CHAPTER III
I looked at my clock as I went down-stairs. It was just twelve-thirty.I thought of telephoning for Mr. Reynolds to meet me, but it was hislunch hour, and besides I was afraid to telephone from the house whileMr. Ladley was in it.
Peter had been whining again. When I came down the stairs he hadstopped whimpering and was wagging his tail. A strange boat had putinto the hallway and was coming back.
"Now, old boy!" somebody was saying from the boat. "Steady, old chap!I've got something for you."
A little man, elderly and alert, was standing up in the boat, polingit along with an oar. Peter gave vent to joyful yelps. The elderlygentleman brought his boat to a stop at the foot of the stairs, andreaching down into a tub at his feet, held up a large piece of rawliver. Peter almost went crazy, and I remembered suddenly that I hadforgotten to feed the poor beast for more than a day.
"Would you like it?" asked the gentleman. Peter sat up, as he had beentaught to do, and barked. The gentleman reached down again, got awooden platter from a stack of them at his feet, and placing theliver on it, put it on the step. The whole thing was so neat andbusinesslike that I could only gaze.
"That's a well-trained dog, madam," said the elderly gentleman,beaming at Peter over his glasses. "You should not have neglectedhim."
"The flood put him out of my mind," I explained, humbly enough, for Iwas ashamed.
"Exactly. Do you know how many starving dogs and cats I have foundthis morning?" He took a note-book out of his pocket and glanced atit. "Forty-eight. Forty-eight, madam! And ninety-three cats! I havefound them marooned in trees, clinging to fences, floating on barrels,and I have found them in comfortable houses where there was no excusefor their neglect. Well, I must be moving on. I have the report of acat with a new litter in the loft of a stable near here."
He wiped his hands carefully on a fresh paper napkin, of which alsoa heap rested on one of the seats of the boat, and picked up an oar,smiling benevolently at Peter. Then, suddenly, he bent over and lookedat the stained rope end, tied to the stair-rail.
"What's that?" he said.
"That's what I'm going to find out," I replied. I glanced up at theLadleys' door, but it was closed.
The little man dropped his oar, and fumbling in his pockets, pulledout a small magnifying-glass. He bent over, holding to the rail, andinspected the stains with the glass. I had taken a fancy to him atonce, and in spite of my excitement I had to smile a little.
"Humph!" he said, and looked up at me. "That's blood. Why did you_cut_ the boat loose?"
"I didn't," I said. "If that is blood, I want to know how it gotthere. That was a new rope last night." I glanced at the Ladleys' dooragain, and he followed my eyes.
"I wonder," he said, raising his voice a little, "if I come into yourkitchen, if you will allow me to fry a little of that liver. There's awretched Maltese in a tree at the corner of Fourth Street that won'ttouch it, raw."
I saw that he wanted to talk to me, so I turned around and led the wayto the temporary kitchen I had made.
"Now," he said briskly, when he had closed the door, "there'ssomething wrong here. Perhaps if you tell me, I can help. If I can't,it will do you good to talk about it. My name's Holcombe, retiredmerchant. Apply to First National Bank for references."
"I'm not sure there _is_ anything wrong," I began. "I guess I'm onlynervous, and thinking little things are big ones. There's nothing totell."
"Nonsense. I come down the street in my boat. A white-faced gentlemanwith a cigarette looks out from a window when I stop at the door, andducks back when I glance up. I come in and find a pet dog, obviouslyoverfed at ordinary times, whining with hunger on the stairs. AsI prepare to feed him, a pale woman comes down, trying to put aright-hand glove on her left hand, and with her jacket wrong side out.What am I to think?"
I started and looked at my coat. He was right. And when, as I tried totake it off, he helped me, and even patted me on the shoulder--whatwith his kindness, and the long morning alone, worrying, and thesleepless night, I began to cry. He had a clean handkerchief in myhand before I had time to think of one.
"That's it," he said. "It will do you good, only don't make a noiseabout it. If it's a husband on the annual flood spree, don't worry,madam. They always come around in time to whitewash the cellars."
"It isn't a husband," I sniffled.
"Tell me about it," he said. There was something so kindly in hisface, and it was so long since I had had a bit of human sympathy, thatI almost broke down again.
I sat there, with a crowd of children paddling on a raft outside thewindow, and Molly Maguire, next door, hauling the morning's milk up ina pail fastened to a rope, her doorway being too narrow to admit themilkman's boat, and I told him the whole story.
