Chapter XII: A Nameless, Homeless Waif

Although Prentiss had gone to New York in search of information concerning Johnson, the local police of Hilldale were by no means idle.

They searched and researched the premises of Greatlarch, both in the house and about the grounds. The room that Johnson had occupied they studied over and over, in their efforts to learn something further of the man’s personality. They left his few belongings where they found them, deducing nothing beyond the general facts of a business man on a hasty trip.

The entire absence of letters or personal papers was peculiar in itself, but there was no conclusion to be drawn from it. The fact that his clothing was new and unmarked was thought to be a suspicious circumstance, but it led to no definite suspicion.

It was a favorite remark among the detectives that Sherlock Holmes could have deduced the whole man from his few articles of luggage, but Sherlock Holmes was not there, and the men who were there only looked at the things blankly and without inspiration.

The same with Miss Anne Vincent’s room.

Day after day they surveyed the beautiful appointments there. Again and again they drew back the heavy silk hangings that fell round the head of the bed and scanned the bed anew. The sheets with their crimson stains had been removed, but were still kept at the Police Station as possible evidence.

The wall safe, from which the great ruby had presumably been stolen, was examined frequently, and all the details of Miss Anne’s personal belongings had been studied to no avail whatsoever.

There were the two rooms, one above the other, the rooms, all agreed, of victim and criminal, yet from neither room could a single fact be deduced that was of helpful significance.

Police reconstruction of the crime,—for they took no cognizance of suicide or of spooks,—set forth that Johnson had spent the entire night in preparation for his crime, and in waiting for dawn to bring his chosen moment. That he had, as soon as the watchman went indoors, unlocked Miss Anne’s door with some clever sort of key, had killed the lady, stolen the ruby, and then, relocking the door with his patent contraption, had easily made his way out of the front door, when the family were still asleep and the servants busy in the kitchen quarters.

Almost superhuman cleverness they conceded this criminal, but, they argued, only such diabolical ingenuity could have perpetrated such a mysterious crime.

Their decisions were arrived at by elimination. There was no other suspect, there was no other means of procedure. The only thing to do was to catch the man. This, they hoped, Prentiss would accomplish.

But the Burlington Hawkeye returned from an unsuccessful search.

His report, given to Homer Vincent, in the presence of Brewster and Brown, was disappointing in the extreme.

“There isn’t any Henry Johnson,” he declared, looking both crestfallen and defiant at once. “I went to the address you gave me, Mr. Vincent,—the address he gave you, and they declared they never had heard of him there. Then I visited those two jewelry firms, of which he left you the cards, and they said they had never heard of any Henry Johnson in connection with ruby manufacturing. They spoke of a Mr. Markham or Markheim who made synthetic rubies, but that was of no interest to me. I begged them to search their books and records to find Johnson’s name. They were most obliging but utterly unsuccessful.”

“What else did you do?” Brewster asked.

“Oh, lots of things. I went to the stores where he must have bought his coat and hat, but I couldn’t trace any sale. This is not to be wondered at, of course. I only tried it on a chance. But that umbrella, now. That is a new one. I wish I had taken it with me. However, I went to the store it came from and asked what monograms they had put on umbrellas recently. Not an H. J. amongst them! As I say, I didn’t really hope to find out these things, but I took a chance.”

“You did well, Mr. Prentiss,” Homer Vincent assured him. “Where there’s nothing to find out, you can’t, of course, find out anything. But I’m surprised that the jewelry firms repudiated all knowledge of him. Do you suppose he was entirely a fake? Do you suppose he came here merely to rob and murder, and that the ruby story was all made up?”

“I do suppose just that, Mr. Vincent,” Brewster declared. “And probably his name wasn’t Johnson at all—”

“There’s the umbrella,” put in Prentiss.

“I know,” Brewster assented, “but that may have been made for a Hiram Judkins or a Hugh Jennings.”

“That’s so,” said Vincent, thoughtfully. “Or perhaps he stole the umbrella somewhere.”

“Yes, the umbrella gets us nowhere,” and Prentiss sighed. “I feel as if I’d accomplished nothing, and yet it is something to have learned that the Johnson name was assumed—”

“Not necessarily,” objected Brown. “You see, he may be named Henry Johnson all right, and yet have made up all the ruby business.”

“If he came here with intent to rob and murder, he most certainly didn’t announce his true name,” Brewster declared, and his words carried conviction.

“Then,” Vincent summed up, “we have a criminal with a definite purpose, who came under an assumed name, and carried out his plans successfully to the smallest detail. I remember, now, his asking me rather particularly as to the watchman’s rounds and all that. But, of course, I never suspected anything wrong.”

