A Chain of Evidence

There was no back stair or kitchen exit. The dumb-waiter had a strong snap bolt and closed itself, without any means of opening from the other side. Then I returned and carefully examined the front door. The Hale lock, though easily opened with its own key, was not to be opened otherwise; and, aside from this, a key was of no use if the night-chain was on. I looked at the heavy brass chain; then I put it in its slot, and opened the door the slight distance that the chain allowed. The opening was barely large enough to admit my hand. There was no possibility of a man getting through that tiny crack, nor could he by any chance put his hand through and slide the chain back; for to remove the chain I had to close the door again, as Charlotte had done this morning.

For the first time I began to feel that I was really facing a terrible situation.

If only I had kept silent about that chain, and if Janet and Charlotte had also failed to mention it, there would have been ample grounds for suspecting that an intruder had come in by the front door.

But realizing myself that the windows had all been secured, and that the chain had been on all night, what possibility was left save the implication of one or both of the only human beings shut inside with the victim?

Bah! There must be other possibilities, no matter how improbable they might be. Perhaps an intruder had come in before the door was chained, and had concealed himself until midnight and then had committed the crime.

But I was forced to admit that he could not have put the chain on the door behind him when he went away.

I even tried this, and, of course, when the door was sufficiently ajar to get my hand through, I could not push the end of the chain back to its socket. The door had to be closed to do this.

With a growing terror at my heart, I reviewed other possibilities. Perhaps the intruder had remained in the house all night, and had slipped away unobserved in the morning.

But he couldn't have gone before Charlotte unchained the door, and since then there had been a crowd of people around constantly.

Still this must have been the way, because there was no other way. Possibly he could have remained in the house over night, and part of the morning, and slipped out during the slight commotion caused by the entrance of the jurymen. But this was palpably absurd, for with the jurors and the officials and the reporters all on watch, besides the doctors and ourselves, it was practically impossible that a stranger could make his escape.

Could he possibly be still concealed in the house? There were many heavy hangings and window curtains where such concealment would be possible, but far from probable. However, I made a thorough search of every curtained window and alcove, of every cupboard, of every available nook or cranny that might possibly conceal an intruder. The fact that the apartment was a duplicate of our own aided me in my search, and when I had finished, I was positive the murderer of Robert Pembroke was not hidden there.

My thoughts seemed baffled at every turn.

There was one other possibility, and, though I evaded it as long as I could, I was at last driven to the consideration of it.

The fact of the securely locked door and windows precluded any entrance of an intruder, unless he had been admitted by one of the three inhabitants of the apartment.

At first I imagined Robert Pembroke having risen and opened the door to some caller, but I immediately dismissed this idea as absurd. For, granting that he had done so, and that the caller had killed him, he could not have relocked the door afterward. This brought me to the thought I had been evading; could Charlotte or – or Janet have let in anybody who, with or without their knowledge, had killed the old man?

It seemed an untenable theory, and yet I infinitely preferred it to a thought of Janet's guilt.

And the worst part of this theory was that in some vague shadowy way it seemed to suggest Leroy.

Lawrence had acted peculiarly when I suggested Leroy's name in connection with our search. Janet had acted strangely whenever I mentioned Leroy; but for that matter, when did Janet not act strangely?

And though my thoughts took no definite shape, though I formed no suspicions and formulated no theories, yet I could not entirely quell a blurred mental picture of Janet opening the door to Leroy, and then – well, – and what then? my imagination flatly refused to go further, and I turned it in another direction.

I couldn't suspect Charlotte. Although she disliked her master, she hadn't sufficient strength of mind to plan or to carry out the deed as it must have been done.

No, it was the work of a bold, unscrupulous nature, and was conceived and executed by an unfaltering hand and an iron will.

And Janet? Had she not shown a side of her nature which betokened unmistakably a strength of will and a stolid sort of determination?

Might she not, in the wakeful hours of the night, have concluded that she could not stand her uncle's tyranny a day longer, and in a sudden frenzy been moved to end it all?

I pushed the thought from me, but it recurred again and again.

