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diff --git a/75436-0.txt b/75436-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dcea4be --- /dev/null +++ b/75436-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10446 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75436 *** + + +The Desert Moon Mystery + +Kay Cleaver Strahan + +Published 1928 by Grosset & Dunlap (New York) +Copyright, 1927, by The Ridgway Company. + + + +CONTENTS + + I. The Cannezianos + II. John and Martha + III. Hubert Hand + IV. Chadwick Caufield + V. The Arrival + VI. The Secret + VII. Three Rings + VIII. Atmosphere + IX. The Cabin + X. A Conversation + XI. The Letter + XII. An Insight + XIII. The Quarrel + XIV. Two Departures + XV. One Return + XVI. The Murder + XVII. Suicide + XVIII. Clarence Pette + XIX. The Note + XX. A Confession + XXI. A Summons + XXII. The Pact + XXIII. An Omen + XXIV. Clues + XXV. More Clues + XXVI. The Session + XXVII. Hubert Hand Talks + XXVIII. John Talks + XXIX. Danny + XXX. An Accusation + XXXI. The Session Ends + XXXII. A Part of the Past + XXXIII. Another Confession + XXXIV. Defense + XXXV. A Visitor + XXXVI. Canneziano + XXXVII. Strangler Bauermont + XXXVIII. Lynn MacDonald + XXXIX. A Trap + XL. The Missing Box + XLI. Questions + XLII. A Revelation + XLIII. A Shadow + XLIV. The Notes + XLV. Another Key + XLVI. A Dicker + XLVII. An Aid + XLVIII. New Clues + XLIX. New Suspicions + L. Shovels + LI. Danielle’s Secret + LII. An Explanation + LIII. Another Murder + LIV. Delay + LV. The Third Murder + LVI. A Whisper + LVII. Grief + LVIII. The Puzzle + LIX. The Fatal Mistake + LX. The End + LXI. Epilogue + + + +CHAPTER I + +The Cannezianos + +I knew, that evening in April, when Sam got home from Rattail and came +stamping snow into my kitchen, his good old red, white, and blue face +stretched long instead of wide in its usual grin, that he had brought +some bad news with him: a slump in the cattle market; moonshine liquor +discovered again, down in the outfit’s quarters; a delayed shipment of +groceries from Salt Lake. I, who in the months that were coming, was +to live through more shock, and fright, and distress and disaster than +should fall to the lot of a thousand women in all of their combined +lifetimes, was worrying, then, for fear we should have to be doing +without olive oil and canned mushrooms for a few weeks in the +ranch-house! + +“I had a letter to-day,” he said, “from the Canneziano twins.” + +I am like a lot of folks who say that they are not superstitious, who +just happen to think that it is bad luck to walk under a ladder. More +than likely the shivery, creepy sensation I felt, when Sam said that, +was due to the cold he had brought in with him, and was not due to the +fact that those words of his were the forerunners for all of the grim +mysteries and the tragedies that made the Desert Moon Ranch, before +the end of July, a place of horror. + +“How much do they want?” I questioned. + +“No, Mary; they want to come here to live.” + +“Lands alive! For how long?” + +“Danielle wrote the letter. She says they want to come here and rest, +indefinitely. There was quite a bit in it about the peace of the +deserts and the high mountains here in Nevada. She says she longs for +it with all her soul, or something like that.” + +“Danielle,” I said, “always was the best of the two. You going to let +them come, Sam?” + +“Anything else for me to do?” + +“Not a thing—for you. There’d be plenty for others. Those girls are no +kin of yours. Let me see—they must be able-bodied young women by now. +Eight years old when they were here in 1909, makes them twenty-four +years old now, according to my figures. Why a couple of women twins, +aggregating forty-eight years, should decide to come here and rest +their souls, at your expense, is beyond me.” + +“I have plenty.” + +“So has Henry Ford. Why don’t they go rest their souls with him? +They’ve got as much claim on him as they have on you. None.” + +“I reckon.” + +“Where are they now, anyway?” + +“Switzerland.” + +“Lands alive! I don’t pretend to know much about foreign geography, +but I’ve understood that there were a few mountains in Switzerland. +Leave those girls rest their souls right there where they are, Sam.” + +“No—I don’t know, Mary. I guess I’ll write them a letter and tell them +to come along. Lots of room.” + +I didn’t argue any more about it. For twenty-five years I had been +housekeeper of the Desert Moon ranch-house, and I had learned, during +that time, that there was only one subject, concerning Sam, or the +place, on which I could never hope to have any say-so. Trying to argue +with Sam about anything that had to do, in any way, with Margarita +Ditsie, when she was Margarita Ditsie Stanley, or when she was +Margarita Ditsie Canneziano, was about as sensible as hoisting a +chiffon parasol for protection in the midst of one of our Nevada +mountain cloudbursts. + +Margarita Ditsie was of French-Canadian parentage; a dark-haired, +big-eyed beauty. Her father kept a gambling hole in Esmeralda County +in the early days. Her mother had run away from a convent, after she +had become a nun, to marry him. The girl had some of the nun, some of +the runaway, and some of the gambling house proprietor in her. It made +a queer combination. + +When she was eighteen years old she came from Carson to visit Lily +Trooper, over on the Three Bars Ranch, in northeastern Nevada, about +sixty miles from here. Sam met her there, at one of Ben Trooper’s big +barbecues. She and Sam were married two weeks later. She was a lot +younger than Sam; but, even then, he was the richest man in the +valley, with every unwedded woman for a hundred miles around setting +her cap for him. + +Whether Margarita married him for his wealth, or whether it was to +spite the other girls who would have liked to marry him, I don’t know. +All I know is that Margarita never had a mite of love for him. She +stayed with him, though, and acted decently enough for two years, +until Dan Canneziano came to the ranch and got a job on it as +cowpuncher. + +It was during those two years that Sam built this ranch-house for her. +He had an architect in New York draw the plans for it; and though now +on the outside, with its towers and trimmings, it looks kind of old +fashioned, I think it is still the finest house in Nevada. Sam’s lead +and silver mine had just come in, and there was not anything, from +Italian marble fireplaces to teakwood floors, that was too grand for +what Margarita called the Stanley Mansion. She left it, all the +elegance and the luxury, and she broke her marriage vows, for love of +this wop cowpuncher. That, I guess, is fair and full enough +description of Margarita Canneziano. + +I don’t blame her. I quit blaming folks for things a good many years +ago when, after firing three Chinese cooks in six weeks, I decided +that, if we were to live healthy and wholesome, I’d have to take over +the job of cooking as well as housekeeping for the Desert Moon Ranch, +and set about it, and learned to cook. In other words, when I became a +creator myself, I got to know creations and so quit blaming all of +them. If I forget to put the soda in the sour milk pancakes, it isn’t +their fault if they don’t rise. They are as I made them. Margarita was +as the Lord made her. He, I suppose, either had His own good reasons +for turning out such a mess, or else He was tired, or flustered, or, +maybe, was just experimenting on the road to something better when He +did it. + +I should explain, I suppose, wishing to be as honest as possible in +spite of the fact that I am writing a mystery story, that Canneziano +was different from the ordinary breed of cowpunchers. His father, he +claimed, had some hifaluting title in Italy, before he got into a peck +of honorable, patriotic trouble and had to skip to the United States +to save his neck. That may be true, and it may not. Canneziano had a +good education; he talked poetry, and played the violin. Margarita +heard him playing, down in the outfit’s quarters one day, and had Sam +invite him up to the house to play. She accompanied him on the grand +piano that Sam had bought for her. + +Before long, Dan Canneziano was spending a good part of his time at +the ranch-house. Sam, being nobody’s fool, soon saw how the land lay; +but he, according to his custom then and now, kept his mouth shut and +his eyes open. Sure enough, one evening they tried to elope together. +Sam went after them and brought them back. I remember, yet, how the +three of them looked, coming into the house that night. + +Margarita, her head high, defiant, but pretty as a fire’s flame. +Canneziano, slinking in at her heels, like a whipped cur, expecting +worse; and Sam, following behind them, calm as cold turkey. The three +of them had about half an hour’s talk together. Then Sam herded +Canneziano down to the outfit’s quarters and, I suppose, told the men +to keep him there, for there he stayed until Sam was ready for him +again. + +The next morning Sam started to the county seat. He reached there that +evening. The following morning he got his divorce. He came back to the +Desert Moon on the third morning, with his divorce and with a +preacher. He sent for Canneziano, and stood by, while the preacher +married Margarita Stanley to Daniel Canneziano, decent and regular, +according to the laws of Nevada. + +There it should have ended. It didn’t, because Sam never got over +loving Margarita. I don’t hold that to his credit. I see no more +virtue in keeping on loving a person who has proved unworthy of being +loved, than I see in hating a person who has turned out to be +blameless, or in continuing to do any other unreasonable thing. + +At any rate, Sam did it. So when, nine years later, she came back to +the Desert Moon, with twin girls, Danielle and Gabrielle, and said +that Canneziano had deserted her and the children Sam took them all +right in. I don’t know, yet, whether or not they took him in. + +Certainly he did not show much surprise when, in about ten days, +Canneziano put in an appearance. Sam allowed him to get a good start +with his threats, and then he took him across his knees and gave him a +sound spanking, and passed him over to Margarita to dry his tears, and +washed his own hands and went fishing. + +That evening he had one of the men hitch up and take the whole kit and +caboodle of Cannezianos to Rattail in time to catch the east-bound +train. I am ashamed to say that Sam gave them money. I don’t know how +much. I shouldn’t be surprised if it was more than they had expected +to get from their blackmailing scheme. A tidy sum, I’ll be bound, for +shortly after we heard that Canneziano had opened the finest gambling +house south of the Mason and Dixon line, in New Orleans. + +Sam wanted to keep the children. He offered to adopt them. Margarita +would not consider it. But, several times after that, pale yellow, +perfumed letters came to the Desert Moon, and Sam answered those +letters with a check. Me he answered, each time, with, “It is for the +little girls, Mary. I