The Mystery of the Boule Cabinet: A Detective Story, Burton Egbert Stevenson [general ebook reader .txt] 📗

and made his way into it simply to kill himself there. He had some other object, and he met his death while trying to accomplish it."

"Have you found out who he is?"

"No; he's not registered at any of the hotels; the French consul never heard of him; he belongs to none of the French societies; he's not known in the French quarter. He seems to have dropped in from the clouds. We've cabled our Paris office to look him up; we may hear from there to-night. But even if we discover the identity of Théophile d'Aurelle, it won't help us any."

"Why not?" I demanded.

"Because it is evident that that isn't his name."

"Go ahead and tell me, Godfrey," I said, as he looked at me, smiling.
"I don't see it."

"Why, it's plain enough. He had five cards in his pocket, no two alike. The sixth, selected probably at random, he had sent up to Vantine."

I saw it then, of course; and I felt a good deal as the Spanish savants must have felt when Columbus stood the egg on end. Godfrey smiled again at my expression.

"The real d'Aurelle, whoever he may turn out to be, may be able to help us," he added. "If he can't, we may learn something from the Paris police. The dead man's Bertillon measurements have been cabled over to them. Even that won't help, if he has never been arrested. And, of course, we can't get at motives until we find out something about him."

"But, Godfrey," I said, "suppose you knew who he was and what he wanted with Vantine—suppose you could make a guess at who killed him and why—how was it done? That is what stumps me. How was it done?"

"Ah!" agreed Godfrey. "That's it! How was it done? I told you it was a pretty case, Lester. But wait till we hear from Paris."

"That reminds me," I said, sitting up suddenly, "I've got to cable to
Paris myself, on some business for Mr. Vantine."

"Not connected with this affair?"

"Oh, no; his shippers over there sent him a piece of furniture that doesn't belong to him. He asked me to straighten the matter out."

I rang for the hall-boy, asked for a cable-blank, and sent off a message to Armand & Son, telling them of the mistake and asking them to cable the name of the owner of the cabinet now in Mr. Vantine's possession. Godfrey sat smoking reflectively while I was thus engaged, staring straight before him with eyes that saw nothing; but as I sat down again and took up my pipe, ready to continue the conversation, he gave himself a sort of shake, put on his hat, and got to his feet.

"I must be moving along," he said. "There's no use sitting here theorising until we have some sort of foundation to build on."

"Goldberger was right in one thing," I remarked. "He pointed out, after you left, that most crimes are not romances, but mere brutalities. Perhaps this one—"

The ringing of my telephone stopped me.

"Hello," I said, taking down the receiver.

"Is that you, Mr. Lester?" asked a voice.

"Yes."

"This is Parks," and I suddenly realised that his voice was unfamiliar because it was hoarse and quivering with emotion. "Could you come down to the house right away, sir?"

"Why, yes," I said, wonderingly, "if it's important. Does Mr. Vantine need me?"

"We all need you!" said the voice, and broke into a dry sob. "For
God's sake, come quick, Mr. Lester!"

"All right," I said without further parley, for evidently he had lost his self-control. "Something has happened down at Vantine's," I added to Godfrey, as I hung up the receiver. "Parks seems to be scared to death. He wants me to come down right away," and I reached for my hat and coat.

"Shall I come, too?" asked Godfrey.

Even under the stress of the moment, I could not but smile at the question and at the tone in which it was uttered.

"Perhaps you'd better," I agreed. "It sounded pretty serious."

We went down together in the elevator, and three minutes later we had hailed a taxi and were speeding eastward toward the Avenue. It had started to drizzle, and the asphalt shone like a black mirror, dancing with the lights along either side. The streets were almost empty, for the theatre-crowd had passed, and as we reached the Avenue and turned down-town, the driver pushed up his spark, and we hurtled along toward Fourteenth street at a speed which made me think of the traffic regulations. But no policeman interfered, and five minutes later we drew up before the Vantine place.

Parks must have been on the front steps looking for me, for he came running down them almost before the car had stopped. I caught a glimpse of his face under the street lights, as I thrust a bill into the driver's hand, and it fairly startled me.

"Is it you, Mr. Lester?" he gasped. "Good God, but I'm glad you're here—"

I caught him by the arm.

"Steady, man," I said. "Don't let yourself go to pieces. Now—what has happened?"

He seemed to take a sort of desperate grip of himself.

"I'll show you, sir," he said, and ran up the steps, along the hall, to the door of the ante-room where we had found the Frenchman's body. "In there, sir!" he sobbed. "In there!" and clung to the wall as I opened the door and stepped inside.

The room was ablaze with light, and for an instant my eyes were so dazzled that I could distinguish nothing. Dimly I saw Godfrey spring forward and drop to his knees.

Then my eyes cleared, and I saw, on the very spot where d'Aurelle had died, another body—or was it the same, brought back that the tragedy of the afternoon might, in some mysterious way, be re-enacted?

I remember bending over and peering into the face—

It was the face of Philip Vantine.

A minute must have passed as I stood there dazed and shaken. I was conscious, in a way, that Godfrey was examining him. Then I heard his voice.

"He's dead," he said.

Then there was an instant's silence.

"Lester, look here!" cried Godfrey's voice, sharp, insistent. "For
God's sake, look here!"