"Humph!" he exclaimed, when I had finished. "It's curious, but--youcan't prove a murder unless you can produce a body."
"When the river goes down, we'll find the body," I said, shivering."It's in the parlor."
"Then why doesn't he try to get away?"
"He is ready to go now. He only went back when your boat came in."
Mr. Holcombe ran to the door, and flinging it open, peered into thelower hall. He was too late. His boat was gone, tub of liver, pile ofwooden platters and all!
We hurried to the room the Ladleys had occupied. It was empty. Fromthe window, as we looked out, we could see the boat, almost a squareaway. It had stopped where, the street being higher, a door-step roseabove the flood. On the step was sitting a forlorn yellow puppy. Aswe stared, Mr. Ladley stopped the boat, looked back at us, bent over,placed a piece of liver on a platter, and reached it over to the dog.Then, rising in the boat, he bowed, with his hat over his heart, inour direction, sat down calmly, and rowed around the corner out ofsight.
Mr. Holcombe was in a frenzy of rage. He jumped up and down, shakinghis fist out the window after the retreating boat. He ran down thestaircase, only to come back and look out the window again. The policeboat was not in sight, but the Maguire children had worked their raftaround to the street and were under the window. He leaned out andcalled to them.
"A quarter each, boys," he said, "if you'll take me on that raft tothe nearest pavement."
"Money first," said the oldest boy, holding his cap.
But Mr. Holcombe did not wait. He swung out over the window-sill,holding by his hands, and lit fairly in the center of the raft.
"Don't touch anything in that room until I come back," he called tome, and jerking the pole from one of the boys, propelled the raft withamazing speed down the street.
The liver on the stove was burning. There was a smell of scorchingthrough the rooms and a sort of bluish haze of smoke. I hurried backand took it off. By the time I had cleaned the pan, Mr. Holcombe wasback again, in his own boat. He had found it at the end of the nextstreet, where the flood ceased, but no sign of Ladley anywhere. He hadnot seen the police boat.
"Perhaps that is just as well," he said philosophically. "We can't goto the police with a wet slipper and a blood-stained rope and accuse aman of murder. We have to have a body."
"He killed her," I said obstinately. "She told me yesterday he was afiend. He killed her and threw the body in the water."
"Very likely. But he didn't throw it here."
But in spite of that, he went over all the lower hall with his boat,feeling every foot of the floor with an oar, and finally, at the backend, he looked up at me as I stood on the stairs.
"There's something here," he said.
I went cold all over, and had to clutch the railing. But when Terryhad come, and the two of them brought the thing to the surface, it wasonly the dining-room rug, which I had rolled up and forgotten to carryup-stairs!
At half past one Mr. Holcombe wrote a note, and sent it off withTerry, and borrowing my boots, which had been Mr. Pitman's,investigated the dining-room and kitchen from a floating plank; thedoors were too narrow to admit the boat. But he found nothing moreimportant than a rolling-pin. He was not at all depressed
by hisfailure. He came back, drenched to the skin, about three, and askedpermission to search the Ladleys' bedroom.
"I have a friend coming pretty soon, Mrs. Pitman," he said, "a youngnewspaper man, named Howell. He's a nice boy, and if there is anythingto this, I'd like him to have it for his paper. He and I have beenhaving some arguments about circumstantial evidence, too, and I knowhe'd like to work on this."
I gave him a pair of Mr. Pitman's socks, for his own were saturated,and while he was changing them the telephone rang. It was the theateragain, asking for Jennie Brice.
"You are certain she is out of the city?" some one asked, the samevoice as in the morning.
"Her husband says so."
"Ask him to come to the phone."
"He is not here."
"When do you expect him back?"
"I'm not sure he is coming back."
"Look here," said the voice angrily, "can't you give me anysatisfaction? Or don't you care to?"
"I've told you all I know."
"You don't know where she is?"
"No, sir."
"She didn't say she was coming back to rehearse for next week'spiece?"
"Her husband said she went away for a few days' rest. He went awayabout noon and hasn't come back. That's all I know, except that theyowe me three weeks' rent that I'd like to get hold of."
The owner of the voice hung up the receiver with a snap, and left mepondering. It seemed to me that Mr. Ladley had been very reckless. Didhe expect any one to believe that Jennie Brice had gone for a vacationwithout notifying the theater? Especially when she was to rehearsethat week? I thought it curious, to say the least. I went back andtold Mr. Holcombe, who put it down in his note-book, and together wewent to the Ladleys' room.
