The Mystery of the Boule Cabinet: A Detective Story by Burton Egbert Stevenson (best books to read for women txt) 📖

think there is any doubt of your ability to do that, we can, of course, put them under arrest—"

"Oh, that isn't necessary," I broke in. "I will be responsible for their appearance at the inquest."

"I'll have to postpone it a day," said Goldberger. "I want Freylinghuisen to make some tests to-morrow. Besides, we've got to identify d'Aurelle, and these gentlemen seem to have their work cut out for them in finding this woman—"

Grady looked at Goldberger in a way which indicated that he thought he was talking too much, and the coroner stopped abruptly. A moment later, all four men left the house.

Dr. Hughes lingered for a last word.

"The undertaker had better be called at once," he said. "It won't do to delay too long."

I knew what he meant. Already the face of the dead man was showing certain ugly discolourations.

"I can send him around on my way home," he added, and I thanked him for assuming this unpleasant duty.

As the door closed behind him, I heard a step on the stair, and turned to see Godfrey calmly descending.

"I came in a few minutes ago," he explained, in answer to my look, "and have been glancing around upstairs. Nothing there. How did our friend Grady get along?"

"Fairly well; but if he guesses anything, his face didn't show it."

"His face never shows anything, because there's nothing to show. He has cultivated that sibylline look until people think he's a wonder. But he's simply a stupid ignoramus."

"Oh, come, Godfrey," I protested, "you're prejudiced. He went right to the point. Do you know Rogers's story?"

"About the woman? Certainly. Rogers told it to me before Grady arrived."

"Well," I commented, "you didn't lose any time."

"I never do," he assented blandly. "And now I'm going to prove to you that Grady is merely a stupid ignoramus. He has heard all the evidence, but does he know who that woman was?"

"Of course not," I said, and then I looked at him. "Do you mean that you do? Then I'm an ignoramus, too!"

"My dear Lester," protested Godfrey, "you are not a detective—that's not your business; but it is Grady's. At least, it is supposed to be, and the safety of this city as a place of residence depends more or less upon the truth of that assumption. On the strength of it, he has been made deputy police commissioner, in charge of the detective bureau."

"Then you mean that you do know who she was?"

"I'm pretty sure I do—that is what I came back to prove. Where's
Rogers?"

"I'll ring for him," I said, and did so, and presently he appeared.

"Did you ring, sir?" he asked.

He was still miserably nervous, but much more self-controlled than he had been earlier in the evening.

"Yes," I said. "Mr. Godfrey wishes to speak to you."

It seemed to me that Rogers turned visibly paler; there was certainly fear in the glance he turned upon my companion. But Godfrey smiled reassuringly.

"We'd better give him his instructions about the reporters, first thing, hadn't we, Lester?" he inquired.

"Which reporters?" I queried.

"All the others, of course. They will be storming this house, Rogers, before long. You will meet them at the door, you will refuse to admit one of them; you will tell them that there is nothing to be learned here, and that they must go to the police. Tell them that Commissioner Grady himself is in charge of the case and will no doubt be glad to talk to them. Is that right, Lester?"

"Yes, Ulysses," I agreed, smiling.

"And now," continued Godfrey, watching Rogers keenly, "I have a photograph here that I want you to look at. Did you ever see that person before?" and he handed a print to Rogers.

The latter hesitated an instant, and then took the print with a trembling hand. Stark fear was in his eyes again; then slowly he raised the print to the light, glanced at it….

"Catch him, Lester!" Godfrey cried, and sprang forward.

For Rogers, clutching wildly at his collar, spun half around and fell with a crash. Godfrey's arm broke the fall somewhat, but as for me, I was too dazed to move.

"Get some water, quick!" Godfrey commanded sharply, as Parks came running up. "Rogers has been taken ill."

And then, as Parks sped down the hall again, I saw Godfrey loosen the collar of the unconscious man and begin to chafe his temples fiercely.

"I hope it isn't apoplexy," he muttered. "I oughtn't to have shocked him like that."

At the words, I remembered; and, stooping, picked up the photograph which had fluttered from Rogers's nerveless fingers. And then I, too, uttered a smothered exclamation as I gazed at the dark eyes, the full lips, the oval face—the face which d'Aurelle had carried in his watch!

CHAPTER VIII PRECAUTIONS

But it wasn't apoplexy. It was Parks who reassured us, when he came hurrying back a minute later with a glass of water in one hand and a small phial in the other.

"He has these spells," he said. "It's a kind of vertigo. Give him a whiff of this."

He uncorked the phial and handed it to Godfrey, and I caught the penetrating fumes of ammonia. A moment later, Rogers gasped convulsively.

"He'll be all right pretty soon," remarked Parks, with ready optimism. "Though I never saw him quite so bad."

"We can't leave him lying here on the floor," said Godfrey.

"There's a couch-seat in the music-room," Parks suggested, and the three of us bore the still unconscious man to it.

Then Godfrey and I sat down and waited, while he gasped his way back to life.

"Though he can't really tell us much," Godfrey observed. "In fact, I doubt if he'll be willing to tell anything. But his face, when he looked at the picture, told us all we need to know."

Thus reminded, I took the photograph out of the pocket into which I had slipped it, and looked at it again.

"Where did you get it?" I asked.

"The police photographer made some copies. This is one of them."

