CHAPTER XIX. "UNKNOWN"
"So sweet of you to see me, Miss Carwell, in all your grief, and I mustapologize for troubling you."
Miss Tighe, alias Morocco Kate, fairly gushed out the words as sheextended a hand to Viola in the library. The first glance at the "largeblonde," as the maid had described her, shocked the girl. She couldhardly repress a shudder of disgust as she looked at the bleached hair.But, nerving herself for the effort, Viola let her hand rest limply fora moment in the warm moist grip of Miss Tighe.
"Won't you sit down?" asked Viola.
"Thank you. I won't detain you long. I called merely on business, thoughI suppose you think I'm not a very business-like looking person. But Iam strictly business, all the way through," and she tittered. "I find itpays better to really dress the part," she added.
"I was so sorry to hear about your dear father's death. I knewhim--quite well I may say--he was very good to me."
"Yes," murmured Viola, and somehow her heart was beating strangely.What did it all mean? Who was this--this impossible person who claimedbusiness relations, yes, even friendliness, with the late Mr. Carwell?
"And now to tell you what I came for," went on Miss Tighe. "Your dearfather--and in his death I feel that I have lost a very dear friend andadviser--your dear father purchased many valuable books of me. I sellonly the rarest and most expensive bindings, chiefly full morocco. Yourfather was very fond of books, wasn't he?"
Viola could not help admitting it, as far as purchasing expensive, ifunread, editions was concerned. The library shelves testified to this.
"Yes, indeed, he just loved them, and he was always glad when I broughthis attention to a new set, my dear Miss Carwell. Well, that is what Icame about now. Just before his terrible death--it was terrible,wasn't it? Oh, I feel so sorry for you," and she dabbed a much-perfumedhandkerchief to her eyes. "Just before his lamented death he bought alovely white morocco set of the Arabian Nights from me. Forty volumes,unexpurgated, my dear. Mind you that--unexpurgated!" and Morocco Kateseemed to dwell on this with relish. "As I say, he bought a lovely setfrom me. It was the most expensive set I ever sold--forty-five hundreddollars."
"Forty-five hundred dollars for a set of books!" exclaimed Viola, inunaffected wonder.
"Oh, my dear, that is nothing. These were some books," and she winkedunderstandingly.
"It isn't everybody who could get them! The edition was limited. But Ihappened on a set and I knew your father wanted them, so I got themfor him. He made the first payment, and then he died--I read it in thepapers. Naturally I didn't want to bother you while the terrible affairwas so fresh, so I waited. And now I'm here!"
She seemed to be--very much so, as she settled herself back in the bigleather chair, and made sure that her hair was properly fluffed aroundher much-powdered face.
"You are here to--" faltered Viola. "To get the balance for thebooks--that's it, dear Miss Carwell. Naturally I'm not in for my health,and of course I don't publish books myself. I'm only a poor businesswoman, and I work on commission. The firm likes to have all contractscleaned up, but in this case they didn't press matters, knowing Mr.Carwell was all right; or, if he wasn't, his estate was. I've sold himmany a choice and rare book--books you don't see in every library, mydear. Of course there were--ahem--some you wouldn't care to read, andI can't say I care much about 'em myself. A good French novel is allright, I say, but some of 'em well, you know!" and she winked boldly,and dabbed her face with the handkerchief which was quickly filling theroom with an overpowering odor.
"You mean my father owes you money?" faltered Viola.
"Well, not me, exactly--the firm. But I don't mind telling you I get myrake-off. I have to so I can live. The balance is only three thousanddollars, and if you could give me a check--"
"Excuse me," interrupted Viola, "but I have nothing to do with thebusiness end of my father's affairs."
"You're his daughter, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"And you'll get all his property?" Morocco Kate was getting vindictivenow.
"I cannot discuss that with you," said Viola, simply. "All mattersof business are attended to at the office. You will have to see Mr.Blossom."