can’t let little girls go needing.” + +When Margarita died, in France, seven years after she had paid us her +blackmailing visit, Sam, the ninny, wrote to Canneziano and again +offered to adopt the girls and give them a good home on the Desert +Moon. He got a few insulting, insinuating lines for an answer. +Canneziano had his own plans for his daughters, who had developed into +rare beauties. He would thank Sam to keep his hands off, mind his own +business, and so forth. + +It would have made a milder man than Sam Stanley fighting mad. Sam +went around all that day, swearing to me that he was through; that he +had made his last offer of help to the Canneziano family, had sent his +last contribution. I know for certain, though, that he sent five +hundred dollars to Gabrielle, after that, in answer to a letter she +wrote to him. But, if Sam was soft with the women, he was not soft +with Canneziano. He had showed up here, beaming and broke, about three +years ago. He had left, suddenly, after having seen Sam and no one +else, less beaming but quite as broke as he had been when he had come. +I thought, maybe, Sam was forgetting that side of the family, and that +this might be a good time to remind him. + +“Is Canneziano planning to come on later, too, and rest?” I asked. + +“Just at present he is in San Quentin, serving a three years’ term. +Danielle didn’t say for what deviltry. His term’s up this summer. That +is another reason the girls want to come here. Somewhere safe from his +persecutions, I think the letter said. Poor little girls,” Sam went +on, “I reckon we haven’t any idea of what they’ve been through, all +these years.” + +“I reckon not,” I agreed. “But they aren’t little girls any more. +Seems queer to me, with all the beauty their father was bragging +about, that neither of them has married. Twenty-four is getting +along.” + +“I’ll bet,” Sam answered, “it is because they have never had any +decent opportunities. You know how pretty they were as little girls, +and how good——” + +“Danielle was good enough,” I said. “Gabrielle was a holy terror.” + +Sam let that pass. “Considering,” he continued, “the life that they’ve +had to lead, and all, I think it speaks pretty well for them that they +have come through straight and clean.” + +Instead of asking him how he knew that, I said, “You’d be willing, +then, to have John marry one of them?” + +John, Sam’s adopted son, was the apple of Sam’s eye. He would have the +ranch, and Sam’s fortune, other dependents provided for, when Sam +died. Whether or not the girl he married would be contented to live on +the ranch, and help John carry it on and keep up its traditions, +making it one of the proudest spots in Nevada, was a mighty important +thing to Sam. + +He waited so long before answering my question that I was sure I had +hit the nail on the head. + +“John,” he finally said, “is old enough to take care of himself.” + +With that he turned and went out of my kitchen, not giving me a chance +to say that, though I had lived through fifty-six years, I had never +yet seen a man at the age he had just mentioned. I did not care. I +felt too vimless for even a spat with Sam. I knew that if these +Canneziano girls came to the Desert Moon, they would bring trouble +with them. I was right. A merciful Providence be thanked that, for a +time at least, the knowledge of how terribly right I was, was spared +me. + + + +CHAPTER II + +John and Martha + +I am not an admirer of men. Looking at most any man, I find myself +thinking what a pity it was he had to grow up, since as a little, +helpless child he would have made a complete success. + +Sam Stanley is different. There is some of the child left in Sam, just +as there is, I think, in any good man or woman—a little seasoning of +simplicity, really, is all it amounts to—but there is a quality about +Sam that makes a person feel that he set out, early in life, to follow +the recipe for being a man, and that he has made a thorough job of it. +Physically, alone, Sam would make about three of most men, with plenty +left over for gravy. But it is not that. It is the something that +makes him stroll up, unarmed, to a cowpuncher who is bragging wild +with moonshine and clinking with firearms, and say, in that drawling, +gentle voice of his, “What’s the trouble here, son?” And the something +that makes that cowpuncher get polite first, and evaporate immediately +after. And Sam whiteheaded, now, at that. + +Why he, as a young man, with a pretty fair education and a tidy sum of +money left him by his father, who had been a well thought of lawyer in +Massachusetts, should come out here to Nevada, take up his homestead +land, and settle content for the rest of his life, has always been +more or less of a mystery to me. I will warn you, though, that it is a +mystery that doesn’t get solved in this story, unless you care to take +Sam’s explanation of it. + +He says that, when his father died, it left him without a relative, +whom he knew of, in the world. He was twenty years old, and he owned a +set of roving toes and an imagination. So he went to California, +seeking romance and gold. Finding neither, he took a small boat named +The Indiana, and went up to Oregon, where he joined a friend of his, +named Tom Cone, who had a place on the Columbia River near Rooster +Rock. + +One day Sam was out in the woods—he said there was nothing to be out +in except woods or rain in Oregon in those days—and he heard a noise +behind a thicket. He thought Tom, who lived for practical jokes, was +getting ready to pull one. So Sam crept up to the thicket, stooping +low and making no noise, and shouted “Boo!” at the biggest bear he had +ever seen in his life. Sam says he has forgotten what the bear said. +He decided, then and there, that the Oregon forests were no place for +a man with no more sense than he had; he left them, and came down here +to Nevada. + +“No forests, no fences, no folks, and a free view for ten thousand +miles,” is the way Sam puts it, “so, I stayed. It was the first place +I’d ever found where I didn’t feel hampered for room.” + +He staked out his hundred and sixty acres with Boulder Creek tumbling +and roaring through them. He built his cabin, out of railroad ties, in +a grove of quaking aspen trees. He hired help, and built fences, and +dug ditches, and planted crops, and bought stock. He bought more land. +He hired more help, dug more ditches, planted bigger crops, bought +more stock. He has been doing that, regularly, ever since. And, of +course, he located the lead and silver mine, on his property, that +made him millions, if it made him a cent, before it played out. But, +in spite of the money that “Old Lady Luck,” as he called his mine, +made for him, Sam never gave his heart to it. It was the Desert Moon +Ranch that he loved, and the money he made from it that he was proud +of. That was why, when the honor of the ranch went under, during those +terrible weeks last summer, Sam all but went under with it. + +After Margarita left the place from her visit of 1909, taking the +twins with her, Sam went around for a week or two, with his head +cocked to one side as if he was listening for something. I knew what +he was missing, and I was not surprised when, one day, he told me he +had decided to send to San Francisco and get a couple of children and +adopt them. + +He wrote to a big hospital in San Francisco and got in touch with a +trained nurse who would be willing to come up and live on the ranch +and take care of the two children. He had her go to an orphan’s home +and select the children and bring them with her when she came. Sam’s +specifications concerning them were that they were to be a boy and a +girl, under ten and over five years old, healthy, American, and +brown-eyed. (Sam’s own eyes are the color of ball-bluing, giving his +face, with his red cheeks, and his white beard, the patriotic effect I +have mentioned.) + +The nurse came early in September with the two brown-eyed children, +named Vera and Alvin. Sam at once re-named them. John, he said, was +the only name for a boy, and Mary the only name for a girl. But, since +my name was Mary, he would let the little girl have Martha, which +meant, according to Sam, “Boss of the Ranch.” + +The nurse’s name was Mrs. Ollie Ricker. If you can imagine a +blue-eyed, pink-cheeked, yellow-haired bisque doll, turned old, you +will have a good idea of her appearance at that time. I don’t know how +old she was then. I don’t know how old she is now. Younger by many +years than I am, I am sure; and yet she has always seemed old to me; +old with the sudden but inevitable oldness of a wrecked ship, or a +burned-down house, or a felled tree, that makes a body forget that a +year ago, or perhaps only yesterday, it was a fresh, new thing. She +never talked. I do not mean that she never chatted, or gossiped. I +mean that she never said one word, not, “Good-morning,” nor, +“Good-night,” nor, “If you please,” nor, “Thank you,” if she could +possibly avoid it. At the end of sixteen years of daily association +with Mrs. Ricker, that is, up to the time of the second murder on the +Desert Moon, I knew exactly as much about her past life as you know at +this minute. + +John, at that time, was nine years old. He was as bright, and as +upstanding, and as handsome, as any little fellow to be found +anywhere; bashful at first, but ready and glad to be friendly, with an +uplifting smile that wrinkled his short nose and that would wheedle a +cooky out of a pickle jar. I may as well say, now, that this +description of John, at nine years old, is as good a description as I +can give of John at twenty-five, if you will draw his height up to six +feet, and put on weight accordingly. + +Martha, when she came to us, was a frail, white-faced mite, with +enormous brown eyes that looked as if they had been removed from a +Jersey heifer and set in her white face. The papers from the orphanage +gave her age as five years; but even I, who knew less about children +than it was decent for any woman to know, soon saw that something was +wrong. She walked well enough, but she could scarcely talk at all. Her +ways and her habits were those of a two-year-old infant, yet she was +far too large for that age. Before she had been with us a week I knew +that Martha was not quite right in her mind. + +Mrs. Ricker knew it, too. Her excuse was, that she had chosen Martha +because she was so pretty; that she had had no opportunity to judge +her other characteristics. She insisted that she thought, with proper +care, Martha would develop normally. + +I knew better. Sam knew it, too. But, when I begged and besought him +not to adopt her, he brought out an argument good and conclusive for +him. + +“If I don’t adopt her, and take care of her,” said Sam, “who the heck +would?” + +So adopt her he did. And he spent a small fortune on doctors, +specialists, for her. None of them could do anything. It was, they +said, a hopeless case of retarded development. So, at twenty-one years +of age, Martha, though the care and doctoring had given