Godfrey was kneeling there holding something toward me.

"Look here!" he cried again.

It was the dead man's hand he was holding; the right hand; a swollen and discoloured hand. And on the back of it, just above the knuckles, were two tiny wounds, from which a few drops of blood had trickled.

And as I stared at this ghastly sight, scarce able to believe my eyes, I heard a choking voice behind me, saying over and over again:

"It was that woman done it! It was that woman done it! Damn her! It was that woman done it!"

CHAPTER V GRADY TAKES A HAND

I have no very clear remembrance of what happened after that. The shock was so great that I had just strength enough to totter to a chair and drop into it, and sit there staring vaguely at that dark splotch on the carpet. I told myself that I was the victim of a dreadful nightmare; that all this was the result of over-wrought nerves and that I should wake presently. No doubt I had been working too hard. I needed a vacation—well, I would take it….

And all the time I knew that it was not a nightmare, but grim reality; that Philip Vantine was dead—killed by a woman. Who had told me that? And then I remembered the sobbing voice….

Two or three persons came into the room—Parks and the other servants, I suppose; I heard Godfrey's voice giving orders; and finally someone held a glass to my lips and commanded me to drink. I did so mechanically; coughed, spluttered, was conscious of a grateful warmth, and drank eagerly again. And then I saw Godfrey standing over me.

"Feel better?" he asked.

I nodded.

"I don't wonder it knocked you out," he went on. "I'm feeling shaky myself. I had them call Vantine's physician—but he can't do anything."

"He's dead, then?" I murmured, my eyes on that dark and crumpled object which had been Philip Vantine.

"Yes—just like the other."

Then I remembered, and I caught his arm and drew him down to me.

"Godfrey," I whispered, "whose voice was it—or did I dream it —something about a woman?"

"You didn't dream it—it was Rogers—he's almost hysterical. We'll get the story, as soon as he quiets down."

Someone called him from the door, and he turned away, leaving me staring blankly at nothing. So there had been a woman in Vantine's life! Perhaps that was why he had never married. What ugly skeleton was to be dragged from its closet?

But if a woman killed Vantine, the same woman also killed d'Aurelle.
Where was her hiding-place? From what ambush did she strike?

I glanced about the room, as a tremor of horror seized me. I arose, shaking, from the chair and groped my way toward the door. Godfrey heard me coming, swung around, and, with one glance at my face, came to me and caught me by the arms.

"What is it, Lester?" he asked.

"I can't stand it here," I gasped. "It's too horrible!"

"Don't think about it. Come out here and have another drink."

He led me into the hall, and a second glass of brandy gave me back something of my self-control. I was ashamed of my weakness, but when I glanced at Godfrey, I saw how white his face was.

"Better take a drink yourself," I said.

I heard the decanter rattle on the glass.

"I don't know when I have been so shaken," he said, setting the glass down empty. "It was so gruesome—so unexpected—and then Rogers carrying on like a madman. Ah, here's the doctor," he added, as the front door opened and Parks showed a man in.

I knew Dr. Hughes, of course, returned his nod, and followed him and Godfrey into the ante-room. But I had not yet sufficiently recovered to do more than sit and stare at him as he knelt beside the body and assured himself that life had fled. Then I heard Godfrey telling him all we knew, while Hughes listened with incredulous face.

"But it's absurd, you know!" he protested, when Godfrey had finished. "Things like this don't happen here in New York. In Florence, perhaps, in the Middle Ages; but not here in the twentieth century!"

"I can scarcely believe my own senses," Godfrey agreed. "But I saw the Frenchman lying here this afternoon; and now here's Vantine."

"On the same spot?"

"As nearly as I can tell."

"And killed in the same way?"

"Killed in precisely the same way."

Hughes turned back to the body again, and looked long and earnestly at the injured hand.

"What sort of instrument made this wound, would you say, Mr.
Godfrey?" he questioned, at last.

"A sharp instrument, with two prongs. My theory is that the prongs are hollow, like a hypodermic needle, and leave a drop or two of poison at the bottom of the wound. You see a vein has been cut."

"Yes," Hughes assented. "It would scarcely be possible to pierce the hand here without striking a vein. One of the prongs would be sure to do it."

"That's the reason there are two of them, I fancy."

"But you are, of course, aware that no poison exists which would act so quickly?" Hughes inquired.

Godfrey looked at him strangely.

"You yourself mentioned Florence a moment ago," he said. "You meant,
I suppose, that such a poison did, at one time, exist there?"

"Something of the sort, perhaps," agreed Hughes. "The words were purely instinctive, but I suppose some such thought was running through my head."

"Well, the poison that existed in Florence five centuries ago, exists here to-day. There's the proof of it," and Godfrey pointed to the body.

Hughes drew a deep breath of wonder and horror.

"But what sort of devilish instrument is it?" he cried, his nerves giving way for an instant, his voice mounting shrilly. "Above all, who wields it?"

He stared about the room, as though half-expecting to see some mighty and remorseless arm poised, ready to strike. Then he shook himself together.

"I beg pardon," he said, mopping the sweat from his face; "but I'm not used to this sort of thing; and I'm frightened—yes, I really believe I'm frightened," and he laughed, a little unsteady laugh.

"So am I,"