"Huh! LeGrand Blossom! No use seeing him. I've tried. But I'll tryagain, and say you sent me." The voice was back to its original dulcettones now. "That's what I'll do, my dear Miss Carwell. I'll tell LeGrandBlossom you sent me. He needn't think he can play fast and loose withme as he has. If he doesn't want to pay this bill, contracted by yourfather in the regular way--and I must say he was very nice to me--well,there are other ways of collecting. I haven't told all I know."
"What do you mean?" demanded Viola hotly. "Oh, there's time enoughto tell later," was the answer. "I haven't been in the rare editionbusiness for nothing, nor just for my health. But wait until I seeLeGrand Blossom. Then I may call on you again!" And with this ratherveiled threat Morocco Kate took her leave.
"What horrible person was that?" asked Miss Mary Carwell, who met Violain the hail after her visitor's departure. "She was positively vulgar, Ishould say, though I didn't see her."
"Oh, she was just a book agent. I sent her to Mr. Blossom."
"To Mr. Blossom, my dear! I didn't know he was literary."
"Neither was this person, Aunt Mary. I think I shall go and lie down. Ihave a headache."
And as she locked herself in her room shed bitter tears on her pillow.Who was this person who seemed to know Mr. Carwell so well, who boastedof how "good" he was to her? Why did Colonel Ashley want to gain all theinformation he could about her?
"Oh, what does it all mean?" asked Viola in shrinking terror. "Is thereto be some terrible--some horrible scandal?"
She put the question to Colonel Ashley a little later.
"Who is this woman?"
The colonel considered a moment before replying. Then, with a shrewdlook at Viola, he replied:
"Well, my dear, she isn't your kind, of course, but I've known her, andknown of her, for several years. She, and those she associates with,work the de luxe game."
"The de luxe game? What is it?"
"In brief, it's a blackmailing scheme. A woman of the type of MissTighe, to give her one of her names, associates herself with some men.They arrange to have a set of some books--usually well known enoughand of a certain value--bound in expensive leather--full morocco--handtooled and all that. They call on rich men and women, and induce them tobuy the expensive and rare set, of which they say there is only one ortwo on the market.
"Sometimes the sales are straight enough--particularly where women arethe buyers--but the books, even if delivered, are not worth anythinglike the price paid.
"But, in the case of wealthy men the game is different."
"Different?"
"Yes, particularly where a woman like Morocco Kate is the agent. Theyare not satisfied with the enormous profit made on selling a commonedition of books, falsely dressed in a garish binding, but they endeavorto compromise the man in some business or social way, and then threatento expose him unless he pays a large sum,--ostensibly, of course, forthe books.
"Morocco Kate, who called on you, has more than one killing to hercredit in this game, and she has managed to keep out of jail becauseher victims were afraid of the publicity of prosecuting. And it wasso foolish of them for, in most cases, it was just mere foolishness ontheir part, and nothing criminally, or even morally, wrong, though theymay have been indiscreet."
"And you think my father--"
"I don't know anything about it, Viola, my dear!" was the prompt answer."Your father may have dealt in a legitimate way with this woman, buyingbooks from her because she cajoled him into it, though he could havedone much better with any reputable house. As I say, he may have simplybought some books from her, and not have made the final payments onaccount of his death. Whether the contract he entered into is binding ornot I can't say until I have seen it."
"But I found nothing about books among his papers!"
"No? Then perhaps it w
as a verbal contract. Or he may have been--" Thecolonel stopped. Viola guessed what he intended to say.
"Do you think he was--Do you think this woman may make trouble?" sheasked bravely.
"I don't know. We must find out more about her. If she comes again, holdher and send for me. I didn't want her to see me to-day to know that Iwas on this case. But I don't mind now."
"Oh, suppose there should be some--some disgrace?"
"Don't worry about that, Viola. But now, I have some rather startlingnews for you."
"Oh, more--"
"Not exactly trouble. But Captain Poland has gone away--his place isclosed."
"The captain gone away!" faltered the girl.
"Yes. I wondered if you knew he was going. Did he intimate to youanything of the kind?"
