CHAPTER VIII

LITTLE ANNA’S WILES

“IT’S all very well,” said Roly Mears, “for you people to stick by one another, and to shield one another. But the truth of this thing has got to come out. I’m friendly enough with all you men, I’m chivalrous enough toward the women, but all the same, I’m going to dig into this matter, and I’m going to find out who killed Hugh Curran. But I’ll say at the start I don’t believe the murderer was you, Valentine, or Angel. More, I don’t think it was Ned Knox.”

“Who do you think it was?” Loft asked, a trifle disinterestedly. He didn’t think much of Roly’s powers as a detective and was a little bored with his talk.

“I think it was somebody we none of us know. I think he was concealed in the house somewhere, and late that night he went to Curran’s room, and Curran let him in.”

“Yes,--go on.”

“Then, for reasons of his own he killed Curran,--poisoned him,--and made a clever getaway.”

“Leaving the door locked behind him?”

“Yes, Val, leaving the door locked behind him. We know the door was locked,--we know the murderer must have left it locked behind him,--a dead man couldn’t get up and lock it. So accept those facts, and then assume any explanation you please of the locking of that door. I think it could be done with some sort of an implement,--something like a skeleton key, that could turn the door key in its own lock.”

“Have you ever heard of such a thing, Roly?”

“No; I’m imagining it. But far more wonderful and complicated devices are made, and I hold that such an implement is not by any means impossible.”

“If that could be done,” said Loft, thoughtfully, “it eliminates one phase of the mystery. If that could be done,--anybody might have done it.”

“Only some one versed in the tricks and tools of burglary,” corrected Mears. “Modern burglars have very up-to-date contrivances.”

“It wasn’t burglary.”

“No, but it may have been a burglarious entrance and exit. And the motive was, of course, something connected with Curran’s past or private life, of which we know nothing. That’s why, Val, I’m so keen to find out the truth. It isn’t so much to avenge the poor chap’s death, as to clear all of us from suspicion. The police are sure that one of our crowd did it. Ned, for choice. But they hold that after that fool conversation you chaps put up, they must find the murderer among you three. You may as well know how positive they are about this. They don’t say much to you, but they do to me. And that Kinney is the most persistent person. He has a dogged stick-to-it-iveness that nothing seems to dismay. He’s going to interview Anna today and ask her straight out about that balcony business.”

“I wish him joy,” Loft said, smiling. “He’ll not get much out of Little Anna!”

But in this Loft was mistaken. At that very moment Detective Kinney was interviewing Anna Knox, and was getting a whole lot of information.

She had received him in her own boudoir, and with an eye to the setting of the stage, she was arrayed in a most fetching tea gown and was ensconced among a pile of soft pillows in the corner of a great divan.

She had chosen her rôle of confidential innocence, and her first words disarmed Kinney and roused all his sympathy.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she cooed, raising sad, pathetic eyes to his stern accusing countenance. “I’m sure you can help me,--and I’ve no one else to look to for assistance.”

The blue eyes were so trustful, the rose pink cheeks so soft, and the red mouth so appealing that Kinney did what many better and wiser men had done before him, fell for Little Anna utterly.

From that moment he was her abject slave, he could no more have accused her,--even suspected her, than he could have his own mother.

This was in no way his fault,--Nature had given him a susceptible heart, especially toward a trusting woman, and when Anna’s exquisite beauty added its charm and her clever brain prompted the way, the man was entirely defenseless and simply surrendered.

But Kinney didn’t know this. It was part of Anna’s spell that she made her victims think they were still masters of themselves when they were abjectly under her thumb.

“Yes,” she went on, her voice hopeless, her eyes despairing. “I am in a peculiar position. I can’t ask my husband to help me, for he is--oh, well,” she dimpled into a fleeting smile, “he is a monster of jealousy,--and you are man of the world enough to know what that means, Mr. Kinney!”

This subtle compliment further subjugated her hearer, and he bridled a little as he said, sympathetically, “Yes, yes, indeed, Mrs. Knox, I know.”

“Now, to get right at the matter, Mr. Kinney, you ask me questions and I’ll answer them.”

Anna cuddled among her cushions, looking like a pretty child about to play an amusing game. And indeed, that was not far from her mental attitude.

Kinney pulled himself together. He must be stern, that he knew. He was dimly subconscious of the situation, and had an uneasy feeling that he was not quite in command of himself. This nerved him to strenuous effort, and he said, severely:

“Then, Mrs. Knox, is the story the maid, Tessie, tells a true one? Were you with Mr. Curran on his balcony after one o’clock that night,--the night he died?”