her a fine +healthy body, had the mind of a child of five or six years—not too +bright a child, either. That was at best. At worst—— Well, no matter. +Entirely harmless, the doctors said; but I always had my doubts. + +Sam tried all sorts of teachers for her, too; bringing them from back +east and paying them sums to stagger. But, in the end, we found that +Mrs. Ricker was better with her than anyone else. She never pretended +any particular love for Martha, but she took care of her, and kept her +sweet and clean, and put up with her tempers, when many a better woman +than Ollie Ricker would have gone away in disgust. I am not saying +that, if there is a Judgment Day, as many say and some believe, I’d +care to be standing in Ollie Ricker’s shoes, if she is wearing them at +that time; but I do say that her gentleness, and her patience, through +all those years with Martha, should be counted to her credit, whether +or no. + + + +CHAPTER III + +Hubert Hand + +It was three years after Mrs. Ricker came to the ranch, bringing John +and Martha, that Hubert Hand put in his appearance. He had got Mr. +Indian Chat Chin, as everybody called him, to bring him up from +Rattail in his old surrey. Hubert Hand was something of a dude in +those days, though he has well outgrown it since, and I remember yet +how comical he looked, sitting up there so stiff and fine in his light +gray overcoat and gray Fedora hat, with that big Roman nose of his +protruding out and up, disdainfully, above his little moustache, and +apparently above all consciousness of dirty old Mr. Indian Chat Chin +and the rattle-trap rig. + +Mr. Indian Chat Chin stopped his old nag at the entrance to the +driveway, and Hubert Hand climbed carefully down and came up the road, +swinging a walking cane like he was leading a parade. + +Sam and I, as was our custom, went walking down to meet him. + +He took off his hat to me, and said to Sam, “I wish to see the owner +of this ranch.” + +“Nobody ever mistook me for a fairy before,” Sam said. “But go ahead. +Your first wish is granted. What are the other two?” + +Hubert Hand got out his card then. Besides his name it had +“Clover-blossom Creamery,” and the San Francisco address printed on +it. + +“Now, Mr. Stanley,” Hubert Hand went on, after the embarrassing minute +of general introductions, “I am going to be honest with you——” + +“Hold on, stranger,” Sam interrupted, “you’re not. You are going to be +as dishonest as heck. Otherwise, you wouldn’t bother to tell me you +were going to be honest. Go ahead.” + +Hubert Hand laughed, but he didn’t like it. He went ahead, though, and +explained that he had an up-and-coming creamery business in San +Francisco, but that his physician had told him that he had to live in +a high, dry climate with plenty of sunshine and no fog. He had, after +inquiries and investigations, decided that the Desert Moon Ranch, +altitude seven thousand feet, sunshine three hundred and sixty-five +days in the year, to say nothing of the marvelous view of the Garnet +Mountains, the hunting, the fishing, and the pure snow water, would +fill all his requirements. + +“Thanks,” Sam said. “When I get ready to start a Gold Cure Sanatorium, +I’ll drop you a line.” + +“You won’t do business, then?” Hubert Hand questioned. + +“I hadn’t heard anything about doing business,” Sam said. + +Hubert Hand’s proposition was that he start a creamery, on the Desert +Moon Ranch, and supply the valley with ice-cream, butter, and other +dairy products. Sam had the ranch, the cows, and the big ice plant. +Mr. Hubert Hand had the knowledge and the equipment. They could divide +the profits. + +Next to sheep men, I guess there is nothing that cow men hold in lower +contempt than they hold dairy farms. Sam was too much disgusted to +swear very long. + +“But, do you realize, Mr. Stanley,” Hubert Hand insisted, “that this +entire valley has to depend on Salt Lake City, or on Reno, for its +dairy products?” + +“Listen, stranger,” Sam said. “I wouldn’t turn the Desert Moon into a +place to slop milk around in if the entire valley had to depend on +Hong Kong, China, for its ice-cream cones. Forget it, and come in now +and have some supper.” + +To my knowledge, Hubert Hand, from that day to this, has never again +mentioned, on the Desert Moon, anything that had to do with +creameries. Neither, from that day to this, has he been off the ranch +for more than a couple of weeks at a time. + +“By the way,” he began, trying to make it sound unimportant, when we +had finished supper, “I heard, in Telko, that you were something of a +chess player.” + +“I am, when I can get a game,” Sam said. “But chess players, in these +parts, are as scarce as hen’s teeth. My neighbor, thirty miles east of +here, and I used to play regular, two nights a week. But the son of a +gun struck it rich, and like most loyal Native Sons of this state, he +moved to California to spend his money. I’m teaching my boy, John—but +he is just a kid. Here, lately, about all I’ve done is work out the +puzzles by myself.” + +“I play a little,” Hubert Hand produced, right modestly. + +Sam jumped up and got out his chess table, inlaid ebony and ivory, +made special, and his ebony and ivory chess-men. + +Hubert Hand beat him the first game in about half an hour. They set up +their men again. It took Hubert Hand over an hour that time to beat +Sam, but he did it. + +“Heck!” Sam said, at the end of that game. “You’re hired.” + +“Hired for what?” + +“For whatever you want to call it, except the slopping of milk around. +Send for your trunk and name your pay. Why didn’t you say, in the +first place, that you were a blankety-blank crack chess player?” + +I realize, right here, that I am not going to be able to get through +with this entire story, with Sam in it, and continue to modify his +vocabulary into hecks and blankety blanks. Wrong, I think it is; but +it is true, that men out here do not talk like that. Sam cusses, +swears and damns, just as naturally and as innocently as he breathes. +The only real trouble about Sam’s profanity is that he uses up all his +strong words day by day in ordinary conversation; so, when occasions +arise that call for something really emphatic, Sam hasn’t any words to +do them justice. If the demands are not too serious, he reverts and +finds a little “Pshaw!” or, “Shoot!” unusual enough to meet the need. +If it goes beyond that, he opens his mouth in silence and keeps it +open, hoping for a word, until his pipe drops out and scatters ashes +and burned and burning tobacco all over everything. I pay no attention +to his profanity and small attention to his “Pshaws,” and “Shoots.” +But when his pipe drops, I get right down interested. + +To return to Hubert Hand: he accepted Sam’s offer, then and there. The +next day he titled himself assistant ranch manager, and named his +salary at two hundred and fifty dollars a month. Sam paid it without +blinking; and kept right on managing the ranch, and everything on it, +except, perhaps, myself, without any assistance, the same as he had +always done. + + + +CHAPTER IV + +Chadwick Caufield + +Chadwick Caufield, the other member of our household, who was present +on the Desert Moon Ranch at the time of the first murder, came only +two years ago last October. + +It was away past bedtime, after ten o’clock, but the radio was +brand-new then, and we were all sitting up, listening to a fine +program given by the Hoot Owls in Portland, Oregon, when the doorbell +rang. Sam answered it. Chad stepped in. + +He was wearing white corduroy trousers, a long, yellow rubber +raincoat, and a straw hat tethered to its buttonhole with a string. He +was carrying a ukulele under his arm and a camera in his hand. He took +off his hat, displaying a head full of pretty yellow curls. He smiled, +displaying a sweet, gentle disposition. (If there is any better index +to character than the way a person smiles, I have never found it.) + +“How do you do?” he said. “I have come to visit you.” + +By the time Sam got his pipe picked up, John had got down the +forty-feet length of living-room and had Chad by both hands, and was +introducing him as the friend he had told us about, the friend he had +made at Mather’s Field, during the war. + +The way of that was, John had saved his life for him down there, and +had never since been able to get out from under the responsibility of +it. John had found a job for him, after the armistice, and when Chad +lost it, John had loaned him money to start out in a vaudeville act. +He did fine with that for three years, and was making good money on +the Orpheum circuit, when he got into an automobile accident in Kansas +City and was laid up for months in the hospital there. He went back to +work sooner than he should have, and spent three months in an Oakland +hospital with influenza. John had wired money to him there, and had +asked him, again, to come for a visit to the Desert Moon. But, since +he had had a standing invitation for years, and since he had sent no +word that he was coming, John was as much surprised as any of us that +evening. + +He had walked over, he explained, from Winnemucca, a distance of a +couple of hundred miles. He had had money to buy a ticket no further +than Winnemucca. He had had a job there, for a while, dish-washing—a +fine job he made of it, I’ll warrant—and had used his earnings to get +into a solo game, hoping to win enough money to pay for his ticket. He +had lost his money, his watch, his coat, vest, and shirt. The landlady +at Winnemucca, he said, wanted his trunk worse than he did; and, +anyway, he never argued with ladies. She had allowed him to take the +raincoat—a raincoat in this part of Nevada being about as much use to +anybody as a life preserver to a trout—and the funny straw hat—he had +worn both in his vaudeville act—and the ukulele. Who wouldn’t be glad +to let anyone who wanted to take a ukulele anywhere, take it? The +camera he had found on the road between Shoshone and Palisade. He had +named it, “Unconscious Sweetness,” and called it “Connie” for short, +and he was always plum daffy about it, taking expected and unexpected +pictures of all of us at all hours and in all places, and pasting them +in big albums with jokes and such written underneath. + +It is hard to give a fair description of Chad. He was a little, +pindling fellow. Around Sam and John and Hubert Hand he looked about +as dainty and trifling as the garnish around the platter of the +Thanksgiving turkey. He seemed kind of like that, too; like the extra +bit of garnishing that makes life’s platter prettier and +nicer—absolutely useless, maybe, but never cluttery. + +Until after he came, I had not realized how little real laughing any +of us had done. We had been happy enough, and content; but we had +never been much amused. He amused us. He made us laugh. He took the +mechanical player off the old grand piano, and played it as we had +never before heard it played. He spoke pieces and sang funny songs +until we held our sides with laughing. He was a ventriloquist, and a +mimic besides. He could