Her demeanor that morning, I was forced to admit, was what might have been expected, had she been guilty. Her swooning fits, alternating with those sudden effects of extreme haughtiness and bravado, were just what one might expect from a woman of her conflicting emotions.

That she had a temper similar in kind, if not in degree, to her late uncle's, I could not doubt; that she was impulsive, and could be irritated even to frenzy, I did not doubt; and yet I loved her, and I did not believe her guilty.

This was probably cause and effect, but never would I believe the girl responsible in any way for the crime until she told me so herself. But could she have been an accessory thereto, or could she have caused or connived at it? Could I imagine her so desperate at her hard lot as to – but pshaw! what was the use of imagining? If, as I had often thought, I had even a slight detective ability, why not search for other clues that must exist, and that would, at least, give me a hint as to which direction I might look for the criminal?

Determined, then, to find something further I went to Mr. Pembroke's bedroom. There I found Inspector Crawford on his hands and knees, still searching for the broken end of the hat-pin.

But, though we both went over every inch of the floor and furniture, nothing could be found that could be looked upon as a clue of any sort.

"Of course," I observed, "the intruder carried the end of the pin away with him, after he broke it off."

"What are you talking about?" almost snarled the inspector. "An intruder is a physical impossibility. Even the skeleton man from the museum couldn't slide through a door that could open only three inches. And, too, men don't wear hat-pins. It is a woman's weapon."

XII

JANET IS OUR GUEST

Ah, so the blow had fallen! He definitely suspected Janet, and, besides the point of evidence, opportunity, he condemned her in his own mind because a hat-pin pointed to a woman's work. He didn't tell me this in so many words – he didn't have to. I read from his face, and from his air of finality, that he was convinced of Janet's guilt, either with or without Charlotte's assistance.

And I must admit, that in all my thought and theory, in all my imagination and visioning, in all my conclusions and deductions, I had entirely lost sight of the weapon, and of the fact that the Inspector stated so tersely, that it was a woman's weapon. It was a woman's weapon, and it suddenly seemed to me that all my carefully built air-castles went crashing down beneath the blow!

"Well," I said, "Inspector, if you can't find the other half of the pin, it seems to me to prove that an intruder not only came in, but went away again, carrying that tell-tale pin-head with him, – or with her, if you prefer it. I suppose there are other women in the world, beside the lady you are so unjustly suspecting, and I suppose, too, if an intruder succeeded in getting in here, it might equally well have been a woman as a man."

Inspector Crawford growled an inaudible reply, but I gathered that he did not agree with me in any respect.

"And then again, Inspector," I went on, determined to talk to him while I had the chance, "if there was no intruder, where, in your opinion, do all those clues point to? Mr. Lawrence thinks them of little value, but as a detective, I'm sure you rate them more highly. Granting the hat-pin indicates a woman's work, what about the man's handkerchief?"

"No clues mean anything until they are run down," said Mr. Crawford, looking at me gravely; "I'm not sure that the handkerchief and ticket stubs and time-table, and all those things, weren't the property of Mr. Pembroke; but the only way to be sure is to trace them to their owner, and this is the next step that ought to be taken. This is not a simple case, Mr. Landon; it grows more complex every minute. And please remember I have not said I suspect Miss Pembroke, either of guilt or of complicity. She may be entirely innocent. But you must admit that there is sufficient circumstantial evidence to warrant our keeping her in view."

"There isn't any evidence at all, circumstantial or otherwise, against her!" I declared, hotly; "you merely mean that she was in this apartment and so had opportunity to kill her uncle if she wanted to. But, I repeat, you haven't a shred or a vestige of evidence, – real evidence, – against her."

"Well, we may have, after some further investigation. As you know, the whole matter rests now for a few days; at any rate, until after the funeral of Mr. Pembroke, and until after the return of Mr. Leroy."

"Do you know Graham Leroy?" I asked, suddenly.

It must have been my tone that betrayed my desire to turn suspicion in any new direction, for the Inspector's grey eyes gleamed at me shrewdly. "Don't let any foolishness of that kind run away with your wits," he said; "Graham Leroy is too prominent a man to go around killing people."

