XXII
A CALL ON MISS WARING
When I arose next morning I assured myself that I was in all probabilitythe happiest man in the city. With Fleming Stone's assurance that thatvery night should see the Pembroke mystery cleared up, and with theknowledge in my heart that Janet loved me, I felt that my future outlookwas little less than glorious.
I had given up all ambition to be a detective; I even had little care asto the outcome of Fleming Stone's investigation--granting, of course,that Janet and George were in no way implicated. I could have givenmyself up to the happy dreams which are usually said to be indulged inby men of fewer years than my own, but I remembered my appointment andhastened away to meet Fleming Stone.
Though I had a vague feeling of fear as to the result of this day'swork, yet I knew it must be gone through with, and I prepared to facewhatever might be before me.
Together we went to the District Attorney's office.
Mr. Buckner was much impressed by the fact of Fleming Stone'sconnection with the case, for it was well known that the great detectiveaccepted only puzzling problems. It was quite evident, however, that theDistrict Attorney could see no reason for more than one opinion as tothe Pembroke tragedy.
"Here are the clues," said Mr. Buckner, as he arranged the collection onhis desk.
The torn telegram was not among them, and I realized that Buckner hadexcluded that, because the letter from Jonathan Scudder practicallydenied it.
Fleming Stone glanced at the key and the handkerchief with the briefestattention. He picked up the ticket stubs and the time-table, but after amoment's scrutiny he laid them down again, murmuring, as if to himself,"Clever, very clever!"
"Mr. Buckner," he said at last, "these clues seem to me all to point tothe same criminal, and a most ingenious person as well."
"You speak in riddles, Mr. Stone," said the District Attorney, "Iconfess I thought these articles of but slight importance, as they havebeen traced each to a different owner."
"Even so," said Stone, "they are distinctly indicative, and form a largeshare of the evidence piling up against the criminal. But a far moreimportant clue is the weapon with which Mr. Pembroke was killed. Willyou show me that?"
Buckner took the pin from a drawer and offered it to Mr. Stone, saying,"There is the weapon. If the head of the hat-pin had been left on, itmight be traced to the woman who used it. But as she broke it off, thissmall portion cannot be traced. She doubtless broke the head offpurposely, thus proving herself, as you have already remarked, Mr.Stone, a very clever criminal."
Mr. Stone took the pin, glanced at it a moment, and then, taking amagnifying-glass from his pocket, examined it carefully.
"It is not a hat-pin," he said, "nor is it part of a hat-pin. The pin asyou see it there is its full length. The head has been removed, notaccidentally, but purposely. It had been removed, and carefully, beforethe pin was used as a weapon."
"May I ask how you know this, sir?" asked the coroner respectfully.
"Certainly," said Stone, in his affable way. "If you will look at theend of the pin through this glass, you will see unmistakable signs thatthe head has been removed. For about an eighth of an inch you note aslight discoloration, caused by the attaching of the glass head. Youalso see on one side a minute portion of glass still adhering to thesteel. Had the head been accidentally or carelessly broken off, it isprobable that more glass would have adhered to the pin. The head wastherefore purposely and carefully removed, perhaps by smashing it withsomething heavy or by stepping on it. The fragment of glass that isattached to the pin is, as you may see if you will hold it up to thelight, of a violet color. The pin, therefore, I'm prepared to assert, isone of the pins which first-class florists give away with bunches ofviolets bought at their shops. I have never seen these pins withviolet-colored heads used for any other purpose, though it is notimpossible that they may be. I say a first-class florist, because it isonly they who use this style of pin; the smaller shops give black-headedones. But the larger flower dealers make a specialty of using purpletin-foil for their violet bunches, tying them with purple cord orribbon, and placing them in a purple pasteboard box. To harmonize withthis color scheme, they have of late years provided these violet-headedflower pins. All this is of importance in our quest, for it ought to beeasier to trace a violet pin than the more universally used hat-pin."
How different Fleming Stone's manner from the bumptious and know-it-allair of the average detective! He was quite willing to share anyinformation which he gained, and seemed to treat his fellow-workers ashis equals in perspicacity and cleverness.