"But what made you suspect that the two women were the same?"

"I don't just know," answered Godfrey, reflectively. "They were both French—and Rogers spoke of the red lips; somehow it seemed probable. Mr. Grady will find some things he doesn't know in to-morrow's Record. But then he usually does. This time, I'm going to rub it in. Hello," he added, "our friend is coming around."

I looked at Rogers and saw that his eyes were open. They were staring at us as though wondering who we were. Godfrey passed an arm under his head and held the glass of water to his lips.

"Take a swallow of this," he said, and Rogers obeyed mechanically, still staring at him over the rim of the glass, "How do you feel?"

"Pretty weak," Rogers answered, almost in a whisper. "Did I have a fit?"

"Something like that," said Godfrey, cheerfully; "but don't worry.
You'll soon be all right again."

"What sent me off?" asked Rogers, and stared up at him. Then his face turned purple, and I thought he was going off again. But after a moment's heavy breathing, he lay quiet. "I remember now," he said. "Let me see that picture again."

I passed it to him. His hand was trembling so he could hardly take it; but I saw he was struggling desperately to control himself, and he managed to hold the picture up before his eyes and look at it with apparent unconcern.

"Do you know her?" Godfrey asked.

To my infinite amazement, Rogers shook his head.

"Never saw her before," he muttered. "When I first looked at her, I thought I knew her; but it ain't the same woman."

"Do you mean to say," Godfrey demanded sternly, "that that is not the woman who called on Mr. Vantine to-night?"

Again Rogers shook his head.

"Oh, no," he protested; "it's not the same woman at all. This one is younger."

Godfrey made no reply; but he sat down and looked at Rogers, and Rogers lay and gazed at the picture, and gradually his face softened, as though at some tender memory.

"Come, Rogers," I urged, at last. "You'd better tell us all you know.
If this is the woman, don't hesitate to say so."

"I've told you all I know, Mr. Lester," said Rogers, but he did not meet my eyes. "And I'm feeling pretty bad. I think I'd better be getting to bed."

"Yes, that's best," agreed Godfrey promptly. "Parks will help you," and he held out his hand for the photograph.

Rogers relinquished it with evident reluctance. He opened his lips as though to ask a question; then closed them again, and got slowly to his feet, Parks aiding him.

"Good-night, gentlemen," he said weakly, and shuffled away, leaning heavily on Parks's shoulder.

"Well!" said I, looking at Godfrey. "What do you think of that?"

"He's lying, of course. We've got to find out why he's lying and bring it home to him. But it's getting late—I must get down to the office. One word, Lester—be sure Rogers doesn't give you the slip."

"I'll have him looked after," I promised. "But I fancy he'll be afraid to run away. Besides, it is possible he's telling the truth. I don't believe any woman had anything to do with either death."

Godfrey turned, as he was starting away, and stopped to look at me.

"Who did then?" he asked.

"Nobody."

"You mean they both suicided in that abnormal way?"

"No, it wasn't suicide—they were killed—but not by a human being —at least, not directly." I felt that I was floundering hopelessly, and stopped. "I can't tell you now, Godfrey," I pleaded. "I haven't had time to think it out. You've got enough for one day."

"Yes," he smiled; "I've got enough for one day. And now good-bye. Perhaps I'll look in on you about midnight, on my way home, if I get through by then."

I sighed. Godfrey's energy became a little wearing sometimes. I was already longing for bed, and there remained so much to be done. But he, after a day which I knew had been a hard one, and with a many-column story still to write, was apparently as fresh and eager as ever.

"All right," I agreed. "If you see a light, come up. If there isn't any light, I'll be in bed, and I'll kill you if you wake me."

"Conditions accepted," he laughed, as I opened the door for him.

Parks joined me as I turned back into the house.

"I got Rogers to bed, sir," he said. "He'll be all right in the morning. But he's a queer duck."

"How long have you known him, Parks?"

"He's been with Mr. Vantine about five years. I don't know much about him; he's a silent kind of fellow, keeping to hisself a good deal and sort of brooding over things. But he did his work all right, except once in a while when he keeled over like he did to-night."

"Parks," I said, suddenly, "I'm going to ask you a question. You know that Mr. Vantine was a friend of mine, and I thought a great deal of him. Now, what with this story Rogers tells, and one or two other things, there is talk of a woman. Is there any foundation for talk of that kind?"

"No, sir," said Parks, emphatically. "I've been Mr. Vantine's valet for eight years and more, and in all that time he has never been mixed up with a woman in any shape or form. I always fancied he'd loved a lady who died—I don't know what made me think so; but anyhow, since I've known him, he never looked at a woman—not in that way."

"Thank you, Parks," I said, with a sigh of relief. "I've been through so much to-day, that I felt I couldn't endure that; and now—"

"Beg pardon, sir," said a voice at my elbow; "we have everything ready, sir."

I turned with a start to see a little, clean-shaven man standing there, rubbing his hands softly together and gazing blandly up at me.

"The undertaker's assistant, sir," explained Parks, seeing my look of astonishment. "He came while you and Mr. Godfrey were in the music-room. Dr. Hughes sent him."

"Yes, sir," added the little man; "and we have the corpse ready for the coffin. Very nice it looks, too; though it was a hard job. Was it poison killed him, sir?"

"Yes," I answered,