"That may be so; but prominence doesn't always preclude wrong doing," I said, rather sententiously.

"Well, don't waste time on Leroy. Follow up your clues and see where they lead you. Greater mysteries than this have been solved by means of even more trivial things than a handkerchief and a few bits of paper. To my mind, the absence of the other half of that hat-pin is the most remarkable clue we have yet stumbled upon. Why should the murderer break it off and carry it away with her?"

"The doctors have explained that because it was broken off, it almost disappeared from sight; and had it done so, the crime might never have been suspected. Surely this is reason enough for the criminal to take the broken pin away."

The Inspector nodded his head. "Sure," he agreed. "With the spectacular hat-pins the women wear nowadays it might have proved an easy thing to trace. However, it is necessary that I search all the rooms of this apartment for it."

This speech sent a shock through my whole being. I had searched the apartment, but it had been merely with the idea of noting the window fastenings, and looking for a possible villain hidden among the draperies. I had not thought of a search of personal belongings, or of prying into the boxes or bureau-drawers. And that odious Inspector doubtless meant that he would search Janet's room, – and for that hat-pin! Suppose he found it! But I would not allow myself such disloyalty even in imagination.

Changing the subject, I said, "do you think that key they found is Mr. Pembroke's?"

"I don't think anything about it, it isn't a matter of opinion. That key belonged either to the deceased or to somebody else. It's up to us to find out which, and not to wonder or think or imagine who it might, could, would or should have belonged to!"

Clearly, the Inspector was growing testy. I fancied he was not making as rapid progress as he had hoped, and I knew, too, he was greatly chagrined at not finding the pin. As he would probably immediately set about searching the whole place, and as I had no wish to accompany him on his prying into Janet's personal effects, I concluded to go home.

Sad at heart, I turned away from my unsuccessful search for clues, and, bidding good-by to George Lawrence and to the officials who were still in charge of the place, I crossed to my own apartment.

The contrast between the gruesome scenes I had just left and the cheery, pleasant picture that met my eyes as I entered thrilled me with a new and delightful sensation.

To see Janet Pembroke sitting in my own library, in one of my own easy chairs, gave me a cozy, homelike impression quite different from that of Laura's always busy presence around the house.

Miss Pembroke smiled as I entered, and held out her hand to me.

"Mrs. Mulford has been so good to me," she said. "She is treating me more like a sister than a guest, and I am not used to such kind care."

Although I was fascinated by Janet's smile and tone, I was again surprised at her sudden change of demeanor. She seemed bright and almost happy. What was the secret of a nature that could thus apparently throw off the effects of a recent dreadful experience and assume the air of a gentle society girl without a care in the world?

But I met her on her own grounds, and, shaking hands cordially, I expressed my pleasure at seeing her under my roof-tree.

She suddenly became more serious, and said thoughtfully:

"I don't see what I can do, or where I can live. I can't go back to those rooms across the hall" – she gave a slight shudder – "and I can't live with Cousin George now, and I can't live alone. Perhaps Milly Waring would take me in for a time."

"Miss Pembroke," I said, "I am, as you know, your counsel, and as such I must have a very serious talk with you."

"But not now," broke in Laura; "Miss Pembroke is not going to be bothered by any more serious talk until after she has eaten something. Luncheon is all ready, and we were only waiting for you to come, to have it served."

I was quite willing to defer the conversation, and, moreover, was quite ready myself for rest and refreshment.

Notwithstanding the surcharged atmosphere, the meal was a pleasant one. Laura's unfailing tact prevented any awkwardness, and as we all three seemed determined not to refer to the events of the morning, the conversation was light and agreeable, though desultory.

"I wish I had asked Mr. Lawrence to come over to luncheon, too," said Laura. "Poor man, he must be nearly starved."

"Oh, George will look out for himself," said Janet. "But I hope he will come back here this afternoon, as I must talk to him about my future home."

"Miss Pembroke," I said, feeling that the subject could be evaded no longer, "I hope you can make yourself contented to stay here with my sister and myself for a time, at least. Of course it is merely nominal, but you must understand that you are detained, and that I, as your lawyer, am responsible for your appearance."