The room was in better order than usual, as I have said. The bed wasmade--which was out of the ordinary, for Jennie Brice never made abed--but made the way a man makes one, with the blankets wrinkled andcrooked beneath, and the white counterpane pulled smoothly over thetop, showing every lump beneath. I showed Mr. Holcombe the splasher,dotted with ink as usual.
"I'll take it off and soak it in milk," I said. "It's his fountainpen; when the ink doesn't run, he shakes it, and--"
"Where's the clock?" said Mr. Holcombe, stopping in front of themantel with his note-book in his hand.
"The clock?"
I turned and looked. My onyx clock was gone from the mantel-shelf.
Perhaps it seems strange, but from the moment I missed that clock myrage at Mr. Ladley increased to a fury. It was all I had had left ofmy former gentility. When times were hard and I got behind with therent, as happened now and then, more than once I'd been tempted tosell the clock, or to pawn it. But I had never done it. Its tickinghad kept me company on many a lonely night, and its elegance hadhelped me to keep my pride and to retain the respect of my neighbors.For in the flood district onyx clocks are not plentiful. Mrs. Bryan,the saloon-keeper's wife, had one, and I had another. That is, I _had_had.
I stood staring at the mark in the dust of the mantel-shelf, which Mr.Holcombe was measuring with a pocket tape-measure.
"You are sure you didn't take it away yourself, Mrs. Pitman?" heasked.
"Sure? Why, I could hardly lift it," I said.
He was looking carefully at the oblong of dust where the clock hadstood. "The key is gone, too," he said, busily making entries in hisnote-book. "What was the maker's name?"
"Why, I don't think I ever noticed."
He turned to me angrily. "Why didn't you notice?" he snapped. "GoodGod, woman, do you only use your eyes to cry with? How can you wind aclock, time after time, and not know the maker's name? It proves mycontention: the average witness is totally unreliable."
"Not at all," I snapped, "I am ordinarily both accurate andobserving."
"Indeed!" he said, putting his hands behind him. "Then perhaps you cantell me the color of the pencil I have been writing with."
"Certainly. Red." Most pencils are red, and I thought this was safe.
But he held his right hand out with a flourish. "I've been writingwith a fountain pen," he said in deep disgust, and turned his back onme.
But the next moment he had run to the wash-stand and pulled it outfrom the wall. Behind it, where it had fallen, lay a towel, coveredwith stains, as if some one had wiped bloody hands on it. He held itup, his face working with excitement. I could only cover my eyes.
"This looks better," he said, and began making a quick search of theroom, running from one piece of furniture to another, pulling outbureau drawers, drawing the bed out from the wall, and crawling alongthe base-board with a lighted match in his hand. He gave a shout oftriumph finally, and reappeared from behind the bed with the brokenend of my knife in his hand.
"Very clumsy," he said. "_Very_ clumsy. Peter the dog could have donebetter."
I had been examining the wall-paper about the wash-stand. Among theink-spots were one or two reddish ones that made me shiver. And seeinga scrap of note-paper stuck between the base-board and the wall, Idug it out with a hairpin, and threw it into the grate, to be burnedlater. It was by the merest chance there was no fire there. The nextmoment Mr. Holcombe was on his knees by the fireplace reaching for thescrap.
"_Never_ do that, under such circumstances," he snapped, fishing amongthe ashes. "You might throw away valuable--Hello, Howell!"
I turned and saw a young man in the doorway, smiling, his hat in hishand. Even at that first glance, I liked Mr. Howell, and later, whenevery one was against him, and many curious things were developing, Istood by him through everything, and even helped him to the thing hewanted more than anything else in the, world. But that, of course, waslater.
"What's the trouble, Holcombe?" he asked. "Hitting the trail again?"
"A very curious thing that I just happened on," said Mr. Holcombe."Mrs. Pitman, this is Mr. Howell, of whom I spoke. Sit down, Howell,and let me read you something."
With the crumpled paper still unopened in his hand, Mr. Holcombe tookhis note-book and read aloud what he had written. I have it before menow:
"'Dog meat, two dollars, boat hire'--that's not it. Here. 'Yesterday,Sunday, March the 4th, Mrs. Pitman, landlady at 42 Union Street, heardtwo of her boarders quarreling, a man and his wife. Man's name, PhilipLadley. Wife's name, Jennie Ladley, known as Jennie Brice at theLiberty Stock Company, where she has been playing small parts.'"