“It isn’t his balcony,” and Anna pouted prettily. “It’s just as much my balcony,--both our rooms are on it.”

“Yes,--I know. And you were out on your balcony--”

“Yes, I was,” in a burst of frankness, “I was. The moonlight was so divine, and I could not sleep, so I slipped on a boudoir gown and stepped out to look at the lovely scene.”

“And then?”

“And then, Mr. Curran chanced to step out of his window, too,--and, as was most natural, we spoke of the beauty of the night.”

“Of course,” said Kinney, and gazing at Anna’s face, he imagined Hugh Curran noting other beauty beside that of the night.

“And you sat by him on the balcony rail?”

“Why, yes, Mr. Kinney,--I did for a moment. Now, I’ll own up to you, that Mr. Curran was a fascinating man,--and that I--” she peeped at him from beneath her long lashes, “that I am--at least, I’m called a bit of a flirt--oh, well, I confess--but there was no crime in that,--was there?” The blue eyes appealed; “no real wrong in a tiny flirtation? That isn’t what you detectives want to discover, is it?”

“No, no, indeed, ma’am. No, certainly not!”

“Then you don’t need to say anything about it, do you? You don’t need to blazon abroad my little teeny-weeny indiscretion?”

“No, no,--that isn’t necessary--”

“Oh, you good Mr. Kinney! Oh, you dear man! And you promise not to say anything about it, don’t you?”

“But--but it is already known. Tessie--”

“But if you and I deny it, Tessie’s story won’t be believed. If you’ll say that I denied being out there, and that you believe my denial, no one can consider the maid’s story at all. It will be entirely discredited.”

“I don’t see how I can do that--” Kinney looked at her perplexedly. “You see--”

“I don’t see anything!” Anna playfully put both hands over her eyes, “and you don’t either,”--she transferred the soft fingers to Kinney’s eyes, “and so, let’s forget it all.”

The touch of her roseleaf hands set the man’s pulses beating, and as the fingertips left his eyes, and he saw Anna’s roguish, smiling face, not far from his own, he would have promised her anything she asked.

“I don’t know as it’s important evidence--” he began, heavily.

“It isn’t evidence at all!” she cried, gaily. “I mean no evidence for or against your old murder case. Now, you know it isn’t, Mr. Kinney, and you know you’re going to ignore it all, and you’re going to leave poor little me out of the question, and then I’ll be happy and contented. And I’ll owe my happiness to you,--you dear man!”

She seized his hand in both her own, and dropped a fluttering kiss on the big red paw.

This sealed Kinney’s doom, and in a sort of trance, he murmured:

“What shall I tell them?”

“Tell them,” Anna directed, “that you interviewed me, and that I convinced you that I was not out on the balcony at all that night. That Tessie either made up the story or that she was mistaken. That the whole matter is of no importance anyway, and that you have other and more indicative knowledge to work on.”

“Yes. And what is that knowledge?”

“He’s eating out of my hand,” thought Anna, jubilantly.

“It’s just this,” she replied, gravely. “While we sat on the balcony rail,--you see, I accept you as a sharer of my secrets,--there came a knock at Mr. Curran’s door. Only a light, almost timid tap, but in the silence of the night we heard it distinctly. Of course, he had to go and answer it, so he returned to his room, and I hastened to mine.”

“But you lingered,” the detective instinct was still at work, “you tarried long enough to peep and see who it was?”

“Oh, you wonderful man! How did you guess that?”

“Who was it?”

“I couldn’t see,--but I’m sure it was a woman.”

“Ah, the shawled woman of Mr. Meredith’s story.”

“Yes, exactly. I couldn’t corroborate him, for I didn’t want any one to know I was there. But since you know, and since you’re going to keep it secret,--I trust you, Mr. Kinney--I feel sure you can trace that woman.”

“Then I’ll work on that clue, using only Mr. Meredith’s statement and not telling that it is backed up by yours.”

“Yes, that’s just what I mean. You see, as I heard that tap, and saw Mr. Curran open the door to somebody,--that lets me out regarding--oh, I mean--you can’t think me the murderess.”

A glance at the baby face was enough to make any such supposition ridiculous, but Kinney was still rational enough to realize that if Anna’s story of the tap at the door was a true tale, then she could have had no hand in the murder herself. And as the time coincided with the time Mr. Meredith had mentioned, he felt he had no reason to disbelieve what Anna Knox told him.

Kinney went downstairs a gladder and a wiser man. He had eliminated one possible suspect, which was one step in the right direction.

He found Loft and Angel in the library, discussing old books with Miss Dwyer.