"Do you mean," asked Janet in her calm way, "that I'm under arrest?"

"Not that exactly," I explained. "Indeed, it is not in any sense arrest; you are merely held in detention, in my custody. I do not apprehend that your appearance in court will be necessary, but it is my duty to be able to produce you if called for."

Seeing that the serious consideration of Janet's affairs could be put off no longer, Laura proposed that we adjourn to the library and have our talk there.

"And I want to say, first of all," she began, "that I invite you, Miss Pembroke, to stay here for a time as my guest, without any question of nominal detention or any of that foolishness. Otis may be your counsel, and may look after your business affairs, but I am your hostess, and I'm going to take care of you and entertain you. If you are in any one's custody you are in mine, and I promise to 'produce you when you are called for.'"

If ever I saw gratitude on any human face, it appeared on Janet Pembroke's then. She grasped Laura by both hands, and the tears came to her eyes as she thanked my sister for her whole-souled kindness to an entire stranger.

"Surely," I thought to myself, "this is the real woman, after all; this grateful, sunny, warm-hearted nature is the real one. I do not understand the coldness and hardness that sometimes comes into her face, but I shall yet learn what it means. I have two problems before me; one to discover who killed Robert Pembroke, and the other to find the solution of that delightful mystery, Janet Pembroke herself."

I could see that Laura, too, had fallen completely under the spell of Janet's charm, and, though she also was mystified at the girl's sudden changes of manner, she thoroughly believed in her, and offered her friendship without reserve. As for myself, I was becoming more infatuated every moment. Indeed, so sudden and complete had been my capitulation that had I been convinced beyond all doubt of Janet's guilt, I should still have loved her.

But as I was by no means convinced of it, my duty lay along the line of thorough investigation.

It having been settled, therefore, that Janet should remain with us for a time, I proceeded at once to ask her a few important questions, that I might at least outline my plan of defence, even before the real need of a defence had arisen.

"Of course you know, Miss Pembroke," said I, "that, as your lawyer, I shall do everything I can for you in this matter; but I want you to feel also that I take a personal interest in the case, and I hope you will trust me implicitly and give me your unlimited confidence."

"You mean," said Janet, who had again assumed her inscrutable expression, "that I must tell you the truth?"

I felt a little repulsed by her haughty way of speaking, and, too, I slightly dreaded the revelations she might be about to make; but I answered gravely: "Yes, as my client you must tell me the absolute truth. You must state the facts as you know them."

"Then I have simply nothing to tell you," said Janet and her face had the cold immobility of a marble statue.

"Perhaps I had better not stay with you during this conversation," said Laura, looking disturbed.

"Oh, do stay!" cried Janet, clasping her hands, as if in dismay. "I have nothing to say to Mr. Landon that you may not hear. Indeed, I have nothing to say at all."

"But you must confide in me, Miss Pembroke," I insisted. "I can do nothing for you if you do not."

"You can do nothing for me if I do," she said, and her words struck a chill to my heart. Laura, too, gave a little shiver and seemed instinctively to draw slightly away from Janet.

"I mean," Miss Pembroke went on hastily, "that I have nothing to tell you other than I have already told. I did put the chain on and put out the lights last night at eleven o'clock. I did fasten all of the windows – all of them. Charlotte did unfasten some of the windows between seven and eight this morning; she did unchain and open the door at about eight o'clock. Those are all the facts I know of. I did not kill Uncle Robert, and, of course, Charlotte did not."

"How do you know Charlotte did not?" I asked.

"Only because the idea is absurd. Charlotte has been with us but a short time, and expected to leave soon, any way. My uncle had been cross to her, but not sufficiently so to make her desire to kill him. He never treated her like he treated me!"

The tone, even more than the words, betrayed a deep resentment of her uncle's treatment of her, and as I found I must put my questions very definitely to get any information whatever, I made myself say: "Did you, then, ever desire to kill him?"