The colonel watched Viola narrowly as he asked this question.
"No, I never knew he contemplated ending the season here so early,"Viola said. "Usually he is the last to go, staying until late inOctober. Is there anything--"
"That is all I know--he is gone," said the detective. "I wanted toask him about that fifteen-thousand-dollar matter, but I shall have towrite, I suppose. And the sooner I get the letter off the better."
"Please write it here," suggested Viola, indicating the table wherepens, ink and stationery were always kept. "I am going to look againamong the papers of the private safe to see if there was anything aboutbooks--the Arabian Nights, she said it was."
"Yes, that's her favorite set. But don't worry, my dear. Everything willcome out all right."
And as Viola left him alone in the library, the detective added tohimself:
"I wonder if it will?"
Colonel Ashley wrote a brief, business-like letter to Captain Poland,addressing it to his summer home at Lakeside, arguing that the yachtsmanwould have left some forwarding address.
Then, lighting a cigar, the colonel sat back in a deep, leatherchair--the same one Morocco Kate had sat in and perfumed--and mused.
"There are getting to be too many angles to this," he reflected. "I needa little help. Guess I'll send for Jack Young. He'll be just the chapto look after Jean and follow that French dope artist to his new place,provided he leaves here suddenly. Yes, I need Jack."
And having telephoned a telegram, summoning from New York one of hismost trusted lieutenants, Colonel Ashley refreshed himself by reading alittle in the "Compleat Angler."
Jack Young appeared at Lakeside the next day, well dressed, goodlooking, a typical summer man of pleasing address.
"Another diamond cross mystery?" he asked the colonel.
"How is your golf?" was the unexpected answer.
"Oh, I guess I can manage to drive without topping," was the readyanswer. "Have I got to play?"
"It might be well. I'll get you a visitor's card at the Maraposa Clubhere, and you can hang around the links and see what you can pick upbesides stray balls. Now I'll tell you the history of the case up to thepresent."
And Jack Young, having heard, and having consumed as many cigarettes ashe considered the subject warranted, remarked:
"All right. Get me a bag of clubs, and I'll see what I can do. So youwant me to pay particular attention to this dope fiend?"
"Yes, if he proves to be one, and I think he will. I'll have my handsfull with Blossom, Morocco Kate and some others."
"What about Poland and Bartlett?"
"Well, Harry is still held, but I imagine he'll be released soon, Jack."
"Nothing on him?"
"I wouldn't go so far as to say that. You know my rule. Believe no oneinnocent until proved not guilty. I can keep my eye on him. Besides,he's pretty well anchored."
"You mean by Miss Viola?"
"Yes."
"How about the captain?"
"He's a puzzle, at present. But I wish you'd find out if that chauffeurhas a girl. That's the best way to do, or undo, a man that I know of.Find out if he has a girl. That'll be your trick."
"All right--that and golf. I'm ready."
And Jack Young worked to such good advantage that three days later hehad a pretty complete report ready for his chief.
"Jean Forette has a girl," said Jack; "and she's a little beauty, too.Mazi Rochette is her name. She's a maid in one of the swell familieshere, and she's dead gone on our friend Jean. I managed to get a talkwith her, and she thinks he's going to marry her as soon as he getsanother place. A better place than with the Carwells, she says he musthave. This place was pretty much on the blink, she confided to me."
"Or words to that effect," laughed the colonel.
"Exactly. I'm not much on the French, you know. Still I got along prettywell with her. She took a notion to me."
"I thought you might be able to get something in that direction," saidthe colonel with a smile. "Did you learn where Jean was just prior tothe golf game which was the last Mr. Carwell played?"
"Yes, he was with her, the girl says, and she didn't know why I wasasking, either, I flatter myself. I led around to it in a neat way. Hewas with her until just before he drove Mr. Carwell to the links. Infact, Jean had the girl out for a spin in the new car, she says. She'safraid of it, though. Revolutionary devil, she calls it."