Mr. Howell nodded. "I've heard of her," he said. "Not much of anactress, I believe."
"'The husband was also an actor, out of work, and employing hisleisure time in writing a play.'"
"Everybody's doing it," said Mr. Howell idly.
"The Shuberts were to star him in this," I put in. "He said that theclimax at the end of the second act--"
Mr. Holcombe shut his note-book with a snap. "After we have finishedgossiping," he said, "I'll go on."
"'Employing his leisure time in writing a play--'" quoted Mr. Howell.
"Exactly. 'The husband and wife were not on good terms. They quarreledfrequently. On Sunday they fought all day, and Mrs. Ladley told Mrs.Pitman she was married to a fiend. At four o'clock Sunday afternoon,Philip Ladley went out, returning about five. Mrs. Pitman carriedtheir supper to them at six, and both ate heartily. She did not seeMrs. Ladley at the time, but heard her in the next room. They wereapparently reconciled: Mrs. Pitman reports Mr. Ladley in high goodhumor. If the quarrel recommenced during the night, the other boarder,named Reynolds, in the next room, heard nothing. Mrs. Pitman was upand down until one o'clock, when she dozed off. She heard no unusualsound.
"'At approximately two o'clock in the morning, however, this Reynoldscame to the room, and said he had heard some one in a boat in thelower hall. He and Mrs. Pitman investigated. The boat which Mrs.Pitman uses during a flood, and which she had tied to the stair-rail,was gone, having been cut loose, not untied. Everything else wasquiet, except that Mrs. Ladley's dog had been shut in a third-storyroom.
"'At a quarter after four that morning Mrs. Pitman, thoroughly awak
e,heard the boat returning, and going to the stairs, met Ladley comingin. He muttered something about having gone for medicine for his wifeand went to his room, shutting the dog out. This is worth attention,for the dog ordinarily slept in their room.'"
"What sort of a dog?" asked Mr. Howell. He had been listeningattentively.
"A water-spaniel. 'The rest of the night, or early morning, was quiet.At a quarter after seven, Ladley asked for coffee and toast for one,and on Mrs. Pitman remarking this, said that his wife was not playingthis week, and had gone for a few days' vacation, having left early inthe morning.' Remember, during the night he had been out for medicinefor her. Now she was able to travel, and, in fact, had started."
Mr. Howell was frowning at the floor. "If he was doing anything wrong,he was doing it very badly," he said.
"This is where I entered the case," said Mr. Holcombe, "I rowed intothe lower hall this morning, to feed the dog, Peter, who was whiningon the staircase. Mrs. Pitman was coming down, pale and agitated overthe fact that the dog, shortly before, had found floating in theparlor down-stairs a slipper belonging to Mrs. Ladley, and, later, aknife with a broken blade. She maintains that she had the knife lastnight up-stairs, that it was not broken, and that it was taken from ashelf in her room while she dozed. The question is, then: Why was theknife taken? Who took it? And why? Has this man made away with hiswife, or has he not?"
Mr. Howell looked at me and smiled. "Mr. Holcombe and I are oldenemies," he said. "Mr. Holcombe believes that circumstantial evidencemay probably hang a man; I do not." And to Mr. Holcombe: "So, havingfound a wet slipper and a broken knife, you are prepared for murderand sudden death!"
"I have more evidence," Mr. Holcombe said eagerly, and proceeded totell what we had found in the room. Mr. Howell listened, smiling tohimself, but at the mention of the onyx clock he got up and went tothe mantel.
"By Jove!" he said, and stood looking at the mark in the dust. "Areyou sure the clock was here yesterday?"
"I wound it night before last, and put the key underneath. Yesterday,before they moved up, I wound it again."
"The key is gone also. Well, what of it, Holcombe? Did he brain herwith the clock? Or choke her with the key?"
Mr. Holcombe was looking at his note-book. "To summarize," he said,"we have here as clues indicating a crime, the rope, the broken knife,the slipper, the towel, and the clock. Besides, this scrap of papermay contain some information." He opened it and sat gazing at it inhis palm. Then, "Is this Ladley's writing?" he asked me in a curiousvoice.
"Yes."
I glanced at the slip. Mr. Holcombe had just read from his note-book:"Rope, knife, slipper, towel, clock."
The slip I had found behind the wash-stand said "Rope, knife, shoe,towel. Horn--" The rest of the last word was torn off.
Mr. Howell was staring at the mantel. "Clock!" he repeated.