—exactly that!” and the girl’s smile was like a heavenly illumination. It transformed her from merely a pretty child into a woman of exquisite beauty and charm.
Lorimer Lane stared at her.
“I’ve never seen any one quite like you, Miss Cutler,” he said, slowly. “Permit me to offer you my sincere admiration and appreciation.”
And now Pearl Jane stared at him. Her smile faded, she looked haughty and resentful.
But as she realized that Lane was really sincere, she smiled at him and with him, and in that moment their friendship was sealed.
“Remember,” he said, “I told you at the start, that I want to be friendly. Now, if you will help me, and if you will continue to be truthful, I’ve an idea that we can clear your Mr. Locke from the suspicion of murder, whatever other crime he may be guilty of.”
“Of course,” she said, assuredly, “and he isn’t guilty of any crime.”
“Not crime, perhaps—but”
Lane hesitated, but his scrutiny of the young face gave no answering appreciation of the thought he had in mind, and he concluded she did not share his suspicions.
He went away, well satisfied with the interview, and especially well satisfied with Pearl Jane.
“She’s a hummer!” he said to himself, “and I hope to goodness I can get her Tommy back for her. If he’s all I think him, they will some day be a happy couple!”
And Lorimer Lane might have felt his opinion verified if he could have heard a conversation that ensued soon after his departure.
It was over the telephone, and Pearl Jane held the receiver at one end.
At the other end was a man, who said a joyful “Yes!” in response to her query, “Is that you, Tommy?”
“Can we have a long talk?” Pearl Jane asked.
“No, dear, I can only say a few words to you. Things are happening and I don’t know what the future holds. Tell me this, my little girl—can you keep faith and trust in me whatever happens?”
“Yes, Tommy, whatever happens.”
“But what happens may surprise you beyond all bounds.”
“My faith and trust are beyond all bounds.”
“Bless you, dear heart. Yet what you learn may cause you to despise me”
“No—not that. If you love me—if you want me—I am your Pearl Jane forever—whether we ever meet again or not.”
“All right, sweetheart, then, remember this. When you hear—as you may, the most astonishing news—remember that I love you, I—I love you!”
“Why do you emphasize the I? There is no one in the world for me, but the man you call I. My Tommy—my own Tommy Locke.”
“Yes—Pearl Jane—your own Tommy Locke. Good-by, sweetheart, I daren’t stay longer. Trust me through all mysteries, and some day we can be happy together.
“Really, Tommy?”
“Really, dear. Good-by.
Pearl Jane was bewildered, but happy. Tommy was in explicable, but she knew—she knew he was no murderer, or criminal of any sort. He was her Tommy, and some day they would be happy together. He had said so, and that was enough for Pearl Jane.
It was the next day before Lane obtained an interview with Andrew Barham.
He had waited on that gentleman’s convenience, and when he was finally admitted to his presence the detective looked covertly at the man whose acquaintance he was about to make.
“You wished to see me?” Barham said, courteously. “On what errand?”
And suddenly, Lane made up his mind.
“Regarding the mystery of your wife’s death,” he said, frankly. “I wish to take up the case, and solve it, if possible. I should be glad to know your attitude toward me—or toward my work.”
“Mr. Lane,” and Barham looked very grave, “I suppose it is right and just that the mystery of my wife’s death should be solved. But—I want to say, that I, personally, would greatly prefer to have the whole matter dropped. I should prefer never to know the truth of the case, rather than have certain painful revelations made, that must be made if the whole story comes out.”
“You refer, Mr. Barham, to your wife’s unfortunate losses at Bridge?”
“And her consequent wrong-doing in connection therewith,” said Andrew Barham, looking at Lane unflinchingly; “and not only that phase of the matter, but other equally distressing circumstances. These things would redound to the grief and pain of my wife’s mother, an elderly lady, and also to the disparagement, even disgrace of my wife’s memory. I hold that the only good done by a solution of the mystery of her death would be the punishment of the murderer. While we all feel that such a crime should be avenged, I, myself, would rather never know the truth, than to expose all.”
“I understand and appreciate, Mr. Barham, your attitude, but I cannot look at it as you do. Moreover, the police are not willing to look at it in that light, either. Now, I must tell you, that I propose to go on with my investigations, and I will say right now, if you have any confession to make, or explanations to give, I should be glad to hear them. I am not antagonistic: on the contrary, I want to meet your wishes in so far as I can, but”
“Mr. Lane—I may as well say that I know who sent you here. I know whose doing it is that you have taken up this case. It is at the request of my dear friend, Mr. Nelson. He is doing it out of the best of motives—he thinks I am sacrificing myself for some one else.”
“And aren’t you?”
Andrew Barham smiled.
“Not exactly,” he said. “And yet,” he looked very grave, “if you delve too deeply into this matter, if you try too hard to discover the murderer of my wife—it will make”
He stopped abruptly, and seemed to draw back into himself as into a shell.
“I would rather say no more, Mr. Lane. If you want to question me I am quite prepared to answer.”
“Then, Mr. Barham, did you or did you not exchange the scarab that Mr. Hutchins showed you for another and less valuable one?”
“I did, Mr. Lane.”
“Will you tell me why you did that?”
“Because the valuable scarab was my own property, and I desired to have it again in my possession.”
“It was stolen from you, then?”
“No, not stolen—it was taken by some one who meant well.”
“It was taken,” Lane looked at Barham, steadily, “by Miss Cutler from the hand of your dead wife?”
“Yes,” said Andrew Barham.