imitate all of our voices to a T. + +He had been with us about a week before any of us knew that. I was in +the kitchen, one day, when I heard someone come into the butler’s +pantry. + +“Mary,” Sam’s voice called from there, “you are fired. Bounced. You +haven’t made a cake in two days, nor doughnuts in three. You are +getting too lazy and worthless for the Desert Moon——” + +I tottered; but, just before I fainted clear away, here came that +grinning little ape, dancing and kicking his heels in an airy-fairy +dance, but still speaking in that gentle, drawling voice of Sam’s. + +I laughed until I had to sit down and lean on the table. I begged him, +then, not to give it away for a few days; and the fun he and I had, +for the next week, would make a book in itself. + +Martha adored him. He played with her by the hour. He made two dolls, +Mike and Pat, for her, and he would let them sit on her knees while he +made them talk for her. He had to treat her as he would treat a child, +of course; but he managed, what the rest of us did not always manage, +to treat her as if she were a good, sensible child, not too young to +be polite to. Chad had the nicest manners of any man I have ever +known. + +At the end of November, when he began to talk about leaving, Sam +offered him a hundred and fifty a month to stay on. He said, like +Hubert Hand had said, “What for?” + +“For living,” Sam said. + +Chad laughed and shook his head. + +“Double it, then,” Sam urged. “I wouldn’t have you leave the place, +and Martha, for three hundred a month; so why shouldn’t I pay it to +have you stay?” + +Chad never would take any regular money from Sam. But he stayed on and +got what he needed, such as clothes, and razor blades and films for +Connie, and had them charged to Sam’s accounts. He called himself the +“Perpetual Guest—P. G.” for short, but some of the others said it +stood for “Pollyanna Gush” and called him “Polly” to twit him. +Pollyanna may not be literature, I don’t know; but a person of that +nature is most uncommonly pleasant to have around the house. + +The only time I ever felt any differently about Chad was right after +Sam broke the news to the assembled household that we were to be +visited by a couple of lady twins from Switzerland. Chad began, then, +to practise a new song about “sleep, little baby,” and to permit the +most ear-splitting sounds to issue from the back of his throat. He +called it yodeling; and said that yodeling was Switzerland’s chief +export, and that he was practising up to make the ladies feel at home. +I declare, it nearly drove me out of my wits. A disturbing element, +they were, you see, from the very first. + + + +CHAPTER V + +The Arrival + +The girls got here on Friday, the eighth of May. Sam and I rode down +to Rattail in the sedan to meet them, and John took the small truck +down to bring up their baggage. + +Number Twenty came roaring up, on time, and stopped with a snort of +angry protest, as it always does when it has to stop at Rattail, which +is not often; not more than a dozen times a year at best, I guess. + +Sam and I hurried down the tracks to where the porter’s white, rapidly +swinging arms were piling up the shining black baggage. + +I don’t know what there is about riding in a train that turns folks +haughty and supercilious; but there is something that does. A person +who would be right hearty and human on his own two feet, sits in a car +window and looks out at the platform people as if they were something +he wanted to be careful not to step in. By the time I had passed fifty +or more windows, and had reached where the girls were standing, I was +so heated up I couldn’t find a word to say but, “Pleased to meet you,” +which was not the truth. + +One of them smiled real sweet, and said, “Mary! Upon my soul you +haven’t changed at all in sixteen years,” and made as if to kiss me; +which I did at once. + +The other one gave me a jerky nod, and stood there, watching the train +pull out, until Sam, who had been poking along behind me, managed to +catch up. + +“Uncle Sam,” she exclaimed, laughing and standing on tiptoe, and +putting her hands on his shoulders, and tipping her pointed chin up to +him, “you dear, to have us! I had always remembered that you were the +biggest man in the world, and now I see that I was right about it.” + +Sam didn’t kiss her, as she had expected him to. He patted her hands, +took them down off his shoulders and held them a minute before he +dropped them and reached to shake hands with the twin who had kissed +me. + +“Well, now,” he said, “this is sure great. Little girls all grown up +to ladies, and coming to see their old uncle.” (He had bitten on that +uncle bait, though he was no more their uncle than I was.) “Which of +you is which, now? Let’s get you sorted out, so I can call you by +name. I used to get you all mixed up, when you were little +tykes—couldn’t tell one from the other.” + +“You won’t have that trouble any more,” said the one who had nodded at +me. “I am Gabrielle, and that prim little puss is Danielle. People +never get confused about us any longer.” + +Indeed, I should think not. Danielle was dressed pretty and neat in a +suit of gray about the shade of a Maltese cat, with a nice little +round hat to match, and not more than ten inches of gray silk stocking +showing between the edge of her skirt and the tops of her neat gray +pumps. Gabrielle had on a floppy coat thing, that looked more like a +bathrobe, cut off at the knees, the way it lopped and draped, with +nothing but a big buckle on one hip to hold it together at all. It was +about two shades darker than good cream tomato soup. Her hat was as +near as she could match it, I guess; and, though it was small, it was +soft and loppy. Her stockings, sixteen inches of them in sight, if an +inch, were a kind of sickly cross between yellow and pink. Her black +satin shoes had stilt heels and silver buckles. She wore, also, a pair +of earrings, dangling almost to her shoulders, that looked like the +spinners the boys use here, in the fall, when they go after the big +trout. + +The population of Rattail had come running to the depot, of course, +when the train stopped; and, at last, swaggering his way among males, +females, Indians, cowpunchers, and dogs, here came John. + +He doesn’t usually trim his walk with that swagger; but, bashful as an +overfed coyote, he is hard put to it, at times, to cover up this +deficiency of his. So he swings his shoulders, and talks loudly, and +boasts around, when a person with a keen ear could hear his knees +clicking together. + +“La-la!” exclaimed Gabrielle, when she caught sight of him. “Who is +this picturesque man thing coming toward us?” + +John did look pretty fine, wearing his new corduroy suit, and his +shining new leather puttees, and his new sixteen-dollar sombrero. He +had even gone so far as to button up the collar of his brown flannel +shirt. I was sorry he had not been around, when the train came in, to +add tone to Sam and to me. + +“He,” Sam answered, beaming with pride, “is my boy, John.” + +“How thrilling!” chirped Gabrielle. “It is like living in a cinema, +isn’t it, Danny?” And off she went, sort of skipping along the tracks, +to meet him. + +When they met, John gave her about the same attention that a passenger +gives the ticket chopper at the gate, in a city depot, when he sees +the train he is trying to catch moving slowly out through the yards. +He pulled off his hat with a bow, but he passed her, walking very +fast. I thought that he was so flustered that he did not know what he +was doing. He knew. He was headed straight for Danny. He had been in +the freight house since long before the train came in, sizing up from +a safe distance the girls’ arrival. Then he had sneaked out the back +way, up past the station house, and around it and back again, to give +the appearance of having just that minute got into Rattail. + +“John,” I said, when he reached Danny and me, and stopped short, like +he had just been lassoed from the rear, “this is Danielle Canneziano.” + +John dropped his hat in the alkali dust, his new hat, and reached out +and took both of Danny’s hands in his. Falling on his knees in front +of her would not have been much showier. + +“I—” he produced, “I—I heard you laugh.” + +To me, it barely made sense; but she seemed to find it interesting and +important. + +“Really?” she said, and sort of trilled it full of meaning. + +Standing there, with my new shoes hurting my corns, and Sam and +Gabrielle completely out of sight around the corner of the depot, I +felt as necessary, useful, and welcome as a hair in the soup, and a +sight more conspicuous. Rattail’s population was beginning to close in +around us. I pulled at John’s sleeve; but I declare, if a freight +hadn’t come along, forcing those two to get off the tracks, they might +have been standing there yet, gazing into each other’s eyes. + +I was halfway home, riding beside Danny in the sedan, when Gabrielle’s +laughing out again, at some remark of Sam’s, made me remember that she +had been the only one who had done any laughing when we had met. Danny +had only smiled. So, if that laugh was what had put John clear off his +head, he had picked the wrong twin. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +The Secret + +The first minute I heard that the Canneziano girls were coming to the +Desert Moon, I was certain that they were not coming for the peace of +the mountains and the deserts. Going on from there, I questioned +myself as to what reason any Canneziano had ever had for coming to the +ranch, or for writing to the ranch. The answer was, to get money. I +tried to think that they would stay a few months, long enough to put +themselves in Sam’s good graces, ask him for a tidy sum, and leave. +But they had not been on the place two days before I knew that, though +that might be a minor part of their plan, it was not the major part; +that there was something far less simple, something, probably, +treacherous and sinister at the root of this visit of theirs to the +Desert Moon. + +On the evening of their arrival the girls had unpacked their trunks in +their bedrooms. The next morning the boys carried their trunks to the +attic. Going through the upper hall, later that same morning, I saw +one of the empty drawers that had fitted into their new-fangled +trunks, lying beside the door to the attic stairway. + +I hate clutter. I picked it up and carried it upstairs. I went in all +good faith: but I wear rubber-soled shoes around the house, and the +stairs are thickly carpeted; so the girls, who were up there, did not +hear me coming. Just before I got to the turn in the stairs, I heard +one of them say: + +“I am sure that there is no use in searching the house. In the first +place, he never could have gotten it into the house without being +seen.” + +“You are too sure of everything, when you are unsure of anything,” the +other girl answered, and I thought, since the voice was louder and, +somehow, richer, that it was Gaby’s. “Stop being sure, and try being +sensible. We