We had learned something, to be sure. But as the coroner had no otherobjects of evidence to show us, and there seemed nothing more to belearned from the pin, Fleming Stone turned into the street, and Ifollowed him.
"Could not the head have been broken off after the pin was used tocommit the murder?" I inquired.
"No," said Stone; "it would be impossible to break off a glass head withone's fingers under such conditions. It could have been done by someinstrument, but that is not likely. And then, too, there would probablyhave been bits of glass on the pillow."
"Bits of glass!" I exclaimed. "Bits of violet-colored glass! Why, manalive, I have them in my pocket now!"
"Let me see them," said Stone. "It may save us quite a search."
It took more to excite Fleming Stone's enthusiasm than it did mine, andhe seemed almost unaware of the importance of my statement; but when Itook a white paper from my pocket, unfolded it, and showed him thespecks of glass I had found in Lawrence's apartment the night before,his flashing eyes showed that he thought it indeed a clue. But he onlysaid quietly: "You should have mentioned this in your statement of thecase. Why did you not?"
"The real reason is that I forgot it," I admitted, frankly. "But I hadno idea it was important evidence, for I never dreamed these bits couldbe the head of a pin. I thought them a portion of a broken bottle. Youknow druggists use small phials of that color for certainprescriptions."
"Some druggists use bottles of this color for poison," said FlemingStone, "but that doesn't affect our case, for Mr. Pembroke was notpoisoned. But it may easily be the head of the pin we were talkingabout. Where did you find this glass?"
"In George Lawrence's studio," I replied, looking a little shamefaced atmy own obvious stupidity.
"Well, you _are_ a clever detective!" said Fleming Stone; but so genialwas the smile of mild amusement he turned upon me, that I could not feelhurt at his sarcasm.
"You didn't even tell me that you examined young Lawrence's studio, andyou haven't yet told me why you did so. I assume you have no intent toconceal anything from me."
"I have not," I said. "I'm mortified--first that I did not realize theimportance of this broken glass, and next because I didn't mention theincident to you. It was a stupid blunder of mine, but I assure you itwas not intentional."
"It may mean much, and it may mean nothing," said Fleming Stone, "but itmust be investigated. Where, in the studio, was the glass?"
"On the marble hearthstone," said I.
"Where it might easily have been broken off the pin by a boot heel, orother means. But we must not assume more than the evidence clearlyindicates. Tell me more of young Lawrence. Was he what is known as aladies' man? Would he be likely to take bunches of violets to hisfeminine friends?"
"I know the man very slightly," I answered, "but I should judge him tobe rather attentive to the fair sex. Indeed, I know that the day beforeyesterday he escorted a young lady to a matinee, and that night he dinedand spent the evening at the home of the same girl."
"Do you know this young lady?" he asked.
"I know her name," I replied. "It is Miss Waring, and she lives inSixtieth Street."
"And your own home is in Sixty-second Street?"
"Yes. If necessary, I can telephone to my sister, and she will ask MissPembroke for Miss Waring's address."
"Do so," said Fleming Stone; and I knew from the gravity of hisexpression that
he was rapidly constructing a serious case againstsomebody.
I obtained the desired information over the telephone, and then, withFleming Stone, boarded a car going uptown. Though stillpleasant-mannered and responsive, Stone seemed disinclined to talk, sothe journey was made almost in silence.
When we reached Miss Waring's, Mr. Stone sent up his card, asking her togrant him an interview as soon as possible.
In a few moments Millicent Waring appeared. She was a dainty littleblonde, with what is known as a society manner, though not marked byfoolish affectation.
Fleming Stone introduced himself and then introduced me, in a pleasantway, and with a politeness that would have been admired by the mostpunctilious of critics.
"Pray do not be alarmed, Miss Waring," he began, "at the legal aspect ofyour callers."
"Not at all," said the girl, smiling prettily. "I am pleased to meet oneof whom I have always stood in awe, and to discover that in appearance,at least, he is not a bit awe-inspiring."