“Of course not,” Prentiss said. “Now I’d like to see that butler of yours again.”

“Surely,” said Vincent, and rang for Mellish.

That worthy came in, and contrary to his habitual calm, he exhibited a hint of suppressed excitement.

“Will you look what Hoskins found, sir,” he said, holding out his hand toward Vincent.

As all could see, he held a long amber and ivory cigarette-holder.

It was one of those extremely long ones that are affected by the ultrafashionable.

“Where was this found?” Vincent asked, looking at it attentively, and then passing it over to Prentiss.

“Hoskins found it, sir, out in the grounds. Or maybe the gardener found it and gave it to Hoskins. But it’s the one Mr. Johnson used, sir, and I opine he lost it as he hurried on his way.”

“You remember it?” Prentiss inquired of the butler.

“Oh, yes, sir. I noticed it when Mr. Johnson used it at the table, sir. After dinner, he took no cigar, but took a cigarette, which he fitted into that outlandish thing, sir!”

Mellish’s scorn of the eccentric implement was evident on his face.

“They’re quite fashionable now,—I’ve seen them in use,” said Brown, with an air of wide experience. “And see, here’s the H. J. monogram again! The fellow’s initials must be H. J. whether his name is Henry Johnson or not.”

“Unless he stole this thing and the umbrella from the same party,” argued Prentiss. “Wonder if we could trace the cigarette-holder. It looks rather valuable, and a specialty shop, where such a thing was doubtless bought, might remember the buyer.”

“Keep it carefully,” Brewster admonished him; “it’s a good bit of evidence,—maybe a real clue! Where was it found, exactly?”

“I don’t know the precise spot,” Mellish said; “but I opine it was somewhere on the east lawn. The gardener is working there today.”

“Would that be on his way out of the grounds?” Brown inquired.

“It might be,” Vincent returned, slowly. “Or, he may have been walking about outside—”

“Killing time until the dawn broke!” Brown exclaimed. “Oh, I’m sure we can get a line from that thing. It’s most unusual,—not common at all.”

“You go down to New York then, on this errand,” Prentiss said; “I don’t want to go right back there.”

“All right, I’ll go,” Brown agreed, rather liking the idea.

“And I thought, Mr. Vincent,” Prentiss continued, “you might recall some more data about the synthetic rubies. You see, even if he faked that whole ruby proposition, at least he must have known enough about the matter to make a good showing before you and your sister. You would have known if he had been a mere layman. He couldn’t have made you believe he was an expert without knowing a good deal about the processes and all that.”

“That’s true,” Vincent agreed. “But, knowing little or nothing of the subject myself, I daresay I was not in a position to be critical of his explanations and descriptions.”

“I opine,” Mellish said, speaking deferentially but with a look of pride at his master, “that Mr. Vincent is not so ignorant of these things. You remember, sir, there was another gentleman here not more than a month ago, who also wanted to interest you in the making of imitation rubies.”

“Why, yes, that’s so,” Vincent said; “I had forgotten that. But I daresay the market is full of such things. The process, recently invented,—or perhaps I should say discovered,—has doubtless been taken up by various would-be lapidaries. Well, does all this get you anywhere, Mr. Prentiss?”

“We have only one goal, sir, the whereabouts of the man who called himself Henry Johnson, whether that is his true name or not. I think no one can doubt he killed Miss Vincent, even though we cannot yet determine his exact method. But given this mysterious visitor, his mysterious disappearance, and the immediate discovery of the robbery and murder, we cannot think otherwise than that he is the criminal. He may not have intended murder, in the beginning. He may have used the ruby chatter to induce Miss Vincent to exhibit her splendid jewel,—of which he must have known,—and then, when he endeavored to steal it and make away, very possibly she awoke and would have made an outcry, had he not silenced her. Burglars often commit murder because of a sudden danger of exposure.”

“That is all true, Mr. Prentiss,” Vincent agreed; “I had not thought of that sequence of events at my sister’s bedside. It may well have been just as you suggest. Granting his ability to get in and out of that room,—and you have suggested an explanation of that,—I feel sure there can be no doubt of Johnson’s guilt. Now, we must find him. It is imperative. Can any one suggest any further or more far-reaching plan?”

“It is hard to circumvent such fiendish ingenuity as that man has showed.” Brown spoke vindictively. “We have, of course, inquired at all the near-by railway stations. I assumed he might have walked to some one of them and boarded a train there. But we find no trace of such a thing.”