It seemed, Valentine had offered to buy some of Hugh Curran’s books from his sister, whose property they now were.

And this had roused Miss Dwyer’s easily inflammable suspicions.

“That’s the key to this whole mystery,” she was exclaiming, as Kinney entered. “There’s the motive! You two, Mr. Loft and Mr. Baldwin envied my brother some of his rarities. I’ve heard how wicked and greedy all collectors are! How they resort to any means to acquire a volume they have set their hearts on. I’ve been told how they will lie, cheat, steal, yes, even murder to get a choice specimen. My brother had a wonderful collection,--I know something of these matters myself. I know his Black Letter books are among the finest known. I know he had certain volumes that all the collectors in the country were trying to get away from him. I know that only a connoisseur in these things would know the value of his possessions, and would go to any lengths to get them. Mr. Kinney,” she turned to the detective, “there is your motive,--my brother was killed because he owned a valuable library. Now, you find his murderer!”

Attracted by the loud voice of Miss Dwyer, Stella, who was passing, came in.

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” she said. “And, too,--though I know Val, you don’t take any interest in dreams,--yet I want to tell you of the vision I had last night.”

“Nonsense,” Loft began, “but Kinney stopped him.”

“Let her tell it, Mr. Loft,” he counselled. “Though only a dream it may be of benefit,--there may be a hint in it.”

“It was so vivid a dream,” Stella said, “that I call it a vision. I saw a large library,--a room full of books,--it may have been a book shop, but the shelves were filled with old worn volumes. There were four men present, but all wore cowls,--such as monks wear. I could see none of their faces. But one seemed to be the owner of the books, and the others were visitors. There was much handling and discussion of the volumes. There also seemed to be quarrelling or ill feeling among the men. Of only two books could I discern the titles.”

“What were they?” asked Kinney, as Stella paused.

“One was ‘_Rosalie_,’--and one was ‘_Mr. S._’”

“Oh, pshaw,--” Valentine Loft laughed, “those are the two words Mr. Curran spoke that night he was pretending to be clairvoyant. They meant nothing, but they stuck in your subconsciousness, Stella, and wove themselves into your dream.”

“I don’t remember Mr. Curran’s saying them,” Stella protested.

“But he did,” Loft returned. “And nobody showed any understanding of what he meant. He used them at random. I’m afraid, Stella, your dream can’t help us much.”

“But I think it does,” Miss Dwyer, exclaimed; “of course you men will deny it, but that dream goes to prove, to my mind, that my brother’s murder is the result of his possession of books that another collector coveted. I have no doubt Miss Lawrence knows or suspects this, and that is why such a dream came to her. As to the titles of the books, if Mr. Loft’s explanation of that is the true one, it makes no difference. Miss Lawrence may have heard my brother use those two words or phrases, and have entirely forgotten it. Then they returned to her in her dream.”

“I doubt if Mr. Curran actually made up those words,” Kinney said; “I think they meant something to him,--even if no one else present understood them.”

“Rosalie, I think,--was the name of his wife,” Miss Dwyer said. “At least he sometimes called her that,--or Rose, or Rosy,--yet it is my impression they were all nicknames, and not her real name.”

Angel Bob Baldwin had listened to this conversation mostly in silence. Now he took the floor.

“Miss Dwyer,” he said, “you have doubtless heard, as you say, of the greed and covetousness of book collectors. And, while it is true to a degree, it is by no means true that they make a practice of killing other collectors in their zeal. I am, in a way, a book dealer,--though I have no shop or storeroom. I am more of a commission agent. Yet, I am familiar with the ways of the collectors, especially the most important ones. And I know that no one of them would kill a man or would even resort to dishonest methods to gain a book he desired. There are some, I daresay, who would do so, but not the important, the celebrated collectors. Your brother was one of these, Mr. Loft is one. And I can speak for Mr. Loft when I say that never has he descended to the slightest bit of underhanded dealing to attain a desired volume. Nor did your brother. These two men, as well as all of my clients, are most observant of the rights of fellow collectors. They give me their bids for an auction sale, or a private sale, and I execute their commissions with the same care and honesty that a broker or banker would use in financial transactions. I am telling you this, because I see you are under a misapprehension as to the methods and manners of first-class collectors.”

“All very fine, Mr. Baldwin,” the lady returned, “except that I don’t believe it. I have come here to discover who killed my brother. If it turns out to be one of you men who threatened him--”

“Threatened him!” cried Angel. “What _do_ you mean?”

“Well, I’m told you discussed murder,--and what was the best method, and all that.”

“We did,” Loft said, “but it was no threat,--it was regarding no intended victim! Miss Dwyer, you must be crazy!”

