“Not necessarily,” said Stone, looking sharply at me. “I don’t deduce especial strength.”
I felt ashamed, for I realized in a sudden flash that I had said that hoping to learn that his thoughts were not directed toward Anne.
“What—what did this intruder do with the weapon he used?” I stammered, partly to hide my confusion.
“He left it behind him, in plain view of every one. I fear, Mr. Sturgis, you are unobservant.”
“Wait a moment,” I cried, stung by his evident scorn of what we had done, or, rather, what we had failed to do. “Do you mean to tell me that the weapon is even now in this room?”
“It is; and in plain sight.”
“Don’t tell me where; let me find it for myself,” I cried, gazing wildly around.
“Find it if you can, but as you have overlooked it all these days, how can you expect to see it now?”
“I’m completely mystified,” I said. “We searched this room so carefully for the pearls, that I would have sworn we must have found a weapon, had there been any to find. Show it to me, Mr. Stone.”
“There it is;” and Fleming Stone pointed quietly to a bill-file which stood on the desk. It was of the ordinary type, with a heavy bronze standard and a long, sharp, upright spike. The bills and papers on it reached nearly to the top, but as soon as my attention was drawn to it, I realized that with the bills removed it would indeed be a deadly weapon, and would correspond in every way to the weapon which the doctor declared must have been used.
“I can only suppose,” I said, “that it escaped our attention because of its very obviousness.”
“Not only that,” said Stone, “but it was inconspicuous, being nearly covered with the bills; and, moreover, you looked only for a definite weapon, and not for an ordinary implement used as one.”
“How did you come to notice it so quickly?”
“Because you had told me no weapon could be found, with the exception of the possible stiletto. And that did not greatly impress me, for no one would leave evidence of a crime in so simple a hiding-place. Even now I believe that bill-file to be the criminal’s weapon, only because I can discover no other. But let us look at it. If we find a particle of blood-stain on the papers, I think we may have no further doubt.”
Fleming Stone carefully lifted the bills from the metal rod that pierced them. Drawing a lens from his pocket, he examined the bill-file and several of the papers. “It was used to kill Mr. Van Wyck,” he declared. “It was carefully wiped off and the bills returned to it The particles of blood remaining on it are scarcely perceptible to the naked eye, but may clearly be seen through the magnifying-glass. You may perceive, also, some faint stains around the holes in the papers where they slid down the spike. As this is vital evidence, I will put it safely away.” Fleming Stone put the file with its papers in a small cupboard of the desk, which he locked and then took out the key.
After that, for a long time, Markham and I sat silently watching him as he proceeded with his scrutiny of the room. Occasionally he examined something through his glass, occasionally he picked up a scrap of something from the floor and put it in his notebook or pocket. At last I could contain myself no longer, and I burst out with, “Mr. Stone, do you know how the murderer got in and out?”
“I do not,” he replied. “I haven’t the faintest idea. But since a human being did do so, another human being may discover how.”
I felt that he was avoiding the masculine pronoun on purpose, and again my heart sank, as I feared for Anne.
After an hour or so, though it seemed ages, Fleming Stone declared his investigation of the room completed, and announced his desire to see next some of the servants. I took him across the house to the kitchen quarters, and in the butler’s pantry we found a footman and two maids.
After a quick glance at the faces of the trio, Mr. Stone interrogated the more intelligent-looking of the maids. “When express packages arrive,” he said to her, in his pleasant way, “who attends to them?”
“A footman, sir,” said the girl, with an air of proud importance at being questioned.
“What footman? This one?”
“Yes, sir. That’s Jackson, sir. He ‘most always takes the express parcels.”
“Ah, then you can speak for yourself, Jackson. On the day of your master’s death, did any express parcels arrive?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Jackson. “I remember there were three came that morning.”
“What was in them?”
“Supplies for the pantry, sir. Mostly bottles and jars, sir.”
“And what were they packed in—excelsior?”
“Yes, sir; excelsior and straw.”
“And was there no other parcel, containing china or glass?”
“There was another, sir, but not by express. Mr. Sturgis brought it. That was glass, and it was taken to Mrs. Van Wyck’s room.”
Fleming Stone turned to me. “What was the packing, Mr. Sturgis?” he said.
“I don’t know,” I replied, greatly mystified at this turn of affairs. “I brought a glass vase as a gift to Mrs. Van Wyck, but she opened the box when I was not present.”
“I emptied the box, sir,” volunteered Jackson, “and it was full of tissue paper cut into little scraps.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Stone. “That is what a fine piece of glass would naturally be packed in. That is all. Thank you, Jackson.”
Slowly and thoughtfully, Stone walked back through the house. He detained me a moment as we passed through the dining-room. “You want me to go on with the case, Mr. Sturgis,” he said, “wherever the results may lead?”
I shuddered at this question, coming right on top of his discovery of Anne’s glass vase. I could see no possible connection between my innocent gift and the Van Wyck tragedy, but there must have been one in Stone’s mind.
However, I replied “Yes,” knowing that I must know the truth, whatever it might be.
Chapter XIX.
The Two Carstairs
We all three went back to the study. Stone looked thoughtful, even puzzled.
“It is the most mysterious case I have ever known,” he said.
“I heard you say once,” I observed, “that the deeper the apparent mystery, the easier the solution.”
“And that is true, in a way, Mr. Sturgis. A simple commonplace case with little mystery and much seemingly direct evidence, is often more difficult than a case which presents startling and strange features.”
“Well,” put in Mr. Markham, “if another mystery will help you in the matter, here it is,” and he handed Fleming Stone the typewritten letter.
“A letter always means a great deal,” said Stone, as he scrutinized the address.
Markham and I watched him almost breathlessly as he drew out the letter and read it.
He studied both the sheet and the envelope for a few moments, and then looked up and said quietly, “the letter is a decoy.”
“We thought of that,” said Mr. Markham, eager to seem astute; “and it was mailed the day of Mr. Van Wyck’s death, and the letter was written on the typewriter in this very room!”
“Mailed in the morning and received