“More likely,” Brewster said, “he walked to a near-by town, and after a rest and a breakfast walked on to another, and so on, until he was far enough away to take a train without fear of detection. In a large town he could do that, but not in one of our small villages.”

“There are many ways he could escape,” said Vincent, looking wearied, as if tired of their futile conversation. “He could lie low for hours anywhere, and then go on by night. Or he could beg a ride in a passing motor, or in a farmer’s cart. At any rate, he did get away, he did get beyond our ken, and if we find him, it will not be by simple search, but by some deduction or conclusion based on some bit of evidence. I know little of these things myself, but I supposed detectives worked from small clues.”

“We are supposed to,” Prentiss declared, frankly, “but I must confess there are fewer clues in evidence in this case than in any I ever saw before.”

“There’s this,” and Brown held up the long cigarette-holder.

“Yes,” agreed Vincent, “there’s that. Now, that’s just the sort of thing I mean. Can’t you experts gather anything from that?”

“I gather that he had sharp teeth,” Brown said, smiling a little, “for the amber mouthpiece is a good deal scratched.”

“He did have strong teeth,” Vincent remarked, “and very white ones. But I can’t see how that will help you to find him. Perhaps, after all, you may have to give it up, and put it down among the unsolved mysteries of history.”

“Not yet,” Prentiss declared. “I’m by no means ready to lie down on the job, and if Mr. Brown will run down to the city and try to trace the fancy cigarette doodaddle, I’ll try some few little manœuvres I have in mind up here.”

“Try all you like, gentlemen,” Vincent directed them. “Use every effort, call upon me for whatever money you need. I will refuse no sum in reason to bring about the discovery of my sister’s assassin. But, I must ask you to report to me only when you have some worthwhile news. This interview today was, of course, necessary, but until you have equally important information, continue your search by yourselves, or report to me through Mellish here.”

The detectives, of course, agreed, and the interview was brought to a close.

At dinner that night, Rosemary asked her uncle what the detectives had accomplished.

“Very little,” he returned. “They have concluded Henry Johnson killed your aunt, which we were practically certain of all along. They have learned, they think, that Henry Johnson was an assumed name, which is an obvious conclusion. They have practically admitted that they have doubts of being able to find him, which is no surprise to me. The murderer in this, as in most cases, is far cleverer than the detectives, and can, of course, easily outwit them. A criminal who can plan and carry out such a scheme as this man has done is no ordinary evil-doer. He is a genius in crime, and such are not usually apprehended. Now, let us drop the subject, Rosemary, for I have had all I can stand of it for one day.”

The subject remained dropped between the two, for there were no new developments to bring the detectives for another report to Vincent.

They were continuing their efforts to find Johnson, they were hunting for new clues or evidence, but all their endeavors were futile.

Even Brown’s assiduous hunt for the shop where the cigarette-holder had been bought was to no avail. Such holders he found, but could get hold of no dealer who had monogrammed that one.

Days at Greatlarch followed one another in much the same routine as before the tragedy. The household routine, that is. The two Mellishes and their under-servants admirably kept up the high standards that Miss Anne had instilled in the _ménage_, but the family, as represented by Homer Vincent and Rosemary, was far from a happy one.

Each day, it seemed to the girl, her uncle grew more and more reserved, more absorbed in his books and music. She did not resent this, in a way it was a relief not to have to entertain him, but Rosemary was very lonely and very sad.

It was on one of their silent evenings, when Vincent mused over a book and Rosemary tried to interest herself in a bit of needlework, that he said:

“Child, have you any belief in spiritualism?”

His tone was gentler, more interested, than common, and Rosemary hesitated before she answered. She didn’t want to express herself contrary to his own views, and yet the girl had never felt any faith in the supernatural.

“Table-tipping or spooks?” she said, trying to turn it off lightly.

“Don’t be flippant. I mean this idea of Mrs. Lamont returning to the scene of her tragic death.”

“Oh, that. No, Uncle, I can’t say I do believe she does that.”

“And yet it may be. Why may not the souls of the dead return?”

“Oh, they may, but I’ve never seen any evidence of it, have you?”

“What would you say if I said, Yes, I have?”

“I’d say, Tell me all about it.”

The subject was a distasteful one to Rosemary, but she would willingly have talked on any topic, so glad was she to have her uncle talk to her at all.

“Well, a queer thing happened last night,” he began. “I was wakened out of a sound sleep by a sort of light in my room. A strange, hovering light, that seemed to sway and waver and at last shaped itself into the semblance of a human form. Rosemary, it was your Aunt Anne.”