“No, sir, I am not crazy, but I am a determined woman. I shall never rest until I discover the criminal. If the local police cannot accomplish this, I shall engage a private detective--”

“Do so, if you wish, Miss Dwyer.” Loft was courteous, as always. “I, too, should be glad to have the mystery solved.”

“I’ll help you, Miss Dwyer,” Stella offered. “I’m not sure that a woman’s intuition can’t accomplish more than a man’s skill. At any rate, I’m glad you do not scoff at my dreams,--for I have too often proved their truth and value to slight their importance.”

The two women left the room and Kinney turned to Loft.

“I want to take up that matter of the woman Mr. Meredith told of,” he began. “It hasn’t been sufficiently considered, I say. Now, Mr. Loft, what women slept on that floor that night?”

“Why on that floor?” objected Loft. “Granting a veiled woman went into Curran’s room, late at night, she could have come down from the floor above.”

“Or up from the floor below,” added Angel. “I hate to seem to asperse the character of a dead man, but Curran was evidently a woman lover of sorts. He was, I can’t help thinking,--quite capable of a vulgar intrigue with a housemaid,--and Valhalla employs some very pretty ones.”

“It is an unpleasant supposition,” Loft said, gravely, “but I’d rather think that, than to imagine any of our own people doing such a thing.”

“Who were on that floor?” persisted Kinney.

“Mrs. Meredith, Mrs. Knox, Miss Fuller, Miss Lawrence, the Countess, and Mrs. Jennings, the housekeeper,” Loft said shortly. “No one of those is possible. My housekeeper is a staid, middle-aged person, and the other ladies are out of the question. If there was a visitor, such as Mr. Meredith described, it must have been--”

“Tessie, perhaps,” Angel suggested.

“Yes, Tessie, if anybody,” Loft agreed. “She is a naughty little piece,--Mrs. Jennings has often threatened to discharge her. But she’s a capable chambermaid, and such are not easy to get.”

“Well, if Tessie did go there that night, she surely didn’t kill Curran,” Angel said, reflectively. “How could she have done it?”

“Like most theories, it presupposes previous acquaintance with Curran,” Kinney said; “whoever killed that man, knew him before. Nobody could have done it on first acquaintance.”

“Unless it was Ned Knox,” Loft said; “I’m loath to suspect Ned, but you know, Angel, how impulsive he is,--and how jealous of Anna.”

Kinney looked disturbed. He hated to have Knox accused,--he hated any reflection on Anna.

“Mr. Knox was the one who advocated shooting,” he reminded them.

“That’s nothing,” Loft said, “he had no pistol up here,--and, too, it was less suspicious to choose the method he had not advocated.”

Valentine Loft looked moody and worried. He did not want to accuse Knox, but he had his own reasons for doing so. The man was beset by doubts and fears. He felt the fearful responsibility of this misfortune that had come to him,--and he had a secret cause for anxiety that was driving him to distraction. If Knox should be proved the guilty person, Loft, while not exactly glad, would be greatly relieved.

Miss Dwyer, too, was a nuisance. As Loft was a lawyer, she appealed to him continually in regard to minor legal questions. She declared she would not let him touch her brother’s belongings or have anything to do with the settlement of his estate, but she still pestered him with her foolish questions and arguments. Miss Dwyer was by no means sure of the guilt she attributed to Valentine Loft, but she did suspect him, and indomitably she pursued her inquiries.

No will of Hugh Curran had been heard of, so Miss Dwyer was doubtless the sole heir.

Repeatedly Loft advised her to put the whole matter in the hands of a capable attorney,--but the spinster hesitated, her real reason being that if Loft should be freed from her suspicion, he was the lawyer she wished to retain.

So she stayed at Valhalla, bothering every one, annoying every one, but serenely unconscious of it.

The passing days brought no new theories or discoveries on the part of the police. Their knowledge of the circumstances seemed to be complete as far as they could make it. No questioning of household or servant brought any new revelations.

Tessie, when grilled, seemed to be entirely innocent of any acquaintanceship with Hugh Curran. The idea of her tapping on his door that night was the merest surmise. The girl was frank and seemingly truthful.

Moreover, Violet vouched for her presence in the bedroom they shared, soon after half-past one that night.

“She has an alibi,” Angel said, as they discussed it after Tessie had been dismissed. “An unshakable alibi,--if Violet tells the truth.”

“If,” said Kinney.

“I think she does,” Loft declared. “They are good girls, and Mrs. Jennings says they are truthful. It’s too bad to suspect them with positively no reason for it.”

“That’s so,” Kinney agreed; “we must look elsewhere.”