must find it. We have very little time. How do you know +whether he could have brought it into the house or not? There is a +back stairway.” + +Fool that I was, I kept right on going up the stairs. It took me a +while to develop the poll-prying, eavesdropping, sneaking, and +generally despicable character that I did develop later. + +“Did you girls lose something?” I asked, when my head had poked up to +where I could see them. + +Danny jumped, from being startled, but Gaby never turned a hair. + +“Only a trinket of Dan’s,” she said. “Possibly she never packed it at +all.” + +I gave them the trunk drawer and came back downstairs, wracking my +brain with questions. + +Who was the “he” who had, or who had not, gotten something into the +house? The something that they must find, and had very little time in +which to find it. And, land’s alive, what was the something? + +I resolved to say nothing, but to watch those two girls, like a hawk, +from then on. I did so. But it was three weeks before I heard anything +more at all, though I saw a great deal. + +I saw those girls searching, searching everlastingly, the entire +place. I saw them go to the cabin, and stay inside of it for hours. I +saw them in the barnyards, and in the barns, searching. I saw them +down in the outfit’s quarters when the men were all away. I heard them +get up late at night, and sneak out of the house, and come back in the +early hours of the morning. And, once or twice, I thought that I saw +them seeing me, as I watched them, and then I was afraid. + +It was during these three weeks that Danny and John announced their +engagement. My own opinion is that they got themselves engaged the +first five minutes they were alone together; but that they had +gumption enough to wait for ten days before telling it. + +Sam gave them his blessing. That is to say, he said that any agreement +they wanted to make was all right with him, if Danny was sure she +would be satisfied to live on the Desert Moon, and if they would wait +a year to be married. They agreed to this, the year of waiting, +reluctantly. Sam, whose one bad habit, not counting his pipe, is using +suitable and unsuitable quotations on all suitable and unsuitable +occasions, assured them that a year was as a day on the Desert Moon; +but that didn’t seem to make them any happier. The only people who +were downright pleased with Sam’s decision were Gaby and myself. I, +for certain reasons of my own. Gaby, because she was choosing to +consider herself also in love with John. + +I realize that this is crowding pretty fast what the books call “love +interest.” I realize, too, that I have not given any description of +John that would account for two traveled ladies coming to the Desert +Moon and, at once, falling in love with him. + +He had, as I guess I’ve signified, a heap more than his share of +masculine good looks. Outside of hat and collar advertisements, I +don’t know that I’ve ever seen even pictures of men that were any +better looking than John was. The way he lived, and dressed, and rode, +made him sort of romantic, too, I suppose. A Santa Fe man, who met him +once when he was taking cattle back east for Sam, offered him a +surprising salary to come to the Grand Canyon and live around there, +in order to impress and delight the eastern young lady tourists. John +was simple-hearted, and slow spoken; but I guess most women don’t mind +that in men. Too, he was a good boy, all the way through. And, of +course, he had plenty of money, now, and would have a million or more, +not counting the ranch, when Sam died. + +Gaby made no bones about her feelings for John. I did not do as John +did, and set all of her open advances toward him down to +sister-in-lawly affection. Still, I didn’t believe that she really +thought she was in love with John, until I hid in the clothes-closet +that evening and heard Danny and her talking together. + +The closet arrangement was a fortunate one for my purposes. It was +between the girls’ rooms, with heavily curtained doorways leading into +each room, and a door at the end with a transom for ventilation, +leading into the hall. This closet had originally been a part of the +hall, going down between the two rooms. But, in 1912, when Sam had had +the ranch-house remodeled, inside, they had turned the closet spaces +for these rooms into two bathrooms, necessitating the present +arrangement of a double closet. + +The dozens of gowns and frocks—nothing so ordinary as mere +dresses—that the girls had brought with them, hanging on padded +hangers from the long rods, made as good a hiding place as anyone +could ask for; especially, since I always took care to unscrew the +light globe in the closet when I went in, so that it seemed to be all +right, but would not light when the wall switches were pressed. + +I had gone in there so many evenings, during the past three weeks, and +had heard nothing for my pains that it was a wonder I had decided to +try it again that evening. It was not luck, though. Gaby’s actions, +that evening, toward John had been so downright disgusting, sitting on +the arm of his chair, and trying to coax him out of the house to see +the mountains by moonlight, and hanging herself around his neck when +they danced together, and so on, that I had a notion Danny might have +a little conversation ready for her when she could get her alone. + +I had waited about ten minutes when I heard the door of Gaby’s room +open. I was so tickled I all but squealed, when I heard that Danny had +come in with her, instead of going on down the hall to her own room. +Evidently they had begun their conversation in the hall, for Gaby’s +first words were, “Jealous, my dear Dan?” + +“I don’t know. But it is silly for you to act as you do. John is in +love with me.” + +“Since you are so certain of that, why do you object to my poor little +efforts?” + +“I’ve told you. Because they are silly. And—not kind. Why should you +try to take him away from me, when you don’t want him yourself?” + +“Are you sure of that, too?” + +“Yes, I am. His good looks fascinate you, and so does his +unsophistication. You’d like the fortune he is to inherit. But you +would never be satisfied to marry him and live right here for the +remainder of your life.” + +“No, I would not. I’d marry him, if he didn’t have a penny—it is you +who are always thinking about his fortune—but I wouldn’t allow him to +bury himself, and his beauty, and charm in this God-forsaken country. +I’d get him out into the world, and have him take his place there. +With his ability and energy, and with me to help him, what a place it +might be! For you to have him is—waste. Waste. You don’t know anything +about love. You’ll never learn. I—I tell you I can’t bear it. It isn’t +fair——” She began to cry, hollow sounding sobs, that seemed to catch +in her throat and wrench free from it. + +“Gaby. Gaby, dear. Please don’t. I am sorry——” + +“Waste. Waste. Waste. You are not sorry. Don’t touch me!” + +“I am sorry, Gaby. But what can I do? I couldn’t give John to you, if +I wished to.” + +“You could give me a chance.” + +“No, I couldn’t.” + +“You are a coward.” + +“Perhaps. I love him. He means to me, too, peace, and security, and +decent living—the things I want most for my life. Why should I risk it +all?” + +“Coward! Coward! Peace and security! He means life to me. All of it; +full and complete. Love, and passion, and adventure and attainment, +for him and for me, too. Do you think I’ll stand by, and allow you to +have him, to bury his wonder in your peace, and smother his +possibilities with your security and decent living?” + +“I think,” Danny answered, “that you will have to. John and I love +each other; and we are going to keep each other. You, nor anyone, can +change that.” + +“Suppose I should tell John why we came here?” + +“You won’t do that. You can’t harm me without harming yourself. But, +if you threaten that, just once more, I will go straight to John and +tell him the truth——” + +“You promised——” + +“I haven’t broken my promise. I shan’t, if you don’t. But you must +know that I haven’t any interest left in the thing.” + +“What about your desire for revenge?” + +“That desire was yours, not mine. I never considered that side of it +at all.” + +“Coward! Quitter! Stool-pigeon——” + +“That isn’t fair, Gaby. I’ll help if I can. I have been helping, +haven’t I? I won’t hinder in any way. But the time is short now. +Remember that.” + +“Danny——” There was a new tone in Gaby’s voice, sweet like, and +appealing. I did not trust it for a minute; but I think Danny did, for +she answered, gently, “Yes, dear?” + +“Forgive me. Let’s be twinny again. Friends?” I could hear the +treachery in that as plainly as I could hear the words. I think Danny +did not hear it, for she answered, “I do want to be friends, Gaby. I +do, truly. Only—please, dear, won’t you leave my man alone?” + +“And you’ll help me. And you won’t tell him—anything?” + +“Of course I won’t tell, Gaby. It is really your secret, now; not +mine. And I’ll help you all I can.” + + + +CHAPTER VII + +Three Rings + +Revenge. Out of all that crazy conversation the one word kept +pestering me like a leaking faucet. No matter what I was doing, or +thinking, that word, revenge, kept drip, drip, dripping, until my mind +was fairly drenched with it. I got all mixed up about it. Did people +revenge other people, or have revenge on them, or—what? I looked it up +in the dictionary. “Malicious injuring in return for an injury or +offense received.” + +I got a piece of paper and wrote it down. “The Canneziano girls want +to injure, maliciously, some one on the Desert Moon Ranch, in return +for an injury or an offense received.” I crossed out “The Canneziano +girls,” and wrote, “Gabrielle Canneziano,” since Danny had said that +she had never considered that side of it at all. It did not help any. +It did not make sense. + +Since Sam and I were the only people on the ranch they had known +before they came here this time, it seemed as if they had come to +injure, maliciously, one of us. I had never done either of them a mite +of harm in my life. Sam had never done anything but good for them. Of +course, Sam had not been very gentle with their father. But, as I took +pains to discover, neither of them had any kind feelings for their +father. Gaby said, straight out, that she hated him. Danny, who was +too gentle speaking to use such a word as hate, said that she had +never liked him, never loved him. Both of them laid their mother’s +death at Canneziano’s door. They thought that his cruelty and his +neglect had killed her. It was senseless to suppose that they were +harboring a grudge against Sam for anything that he had ever done to +Canneziano. + +Of course, I see now that all that part of it was as plain as the +Roman nose on Hubert Hand’s face. How I missed seeing it, even then, I +don’t know. I was, I guess, like a little boy so busy trying to watch +all three rings at the circus at one time that he missed the elephant +parade. + +The Desert Moon was like that sure enough; like a three