The Mystery of the Hidden Room Part 28

"I could. I sleep on the first floor at the back of the house. About five o'clock in the morning I heard someone knocking on my window and I got up to see who wanted me at such an hour. We don't keep open house at this Club. In the dim light I saw that the man was Mr. Lee Darwin, so I motioned him to the back and opened the door for him myself. It was quite a shock to me to see him, I can tell you. He was pale and wild-eyed and his clothes were rumpled and dusty. He stumbled in and I helped him to his room. He told me to keep quiet about him and naturally I promised. I thought he had been out on a spree of some kind. He acted as if he might have been drinking," explained Carpe ponderously.

"What did he do after you promised silence?" McKelvie took a turn around the room as he put the question.

"He went to bed, and at luncheon time I awakened him. He dressed hurriedly and rushed out without eating and did not return until three.

There was a telegram waiting for him. He read it and then tore it up and his hands were trembling as he did so. Then he remarked that he was leaving for the South on business and asked me to leave his rooms undisturbed. He left in ten minutes and that is the last I have seen of him," replied Carpe.

"When he came back the morning of the eighth, were you really positive that he had been drinking, or did he give you another impression as well?" continued McKelvie.

"Well, to be candid, at the time he seemed to me to be scared, as if he had seen something that had terrified him plumb out of his wits. It was afterwards in thinking it over that I decided that he had been out on a lark," responded Carpe, after a moment's consideration.

"I should like to examine his rooms," said McKelvie abruptly.

"Certainly." Carpe rose and led the way up the stairs, along a hall and into a suite consisting of a dressing-room, bedroom, and bath.

The rooms were nicely furnished but were not unusual in any way and gave no indication of having been recently used. Everything was in immaculate order.

"Any of his belongings still around?" queried McKelvie.

"Yes, he left some things in the chiffonier."

McKelvie strode to the article of furniture in question and examined its contents with great care, as if hunting for some definite object. Then with a shrug he announced that he was through. I thought he had been disappointed in his search, but one look into his sparkling eyes told me a different tale. He had been successful, but what had he expected to find?

"Thank you, Mr. Carpe. I'm much obliged to you. Keep my visit a secret, particularly as your information may not be of value to me and might, if gossiped about, merely create an unpleasant situation for the young man," said McKelvie as we returned to the lower floor.

"Just as you say. Good afternoon, Mr. McKelvie," and the door closed behind us.

As we descended the steps I said curiously, "What did you find, McKelvie?"

For answer he pulled from his pocket a small yellow satin sachet bag with the initials L. D. embroidered on it in blue. He placed it in my hand and with the remark, "Take a good whiff. It's a heavenly scent."

I held the dainty bag to my nostrils and inhaled deeply. It was wonderfully, delicately fragrant. I had a distinct recollection of having been recently made conscious that there was in this world such a subtle, elusive perfume, but for the moment I could not place it. Like a melody that haunts by its familiarity even when its name eludes the mind, did this perfume waft across my senses the knowledge that I had breathed in its fragrance before and on two distinct occasions. Then memory awoke and I saw myself drawing back from a blood-stained handkerchief which had been suddenly thrust beneath my nose at Headquarters, and recalled wondering where I had come across that perfume before. Ah, I had it. It was d.i.c.k who first introduced me to it. He also had a tiny sachet of yellow satin embroidered in blue and when I noticed it with some astonishment among his things he laughed in an embarra.s.sed way and said a girl he knew had made it for him. When I asked him what it was he named it for me with a shame-faced look.

The subtle perfume that now a.s.sailed my nostrils and delighted my senses was none other than the fragrance that scented d.i.c.k's belongings, that clung to the Persian silk cover in the secret room, and that had left its trace on that square of cambric that Philip Darwin had been holding, the fragrance of Rose Jacqueminot! And Rose Jacqueminot meant a woman and the only woman I could think of was--Cora Manning.

"What do you make of this, McKelvie?" I asked, returning the sachet.

He shrugged. "May be important and may not. I was more interested in hearing that he had been out all night."

"Which means of course that he had the opportunity," I interpreted.