"Hum! If Jean was with her just before he picked up Carwell to go tothe game--well, the thing is turning out a bit different from what Iexpected. Jack, we still have plenty of work before us. Did I tell youMorocco Kate was mixed up in this?"
"No! Is she?"
"Seems to be."
"Good night, nurse! Whew! If he fell for her--"
"I don't believe he did, Jack. My old friend was a sport, but not thatkind. He was clean, all through."
"Glad to hear you say so, Colonel. Well, what next?"
They sat talking until far into the night.
There was rather a sensation in Lakeside two days later when it becameknown that the coroner's jury was to be called together again, toconsider more evidence in the Carwell case.
"What does it mean?" Viola asked Colonel Ashley. "Does it mean thatHarry will be--"
"Now don't distress yourself, my dear," returned the detective,soothingly. "I have been nosing around some, and I happen to know thatthe prosecutor and coroner haven't a bit more evidence than they had atfirst when they held Mr. Bartlett."
"Does that mean Harry will be released?"
"I think so."
"Does it mean he will be proved innocent?"
"That I can't say. I hardly think the verdict will be conclusive in anycase. But they haven't any more evidence than at first--that he had aquarrel with your father just before the fatal end. As to the natureof the quarrel, Harry is silent--obstinately silent even to his owncounsel; and in this I can not uphold him. However, that is his affair."
"But I'm sure, Colonel, that he had nothing to do with my father'sdeath; aren't you?"
"If I said I was sure, my dear, and afterward, through force of evidenceand circumstance, were forced to change my opinion, you would not thankme for now saying what you want me to say," was the reply. "It is betterfor me to say that I do not know. I trust for the best. I hope, for yoursake and his, that he had nothing to do with the terrible crime. I wantto see the guilty person discovered and punished, and to that end Iam working night and day. And if I find out who it is, I will disclosehim--or her--no matter what anguish it costs me personally--no matterwhat anguish it may bring to others. I would not be doing my full dutyotherwise."
"No, I realize that, Colonel. Oh, it is hard--so hard! If we only knew!"
"We may know," said the colonel gently.
"Soon?" she asked hopefully.
"Sooner than you expect," he answered with a smile. "Now I must attendthe jury session."
It was brief, and not at all sensational, much to the regret ofthe reporters for the New York papers who flocked to the quiet andfashionable seaside resort. The upshot of the matter was that thechemists for the state reported that Mr. Carwell had met his deathfrom the effects of some violent poison, the nature of which resembledseve
ral kinds, but which did not analyze as being any particular onewith which they were, at present, familiar.
There were traces of both arsenic and strychnine, but mingled withthem was some narcotic of strange composition, which was deadly in itseffect, as had been proved on guinea pigs, some of the residue fromthe stomach and viscera of the dead man having been injected into thehapless animals.
Harry Bartlett was not called to the stand, but, pale from hisconfinement, sat an interested and vital spectator of the proceedings.
The prosecutor announced that the efforts of his detectives had resultedin nothing more. There was not sufficient evidence to warrant accusingany one else, and that against Harry Bartlett was of so slender andcircumstantial a character that it could not be held to have any realvalue before the grand jury nor in a trial court.
"What is your motion, then?" asked the coroner.
"Well, I don't know that I have any motion to make," said Mr. Stryker."If this were before a county judge, and the prisoner's counsel demandedit, I should have to agree to a nolle pros. As it is I simply say I haveno other evidence to offer at this time."
"Then the jury may consider that already before it?" asked Billy Teller.
"Yes."
"You have heard what the prosecutor said, gentlemen," went on thecoroner. "You may retire and consider your verdict."
This they did, for fifteen minutes--fifteen nerve-racking minutes formore than one in the improvised courtroom. Then the twelve men filedback, and in answer to the usual questions the foreman announced:
"We find that Horace Carwell came to his death through poisonadministered by a person, or persons, unknown."
There was silence for a moment, and then, as Bartlett started from hisseat, a flush mantling his pale face, Viola, with a murmured "ThankGod!" fainted.