Janet Pembroke looked straight at me, and as she spoke a growing look of horror came into her eyes.

"I have promised to be truthful," she said, "so I must tell you that there have been moments when I have felt the impulse to kill Uncle Robert; but it was merely a passing impulse, the result of my own almost uncontrollable temper. The thought always passed as quickly as it came, but since you ask, I must admit that several times it did come."

Laura threw her arms around Janet with a hearty caress, which I knew was meant as an atonement for the shadow of doubt she had recently felt.

"I knew it!" she exclaimed. "And it is your supersensitive honesty that makes you confess to that momentary impulse! Any one so instinctively truthful is incapable of more than a fleeting thought of such a wrong."

I think that at that moment I would have given half my fortune to feel as Laura did; but what Janet had said did not seem to me so utterly conclusive of her innocence. Indeed, I could not evade an impression that sudden and violent anger was often responsible for crime, and in case of a fit of anger intense enough to amount practically to insanity, might it not mean the involuntary and perhaps unremembered commission of a fatal deed? This, however, I immediately felt to be absurd. For, though a crime might be committed on the impulse of a sudden insanity of anger, it could not be done unconsciously. Therefore, if Janet Pembroke was guilty of her uncle's death, directly or indirectly, she was telling a deliberate falsehood; and if she was not guilty, then the case was a mystery that seemed insoluble. But insoluble it should not remain. I was determined to pluck the heart out of this mystery if it were in power of mortal man to do so. I would spare no effort, no trouble, no expense. And yet, like a flash, I foresaw that one of two things must inevitably happen: should I be able to prove Janet innocent, she should be triumphantly acquitted before the world; but if, on the contrary, there was proof to convince even me of her guilt, she must still be acquitted before the world! I was not so inexperienced in my profession as not to know just what this meant to myself and to my career, but I accepted the situation, and was willing, if need be, to take the consequences.

These thoughts had crowded upon me so thick and fast that I was unconscious of the long pause in the conversation, until I was recalled to myself by an instinctive knowledge that Janet was gazing at me. Meeting her eyes suddenly, I encountered a look that seemed to imply the very depths of sorrow, despair, and remorse.

"You don't believe in me," she said, "and your sister does. Why do you doubt my word?"

I had rapidly come to the conclusion that the only possible attitude to adopt toward the strange nature with which I had to deal was that of direct plainness.

"My sister, being a woman, is naturally guided and influenced by her intuitions," I said; "I, not only as a man but as a lawyer, undertaking a serious case, am obliged to depend upon the facts which I observe for myself, and the facts which I gather from the statements of my client."

"But you don't believe the facts I state," said Janet and now her tone acquired a petulance, as of a pouting child.

I was annoyed at this, and began to think that I had to deal with a dozen different natures in one, and could never know which would appear uppermost. I returned to my inquisition.

"Why do you think Charlotte could not have done this thing?" I asked, although I had asked this before.

"Because she had no motive," said Janet briefly.

This was surprising in its implication, but I went doggedly on:

"Who, then, had a motive?"

"I can think of no one except George Lawrence and myself." The troubled air with which Janet said this seemed in no way to implicate either her cousin or herself, but rather suggested to me that she had been pondering the subject, and striving to think of some one else who might have had a motive.

"And you didn't do it," I said, partly by way of amends for my own doubtful attitude, "and George Lawrence couldn't get in the apartment, unless – "

"Unless what?" asked Janet, looking steadily at me.

"Unless you or Charlotte let him in."

I was uncertain how Janet would take this speech. I even feared she might fly into a rage at my suggestion, but, to my surprise, she answered me very quietly, and with a look of perplexity: "No, I didn't do that, and I'm sure Charlotte didn't either. She had no motive."

Again that insistence on motive.

"Then the facts," I said bluntly, "narrow themselves down to these. You say that you know of only yourself and Mr. Lawrence to whom motive might be attributed. Evidence shows only yourself and Charlotte to have had opportunity. Believing, as I thoroughly do, that no one of the three committed the murder, it shall be my task to discover some other individual to whom a motive can be ascribed, and who can be proved to have had opportunity."