ring circus, +during the months of May and June. There were the girls, everlastingly +searching for something: leaving the house shortly after the men left +it, each morning; returning, tired out, just in time for dinner; off +again for the afternoon, and coming home just in time to pretty up for +supper. After a while, I began to lose interest in that; and, being a +woman, I allowed my attention to become distracted by the center ring +where all the love interest was going on. + +Not that Danny and John were interesting. If there is anything that +will make two people duller to all other people than being engaged to +each other, I am sure I don’t know what it is. Gaby’s unceasing +efforts to win John away from Danny were interesting enough, I +suppose, to folks who can stand to look at that sort of thing. +Personally, I shut my eyes to it as much as possible. Most of my +attention I gave to the clown in the ring—to Chad. + +I can not explain it, now or ever; but Chad, from the very first, was +head over heels in love with Gaby. He had no more chance of winning +her, penniless, funny, kind little fellow that he was, than an amateur +has of riding an outlaw pony. I told him that, once, in those very +words. + +“I know it, Mary,” he said. “But you are wrong about one thing. I’m +not riding for a fall. I’m not even mounted. I know I haven’t a chance +with her. I know I can’t pull one of those stars out of the sky up +there with a fishhook. I’m not trying. But I can sit here in the dark +and look at the stars, can’t I? Stars make all the difference—in the +dark. And, maybe, sometime I can serve her in someway. That’s all I +ask. . . .” So on. If it hadn’t been Chad, and therefore +heartbreaking, it would have been downright funny. + +She never gave him two looks. He couldn’t even make her laugh with his +jokes and his songs, as he could the rest of us. Once she did deign to +allow him to try to teach her the trick of his ventriloquism. She +could not learn it, and she was furious with him, and said that he did +not want her to learn it. But he followed her about, and waited on +her. He brought her pony up to the house, instead of allowing one of +the outfit to do it. He brought her desert flowers, which she tossed +away to wither. If Connie hadn’t had a strong constitution he would +have worn her out, taking pictures of Gaby. Page after page in his +album filled with, “Gaby by the window;” “Gaby on the porch;” “Gaby +and Danny starting on a walk;” “Gaby in riding costume;” Gaby here, +there, and everywhere. And Martha half mad with jealousy. + +Right at first, I think that some of the others thought that Martha’s +jealousy was something of a joke. I never did think so. Before long we +all began to feel that it was more than a little serious. Sam talked +to Chad, and to Gaby about it. Chad did the best he could, after that, +to be as attentive to Martha as he had been before; but, if he so much +as opened a door for Gaby, Martha would go into temper fits, and +sulking spells. + +As for Gaby, Sam’s talk with her made things worse. She had never +noticed Chad at all, so she had not noticed that Martha was jealous of +him. She welcomed the news as another tool she could use to tease and +torment the poor girl. All along she had delighted in teasing and +tormenting Martha, though she had dared not do it when Sam was +present. + +The very evening after Sam had talked to her in the morning, Gaby went +and sat beside Chad and curled his pretty, yellow curls around her +finger. + +It was a cloudy evening, not chilly; but Sam had lighted the fire as +he always does when he has half an excuse, and Martha was sitting in +front of it, pretending to read a magazine. She had been pretending to +read that same magazine, on the same page, for the last five years. +She seemed to get pleasure out of sitting and holding it in her hands. +No other magazine would do. + +Of a sudden, this evening, she thrust the magazine in the flames for +an instant, jerked it out, and rushed at Gaby with the burning torch. +No harm was done. John snatched it and tossed it back into the +fireplace. But all of us, except Gaby, had the good sense to be +thoroughly frightened. + +Things weren’t ever quite the same for Martha after that. No other +magazine, or picture book, would take the place of the one she had +burned. She would wander about the house, evenings, quietly, but +restless, like a cat who had lost her kittens. + +One of Gaby’s pleasant little ways was to refer to Martha as an idiot, +right before her face. + +“La-la!” Gaby exclaimed one evening, when Martha was wandering about. +“The idiot gets on my nerves. Can’t you make her keep still, Mrs. +Ricker?” + +“She isn’t harming anyone,” I said, since Mrs. Ricker, as usual, said +nothing. “You leave her alone, and stop talking like that, Miss.” + +“I’m not harming anyone, now,” Martha piped up. “But someday I might. +I’d like to. I won’t, though,” she walked over close to Gaby, “if +you’ll give me the gold monkey. I’ll be good then, for always.” + +It was a bracelet charm of Gaby’s, a gold monkey, about the size of a +large almond, with jade eyes. The minute Martha had seen it she had +begun to beg for it. There weren’t any monkeys in the jewelry +catalogs, but Sam sent off and got her a bear and a turtle. She +wouldn’t have any truck with them. She wanted that one, particular +monkey. Gaby would not give it to her; would not so much as allow her +to wear it for a few hours at a time. As usual, this evening, she +refused to let Martha touch it. + +“Yes, and you’ll be sorry,” Martha threatened. + +She went upstairs and emptied a can of pepper in Gaby’s handkerchief +box. + +She was always playing tricks of the sort on Gaby, if we did not watch +her. For my own part, I wouldn’t have bothered with watching her but +for the fact that, more than often, she got the two girls mixed up and +it was Danny whose pretty dress would be tied to the chair to tear, +instead of Gaby’s; or Danny’s hair would receive the contents of +Chad’s paste-pot; and then Martha, discovering her mistake, would make +herself ill with crying and remorse. Just as she had hated Gaby from +the start, she had loved Danny; but she could not tell them apart. + +It seemed incredible that even Martha could be confused about the two +girls; because, if ever girls were opposites, those girls were. Of +course, they were the same size, about five feet and two inches tall, +I should judge, and the same weight—both of them too skinny to my way +of thinking, flat as bread-boards. Their faces, just their faces, did +look alike. They both had long brown eyes, straight noses, small +mouths—Gaby painted her lips until they looked much fuller and more +curved than Danny’s—pointed chins, and complexions the color of real +light caramel frosting. Danny’s cheeks showed a faint pink, coming and +going. Gaby painted her cheekbones, clear back to her ears, with a +deep orange-pink color. They both had wavy, dark brown hair, cut just +the same in the back, real close fitting and down to a point. But Gaby +brushed her hair straight back from her forehead, and put varnish +stuff on it till it was as sleek and shining as patent leather. She +left all of her ears showing, and she always wore big earrings, +dangling from them. Danny parted her hair on the side, and allowed it +to wave, loose and soft and pretty. She never wore earrings. Gaby’s +clothes were all loud colored, or seemed to be—black turned gaudy when +she put it on—and they were all insecure appearing, too defiant of +paper patterns to be quite moral. Danny’s clothes were as neat and +quiet as a pigeon’s. + +No wonder that these frequent mistakes of Martha’s made me decide that +she was losing her eyesight. I spoke to Sam about it, suggesting that +Mrs. Ricker would better take her to San Francisco to visit an +oculist. + +According to his usual custom, Sam laughed at me. He said that he had +about concluded that Martha was the only one on the place who could +use her eyes to see deeper than gee-gaws and fol-de-rols. + +“If you are insinuating,” I said, “that those two girls are alike in +any respect, inside or outside, you’ve lost your senses.” + +“Why shouldn’t they be alike?” Sam questioned. “They are twin sisters. +They were brought up together, they have had the same friends, the +same teaching, the same environments. Of course they are alike. One of +them is play-acting. I don’t know which one. I suspect Danielle, on +account of John.” + +I may as well state, right here, that all of this remark of Sam’s, +with the exception of the girls being twin sisters, was a mistake from +beginning to end. I didn’t, at that time, know much of anything about +their past lives. I did know their present characters. I told him so. + +He laughed again, and wanted to know what had become of all my +theories concerning our modern young girls. Ever since the war, I had +been standing up for them, through thick and thin. + +“It takes a pretty stout theory,” I admitted, “to hear a young lady +called a ‘damn good sport,’ and see her receive it as a choice +compliment.” + +“Who said that to who?” Sam wanted to know. + +“Who do you suppose? Hubert Hand to Gaby, of course.” + +“Hubert Hand,” Sam said, “had better behave himself.” + +Since Hubert Hand was too selfish ever to love anything that his Roman +nose wasn’t attached to, his carryings on with Gaby should be classed, +I think, not in the center ring, but as the main attraction of the +third ring. And he almost old enough to be her father, with white +coming into his hair at his temples! + +To this day I have never understood those two, during those months. +Gaby was in love with John. Hubert Hand was in love with Hubert Hand. +Yet they hugged and kissed, and seemed to think that calling it +“necking” made it respectable. It wasn’t a flirtation, with them. It +was more like a fight, where each of them was fighting for something +they did not want. A perfectly footless, none too wholesome +performance. + +“You make him behave himself, Sam,” I urged. + +“He is free, white and twenty-one. And she sure can take care of +herself, if ever a girl could. It’s none of my put-in.” + +“What about the rest of us,” I said, “forced to watch such goings on?” + +“Don’t watch. If you watch Belle, and Sadie and Goldie, that is +watching enough for one woman.” + +Belle, Sadie and Goldie were the Indian women I had, at that time, to +help me around the place. I suppose they were pretty good girls. They +did all the actual work there was to do around the house, except the +cooking, with me directing them every step they took. But when I +remember how they all deserted me, in the time of our terrible +trouble, it makes me so fighting mad that I don’t like to give them +credit for anything, nor think about them at all, even yet. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +Atmosphere + +The girls had been on the Desert Moon a little better than six weeks +when, one evening, Sam came out into my kitchen were I was setting +bread. Belle, Sadie and Goldie had gone home, and I had tidied up +after them, as usual, and everything in the kitchen was sweet, and +clean, and shining. I had the doors tight shut, so I couldn’t hear the +radio screeching away in the living-room, and the windows open, and +the evening breeze fresh from the deserts came in, blowing back my +ruffled white curtains and purifying the air. + +“Mary,” Sam began, real solemn for him, “the ancients used to have +cities that they called cities of refuge. No matter what a fellow had +done, if he could get inside into one of those cities, he was safe. +Your kitchen always kinda seems like that to me—a city of refuge.” + +“Lands, Sam,” I said, “what have you been up to that you are heading +this safety first movement?” + +To tell the truth, I was a little put out with him for moseying in +there when I was setting bread. Like most men I’ve known, Sam never +had any particular hankering for my company unless he thought I could +be of some use to him. Generally, I am glad and proud to help Sam, +anyway I can; but not when I am setting bread. There is something +about setting bread that gives any moral woman a contented, uplifted +feeling that she likes to indulge in, undisturbed. + +“I haven’t been up to anything,” Sam answered, “and I don’t aim to be. +But, Mary, some time ago you came to me with some suspicions. I +laughed them off. I am not laughing now. I’m worried. Queer things are +going on around here. What I want to know, now, is what do you know?” + +“Nothing. What do you know?” + +“Nothing.” + +“What do you suspect, then, Sam?” + +“Nothing. What do you?” + +“Nothing.” + +That, I see now, wouldn’t have been a bad place for us both to laugh. +Neither of us did. + +“Have you any idea,” Sam questioned, “why the girls go prowling all +over the place, afoot and horseback, day-times, and night-times, too, +when they should be in their beds?” + +I unfolded a dishtowel and spread it over my pan of bread. It was +ready for rising and I had not got a bit of uplift out of it. + +“If I told you,” I said, “you’d only speak your little memory-gem, +about so much good in the worst of us.” + +“No, I won’t, Mary. I’m all set for listening.” + +“Well, all I know is just what I’ve known all along. They are hunting +for something.” + +“Sure they are hunting for something. But what?” + +“I don’t know. But, whatever it is, they are going to use it to get +revenge, to injure maliciously somebody.” + +“Revenge, hell!” Sam said. + +“Have it your own way. Only I happened one night to hear Gaby say to +Danny that they had come to this ranch for the purpose of revenge.” + +“Revenge, hell!” Sam repeated himself. “Unless they are sore at me +about Canneziano.” + +“It doesn’t make sense. They hate Canneziano. I’ve about decided that +they have come here to get revenge on, maliciously injure, someone who +isn’t on the place.” + +“‘Brighten the corner where you are,’” Sam scoffed. “But never mind. +What else did they say, when you happened to overhear this revenge +remark?” + +If he was ready, at last, to listen, I was more than ready to tell +what little I knew. I told; even to confessing about hiding in the +clothes closet. + +“Well, well,” he drawled, when I had finished my story, “we are +probably making a mountain out of a molehill. I wouldn’t go +pussy-footing around after them, any more, if I were you, Mary. +There’s a screw loose somewhere, that’s sure; but it is not in the +Desert Moon’s machinery. We’ve got nothing on our consciences. We +don’t need to worry.” + +Don’t need to worry! Sam and I, sitting in that peaceful kitchen, +talking so smart and frivolous, and deciding that we did not need to +worry is a memory I could well be shed of. We didn’t need to worry a +bit more than if I’d used arsenic in my covered pan of bread; not a +bit more than if there had been a den of rattlesnakes in the cupboard +under the sink, or gasoline instead of water in the tank on the back +of the stove. That is how safe and peaceful we really were, at that +minute, if we had had sense enough to know it. When I realize that +four weeks from that very evening, three people—— + +But I guess it would be better to tell things straight along, as they +happened. It seems to me a good book can not be hurried, any more than +a good cake can. “Mix and sift the dry ingredients,” is the way all +recipes for cakes begin. + +However, since I suspected that I knew a sight more about making a +good cake than I did about making a good book, and since the young man +from back east—Indiana—in Nevada for his matrimonial health as are +about half of the population here, happened in just after I had +finished writing the above paragraph, I asked him whether he would, +for a consideration, read and correct my manuscript. + +He had said, when he had come in from his fishing on Boulder Creek, +that afternoon, and asked to buy a meal, that he was an author by +profession. The looks of him almost made me decide not to put myself +in his class. I don’t know why it is that easterners, coming out here +and buying the same sort of clothes that our men wear, look so +ridiculous in them; but they do. Anyway, I invited him to stay to +supper, and then, as I have said, made the proposition about the +manuscript. + +He said that he would be only too happy to edit the yarn, but that it +would probably take him several days to do it efficiently. In other +words, though he grandly refused the consideration, he got three full +days of board and rooms and fishing on the Desert Moon in return for +around two hours of work. And I got my clean pages all marked up with +“whoms” and “whichs” and funny dodad marks. It took me more than two +hours to get them all erased. + +“Now,” he said, when he finally had read it, “I am going to be frank +with you. You mention dry ingredients. In my opinion, you have far too +many dry ingredients, and it is taking you much too long to accomplish +the mixing process. + +“A book, to be successful, has to move swiftly. This is particularly +true of stories of crime and their detection. A properly constructed +story of this sort, begins with the murder. The wisest thing for you +to do, is to burn all of this that you have done, and make a fresh +beginning, at the time of the first murder. + +“In the new copy, do attempt to get in some atmosphere. You must make +your readers feel the setting, as it were. Bring them across the wide +and multicolored deserts that lie between here and Telko, to this +marvelous farm. Show them the massive mountain ranges surrounding it; +let them breathe the rarefied air, drink deeply of the beauty. Give +them the changing colors of the mountains, from their jade greens to +their rich ruby hues, with the purpling cloud shadows swaying across +them. Let them hear the scurrying of the desert rats, the calls of the +owls, the howls of the coyotes. Paint for them the slender white +trunks of your aspen trees, and the green quivering of their leaves. +The harsh, rugged beauty, the color, the wonder of this northeastern +Nevada of yours is marvelous beyond description. But for all of it +that your manuscript shows, the action might have taken place on a +chicken farm in Vermont.” + +“If the folks who read this story,” I said, “are downright pining for +Nevada atmosphere, let them come out here and get it. There is plenty +for all. A mile and a half of it, statistics show, for each person now +in the state. Nobody ever reads the descriptions in a story, anyway. +I’ve decided that authors put them in for the same reason that a cook, +when unexpected company comes, makes a double amount of dressing for +the chicken, or serves her creamed canned oysters on toast—to fill up, +to make enough to go around.” + +“Well, Mrs. Magin,” he said, “I can only remark that as an author you +are a most excellent cook.” + +“When I heard the first variation of that,” I said, “years, and years, +and years ago, I thought it was a little comical.” + +“I am sorry,” he answered. “I thought that you were the sort of person +who would appreciate sincere criticism, even though it might not be +wholly complimentary.” + +“Job wasn’t,” I told him, “and I don’t set up to be any better than he +was. What is more, if you can point to any man or woman in history or +out of it, who ever did appreciate sincere, uncomplimentary criticism, +I’ll pepper this story so full of atmosphere that folks will think +they are reading booster club’s literature about Florida.” + +He could not do it. Consequently, I continue this story in my own way, +stating that if any more atmosphere is in it, it got there by mistake. +My plan is to turn it out so that, from now on, not more than a page +of it can be skipped at one time and the rest of it make sense. + + + +CHAPTER IX + +The Cabin + +For three days, beginning with the fourth of July, there was to be a +big celebration and rodeo at Telko. Trying to keep cowpunchers on the +ranch, when there was a celebration of any sort going on within a +distance of a couple of hundred miles, would be about as sensible as +trying to keep gunpowder in a hot oven. So all the outfit that was on +the ranch—never very many in July—were tinkering with their flivvers, +and currying their mounts, and building up their boot-heels, and +washing and ironing, and making elaborate preparations to attend. + +Sam suggested at noon on the second of July, while we were at dinner, +that maybe all of us would like to go; all, that is, except Martha and +himself. Celebrations were never good for Martha. + +I spoke right up and said to count me out. I know the deserts in July. +But the boys were enthusiastic about it, and Danny was interested. +Gaby, coming in late, greeted the idea with the same enthusiasm with +which a woman greets moths in the clothes closet. + +“Whence the crave for a fourth of July celebration?” she asked. + +“We have never seen a rodeo,” Danny answered. + +“Go, by all means,” Gaby said. “Buy pink lemonade. March in the +parade. Ride in the Liberty car. Mrs. Magin would be stunning as the +goddess of Liberty, with——” + +“Don’t let my stunningness stop anything,” I said. “I am not going.” + +“We’ll think it over,” Danny said. “It would be a long, hot ride. +Probably we should all have a pleasanter time, right here at home.” + +But there was something in the way she had said it, too quickly in +answer to a look from Gaby, that made me think there was more to her +backing out of the plan than had appeared on the surface. + +Gaby had just begun her dinner. The rest of us had finished; so, +according to our custom, we excused ourselves and went our ways. Chad +tried to stay with Gaby, but Martha fussed and insisted that he come +with her. + +I had a sure feeling that Danny would return, and that she and Gaby +would have something to say to each other. I went into the kitchen and +told Belle to clean the stove. Nothing made Belle so angry as to have +to clean the stove. The angrier she got, the more she clattered. When +I stepped back into the pass-pantry, and opened the pass-window a +crack, the kitchen sounded as if half a dozen women were busy in it. + +Just as