"Yes, he had the opportunity, but he may not have used it. His stick-pin is no proof that he was there at midnight. There are all sorts of possibilities in a case like this one. However, he did have ample motive, for besides the quarrel there is the will. I examined specimens of Philip Darwin's handwriting. He does not make his capitals with a flourish. He makes his R's straight. So he was disinheriting his nephew and not his wife. Also the criminal knew that fact, or why his attempt to destroy the sc.r.a.ps by burning, which would account, you see, for his still being in the study when Mrs. Darwin entered."

"Somehow I can't believe Lee did it--unless it was on impulse," I said, recalling the young man's n.o.ble countenance. "Besides, McKelvie, surely he isn't so depraved as to implicate Ruth!"

"'Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth?'" he quoted. "He has the Darwin blood in his veins."

"So has d.i.c.k for that matter," I thought to myself.

"I don't mean to imply by that that he necessarily committed the murder," continued McKelvie. "I merely state that he had plenty of motive and chance. But so did several others, as we know. And even if he is the murderer we have no proof of that fact; nor does there seem to be at present any chance of questioning him. I have a man on his trail, but so far Wilkins has met with no success. He's evidently disguised, since no one recognizes his photograph, which, added to his use of Rose Jacqueminot sachet, looks very bad indeed."

"Why?" I put in.

"Ask me that again later and I may be able to give you a more definite answer," he retorted. "To return to the subject. It may take months to find Lee and we haven't months to waste on this case."

"What do you propose to do then?" I asked despairingly.

"I'm going to let you drive me over to Forty-second Street to see Claude Orton," he responded, entering my car.

CHAPTER XXII

ORTON'S ALIBI

As we drove toward Forty-second Street, I recalled my instinctive distrust of the secretary, his stealthy att.i.tude, and very evident desire to see Ruth convicted. I had suspected him that very first night, and now I envisioned him sneaking through the secret entrance and returning to the house in time to follow me into the study.

"I know what you are thinking, but he couldn't possibly have done it,"

said McKelvie quietly. "He's the only one I don't suspect. He hasn't the nerve in the first place, and in the second place he hadn't the time.

How long do you suppose it takes to lock all those doors--they were locked, remember--and return to the house and lock whatever entrance he used--not the front door, for you would have heard him--and enter the study a second after yourself?"

"He may never have gone out," I cried. "He could easily have stayed in the room all the time in a dark corner and have come forward when he turned on the lights. I swear I never heard him!"

"What about Mrs. Darwin's testimony that he was in the hall?" he asked.

"She may have been mistaken. He gave false evidence concerning her."

"That's what we are going to see him about. But, remember this, Mrs.

Darwin would have no reason for saying she saw him if she did not."

To this last statement I had to agree, for Ruth I knew disliked Orton, and would hardly be likely to s.h.i.+eld him. So I ceased discussing the point, knowing we would soon have the truth, for McKelvie could extract information from a stone.

In due course we drew up before a second-rate apartment hotel that was sadly in need of a coat of paint. We entered a dingy hall and inquired for Orton.

"Suite Four, third door to your left," droned the switchboard girl.

We walked down the hall, which would have been decidedly improved by an application of a mop and some soap and water, and knocked at Orton's apartment. As we waited we heard the sound of a door closing, and then the shuffle of feet and presently the door opened a crack and Orton's near-sighted eyes peered at us from the aperture.

"What do you want?" he asked impatiently.

"A moment's conversation," replied McKelvie, but at that minute Orton recognized me and, swiftly retreating, began to close the door.

McKelvie, however, was prepared for him and the closing door met an obstruction in the shape of the toe of McKelvie's boot.

"There is no use trying to keep me out," he continued sternly, "unless of course you would like to tell your story to the police."

At mention of the police Orton retreated still farther, and we followed him into the apartment, closing the door behind us. We found ourselves in a stuffy, gloomy little parlor filled with a lot of ugly, old-fas.h.i.+oned furniture. Orton, who was clad in dressing-gown and slippers, ungraciously asked us to be seated, but before we could state our errand a quavering voice from somewhere in the rear reached us.