“No!”

“Yes, child, it surely was. I felt no fear; she waved a gentle hand as she came nearer to me. ‘Brother,’ she said, ‘it is all right. Do not seek my slayer, I am happy in my new life.’ And then, Rosemary, she seemed to vanish slowly, and as the phantom shape was nearly gone, I heard a few more fleeting words, that sounded like a promise to play the Wild Harp tonight.”

“Tonight! Antan! Oh, Uncle Homer! You believe it was really her spirit?”

“If the harp plays tonight and I hear it—I shall have to believe,” he replied, in a solemn tone.

And that night the Wild Harp did play. Rosemary was awakened soon after midnight by the low, wailing strains. She wondered if her uncle heard it, too.

She lay in her bed listening to the weird music, and wondering if it could be possible her dead aunt was responsible for it.

She could not believe it, nor could she believe it was the work of the spirit of Mrs. Lamont.

But then, she asked herself, what is it? What can it be?

She rang a bedside bell which brought Francine to her.

“What is it, mademoiselle?” asked the French girl. “What is it that I can do for you?”

“Listen, Francine, do you hear the Wild Harp?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. Is it not beautiful—so faint, so sweet!”

“Who is playing it, Francine?”

Rosemary fully expected the girl would assert it to be a phantom that made the harmonies. But, to her surprise, Francine said, “Of a truth, I do not know,—but I think it is Mr. Mellish.”

“Nonsense! Go to bed!” and Rosemary had to smile at the girl’s foolishness.

But the next morning she referred to it before her uncle.

“Yes, Rosemary, I heard it,” he said, “and I believe it was the spirit of your aunt who made the music. Do not you?”

“No, Uncle, to be truthful, I do not.”

But Rosemary regretted her frankness, for Homer Vincent turned grim and moody and scarcely spoke again that day.

But at last came the news of Bryce Collins’ arrival in New York, and Rosemary’s heart beat high with hope and joy.

His letters had given no hints as to the results of his quest, but he had written that he had results, which he would detail on his return.

Rosemary eagerly desired to accept this as an omen of favorable news, but her forebodings were not happy ones and she felt an undercurrent of despair that grew stronger as the time of his homecoming drew near.

And when at last she saw him, when he came to Greatlarch, and, taking her in his arms, kissed her gently, she knew in her heart that his tidings were not happy ones.

“Tell it at once, Bryce,” Homer Vincent said, curtly. “I know from your manner you bring no good news.”

“I do not,” Collins said, his face dark with sorrow and his eyes sad and somber. “Yes, I will tell you at once, but do not hurry me, Mr. Vincent. I will tell you as it happened to me.”

“You found the asylum?”

“Yes, with no trouble at all. But it was not at the address you gave me.”

“Ah, they have moved?”

“Perhaps so; but they told me they had never been at the other address. However, I found them. They have full and complete records,—they willingly let me study them. The present head of the institution is not, of course, the one who was there when Rosemary was left there. Nor is he the immediate successor. They have had several in his place, as the years went by.”

“You found the entry of Rosemary’s admission to the asylum?”

“Yes, I did. And I learned,—this is the strange part,—that she was placed there by your brother Carl.”

“Before his marriage?” Homer Vincent fairly blurted out the words.

“Yes, two years before.”

“Then that means—”

“There is no use blinking the facts. It means that Rosemary is the child of your brother Carl, but was not born in wedlock.”

“An illegitimate daughter of my brother—then a Vincent after all.”

“No, a nameless, homeless waif,” Rosemary moaned, and as she swayed from her chair, Collins ran to catch her fainting form and held her in his arms.

“I’m all right,” she said, struggling to preserve her self-control; “only it seems this last blow is more than I can bear. Uncle Homer, I will leave your house tomorrow. You shall not be burdened with the disgrace of a nameless child,—a child of shame!”

“Who was her mother?” Vincent asked.

“It is not known,” Collins replied. “The records so far back are imperfect. And I could find no one who remembered the circumstance. All the attendants are changed since that time. It was by the merest chance I came across the book that contained the entry of her admission. There was no mistake about that. She was left there by Carl Vincent, an American citizen travelling for pleasure. Her birth-date was given and her name stated as Rosemary Vincent.”

“And two years later, my brother and his wife adopted this child,—the daughter of my brother!”

“Three years later. After he had been married a year.”

“I cannot stand it,” Rosemary cried, and without another word, she fled from the room.

“There is no doubt about this?” Vincent asked.

“Not the slightest,” replied Collins, hopelessly.

“What is to be done?”

“I do not know.”