Whether Miss Waring was always so self-poised and at her ease, orwhether it was Fleming Stone's magnetic manner that made her appear so,I did not know, but the two were soon chatting like old friends. Mypart, apparently, was merely that of a listener, and I was well contentthat it should be so.
"You know Mr. Lawrence?" Mr. Stone was saying. "Mr. George Lawrence?"
"Oh, yes," said the girl; "and I have read in the paper of a dreadfultragedy in his family."
"Yes; his uncle, I believe. You have seen Mr. Lawrence recently, MissWaring?"
"Last Wednesday I went with him to a matinee. After the theatre hebrought me back here. Then he went home, but he came back here to dinnerand spent the evening."
"At what time did he leave?"
"At eleven o'clock precisely."
"How do you know the time so accurately?"
"Because as he came to say good-night I was standing near the mantel,where there is a small French clock. It struck the hour, and I rememberhis remarking on the sweet tone of the chime, and he counted the strokesto eleven. He then went away at once."
"You mean he left the drawing-room?"
"Yes; and a moment later I saw him pass through the hall, and he noddedin at me as he passed the drawing-room door on his way out. Why are youasking me all this? But I suppose it is part of the red tape inconnection with the dreadful affair."
"Is Mr. Lawrence a particular friend of yours? You must pardon thequestion, Miss Waring, but you also must answer it." Fleming Stone'ssmile robbed the words of any hint of rudeness.
"Oh, dear, no!" said Miss Waring, laughing gaily; "that is, I like him,you know, and he's awfully kind and polite to me, but he's merely anacquaintance."
"Did you go anywhere on your way to and from the theatre?"
"No, I think not--oh, yes, we did, too; just before we went into thetheatre Mr. Lawrence insisted on stopping at the florist's for someviolets. He said no matinee girl was complete without a bunch ofviolets."
"And did you pin them on your gown?" asked Stone, as if in a most casualway.
"No, indeed," said Miss Waring; "I never do that. It spoils a nice gownto pin flowers on it."
"And what did you do with the pin?"
"What pin?"
"The pin that a florist always gives you with violets."
"Oh, yes, those purple-headed pins. Why, I don't know what I did do withit." The girl's pretty brow wrinkled in her endeavor to remember, andthen cleared as she said: "Oh, yes, it comes back to me now! When I saidI wouldn't use it, lest the flowers should spoil my gown, I handed it toMr. Lawrence, and he stuck it in his coat lapel--underneath, youknow--for, he said, perhaps I might change my mind. But, of course, Ididn't, and I'm sure I don't know what became of the pin. Do you wantone? I have dozens of them up-stairs."
"No," said Fleming Stone; "and I don't think we need encroach further onyour time, Miss Waring. I thank you for your goodness in seeing us, andI would like to ask you to say nothing about this interview fortwenty-four hours. After that you need not consider it confidential."
I believe Fleming Stone's manner would have wheedled a promise out ofthe Egyptian Sphinx, and I was not in the least surprised to hear MissWaring agree to his stipulations.
When we again reached the street Fleming Stone observed: "Without goingso far as to designate our attitude toward George Lawrence by the word'suspicion,' we must admit that the young man had a motive, and, thatthere is evidence whether true or not, to indicate his having had in hispossession a weapon at least similar to the one used."
The doubt I had felt all along of Lawrence was, of course, strengthenedby Miss Waring's disclosures; but to have George accused was only onedegree less awful than to have suspicion cast on Janet. And, too,notwithstanding the strange and somewhat complicated evidence of theviolet pin, Lawrence had told me he had a perfect alibi. And then,besides this, how could he have gained entrance to the apartment at thedead of night, unless Janet had let him in? I could not bring up thislast point, lest Fleming Stone should immediately deduce Janet'scomplicity; but I would learn how he proposed to prove George's guiltwhen George was able to prove his presence at another place at the timeof the fatal deed.
"But," I said, "evidence is of little use so far as Mr. Lawrence isconcerned, for he has a perfect alibi."