I opened the window I heard John say, “I thought Danny was in +here.” + +“No,” Gaby said. “But won’t you come in and talk to me?” + +“What about?” + +“About—this.” + +I dared not peek, so I did not know what she meant until she said, +“Why won’t you kiss me?” + +“Shall I say, I don’t want to pick flowers in Hubert Hand’s yard?” + +“I hate you!” + +“Don’t be sore at me, Gaby,” John said. “But I’m telling you, that’s a +lot nearer the truth than—than what you usually say.” + +John was one of the poorest talkers ever heard. One of those strong, +silent men supposed to abound in the west, and who are likewise +supposed to make every word that they say count. If John’s did, they +counted backwards. + +“My dear, haven’t I proven over and over again that I love you?” + +“I don’t know how.” + +“In every way. I have made myself ridiculous, here, because I haven’t +been able to conceal my feelings for you.” + +“I think,” John said, “that most of that stuff you pull is just to +spite Danny. It doesn’t spite her, though. She knows she’s the only +girl in the world for me. I wish you’d cut it out—all of that, Gaby. +Won’t you, and just be good friends?” + +“You’d not want me for an enemy, would you?” + +“Getting at anything, going any place, Gaby?” + +“Perhaps. If Danny should hear that you have made love to me——” + +“I have never made love to you. It would be your word against mine. I +think Danny would take mine, if it came to a show-down.” + +“You’d lie about it?” + +“Gosh, no, Gaby. A lot worse than that. I’d tell the truth about it. +Listen here, child; don’t you try to make trouble between Danny and +me.” + +“Meaning?” + +“Nothing. Except that it wouldn’t be healthy for anyone who tried it.” + +“Boo-oo! Dangerous Dan McGrew stuff? Out where men are men? Killer +loose to-night—all that, eh, Johnnie?” + +“Nothing like that,” he said, and his voice was so gentle that if Gaby +had been a puncher she would have reached for her six-gun. “But +killing would be too good for the imaginary person we are talking +about.” + +A door opened. “John,” came in Danny’s voice, “uncle is looking +everywhere for you.” + +“What,” Danny questioned, when the door had closed behind John, “made +you both look so angry, just now?” + +“Nothing important. John had just threatened to kill me, but——” + +“Don’t be silly.” + +“Never mind. Are you going to that fools’ celebration, with only a day +or two left, now?” + +“I suppose not, if you don’t want me to. I’d love going. I know there +is no use in staying here.” + +“In other words, you would sacrifice my future for a rodeo?” + +“That is silly.” + +“Everything is always silly, with you. I more than half believe that +you know——” + +“That’s sil—— I mean, what possible object could I have?” + +“Many, my dear. Very many. Though I think that getting rid of me would +outweigh the others.” + +“Gaby, I don’t want to get rid of you. I wish you would not be so +silly, with John. But you know how eager I was to get you away from +the continent. I wish I knew that you were going to stay right here +for always.” + +“Is that your game? Listen to me, Danielle Canneziano, if I thought +that you were keeping this from me, in order to bury me alive in this +God-forsaken hole, and force me to watch you and John——” + +“Gaby!” + +“I’ve been a fool! Why can’t I learn to take into consideration your +damn moralities? Understand this, Dan. Don’t fancy for one instant +that failure is going to keep me here. Did you think, with a weapon +like that in my hands, that I’d stand for anything less than a +fifty-fifty proposition? Our original plan would have been +better—easier, simpler. But I’ll have my share out of this, anyway. +So, if you do know——” + +“Gaby, I don’t know. I’ll swear that I don’t. How could I? But surely +you wouldn’t—wouldn’t attempt——” + +“That is for you to say, darling.” + +Darling, as she said it then, was as wicked a word as I had ever +listened to. + +“For me to say?” + +“Give John to me. I’ve changed my mind. If you’ll do that, I’ll stay +right here, and settle down, and do an imitation of a moral, model +wife that would satisfy even you.” + +“Gaby, you speak as if John were a child’s toy, to be passed about. I +couldn’t give him to you, if I were willing to.” + +“You could, and you know it. You won’t. So, that’s that. But keep your +righteous fingers out of my life; stop your damn preaching, and +meddling. I am going to the cabin now. You would better come with me.” + +“We’ve searched that cabin a thousand times.” + +“All the same, it is the one logical place; far removed, and under +cover. Too, I must see whether that Indian nailed those floor boards +down again, before I pay him.” + +The cabin is the one Sam built to live in when he first came to the +valley. It is up Boulder Creek, about half a mile from the +ranch-house, and, built in a big grove of aspen trees, it is one of +the prettiest spots on the place. Sam has kept it in repair, inside +and out; owing, I think, to sentimental memories, though he declares +it is because he dislikes wreckage on the place. The best fishing on +the creek begins just above there; so the men, as a rule, leave their +fishing paraphernalia in the cabin’s kitchen. That is the only use the +place has been put to, since John and Martha were little things, and +Sam used to hide their Christmas presents up there, under the shelf in +the kitchen. + +The shelf, about three feet wide, is built across one end of the +kitchen. It served Sam for a table, pantry, and sink. Being a man, he +built it right handily, like a chest, so that the entire top of it had +to be raised to get to the storage place underneath. There was no +secret about it. All anyone had to do, was to move everything off the +top of it, and lift the lid. But I had read how the hardest problems +for detectives always turned out to be something that had been too +simple to notice; so my plan was to go up there and raise the lid. + +On my way, I met the girls coming home. I imagined that they looked at +me with suspicion. I passed a remark about the sweet-smelling clover +hay, and hurried right along. + +Half an hour later, when I was expecting instant death at any minute, +I thought about that sweet clover smell, and how unappreciative I have +been of it, and of the blue sky and fresh air, and of the green +things, lighted yellow with sunshine, and I took a vow that, if I ever +did get a chance to enjoy them again, I would spend the remainder of +my life in so doing, and in being grateful to the Creator of them. The +same as the last time I had a jumping toothache, I thought that, if +that tooth ever did stop aching, nothing could ever make me unhappy +again; I was going to be peacefully happy, always, for the reason that +I did not have a toothache. Human nature, I have since decided, is +never happy because of negatives. At least, I have never known anyone +who was happy, for long, because he did not have a toothache, or was +not in a hospital, or not hungry, or not—which brings me back to my +story—shut up in a chest with packages of explosives. + +In the cabin, I went at once to the kitchen; and, removing +fish-baskets, fly-books, and reels from the shelf, lifted it back. + +I am sure that I had expected to find it empty. Perhaps I had hoped to +find a small iron box containing a treasure, or a jewel-casket, or +maybe an aged leather case, containing the missing will, or the plans +of some secret fortification—any of the simple, ordinary things +generally hunted for and discovered. What I had not expected to find, +and what I certainly had never hoped to find, was what was there: any +number of neatly wrapped packages, addressed to Mr. Sam Stanley, sent +by express, and labeled, variously, “Danger.” “Explosives.” “Handle +with Care.” + + + +CHAPTER X + +A Conversation + +I am not claiming that I possessed one particle of common sense at +that minute, nor for a good many minutes after that. My actions would +give the lie, direct, to any such assertion on my part. It did not +take any common sense to know, straight off, that, sent to him or not, +Sam was not mixed up in any business that had to do with explosives, +bombs, and Bolshevism. It was easy enough to remember, then, that Sam +had not been to Rattail for the past ten days; that Hubert Hand had +been making the trips down for the mail, expressage, and supplies. + +Just as he came into my mind, I heard his voice. It was a startling +coincidence; but I need a better excuse than that, for surely no +mortal ever did a more foolish thing than I did then. I climbed into +that chest, along with those packages, and lowered the lid down over +me. If I had any idea, I suppose it must have been a desire not to let +him know that I had discovered his secret—his and Gaby’s together, +undoubtedly—but I can’t remember having any thought at all until, just +as the lid closed, I remembered the sad poem about the bride and the +mistletoe chest. + +I thought, then, that her situation was comfortable compared to mine. +If you have never been packed in a box with a lot of explosives, as I +hope you have not, you can have no notion of what I went through. I +could have climbed out. But, if you are an elderly woman, of my size +and build, as I hope you are not, and if you have a certain reputation +for dignity to live up to, and a certain reputation for snooping to +live down, you can have an idea why I didn’t come springing out of +there, like a jack-in-the-box, or like the immoral ladies who emerge +from pies—so the papers say—at bachelor’s parties. I weighed the +matter carefully, as I heard, through the thin boards, Hubert Hand, +talking to someone, come into the kitchen. I chose death by +suffocation or combustion. + +“My dear woman,” were the first words I heard from him, “you may set +your mind at rest. I am not going to marry the girl. I am not a +marrying man, as you know; and, if I were, she wouldn’t have me.” + +“You leave her alone, then. Understand me. Leave her alone.” + +If I believed my ears, that was Mrs. Ricker’s voice; that was Mrs. +Ricker, not only talking, but talking like that to Hubert Hand. + +“You flatter me,” he said. “Jealous, still, after all these years?” + +“I despise you. But you leave that girl alone. If you think I’ll +stand, silent, and allow you to marry her——” + +“Hire a hall. I told you that I wouldn’t marry her, and that she +wouldn’t have me, if I were willing to.” + +“Wouldn’t she, though? Wouldn’t she? She is mad about you. She can’t +look at you without love in her eyes, nor speak to you without love in +her voice. She tries to hide it; but she can’t hide it from me. I +know. She loves you.” + +I am not sure whether I read it, or whether I figured it out for +myself; but I do know it is a fact that no woman ever accuses another +woman of being in love with a man unless she could imagine being in +love with him herself. + +“As to that,” Hubert Hand said, in that preeny, offhand manner that +men, who will discuss their love affairs at all, use when discussing +them, “what possible difference could it make to you, Ollie?” + +“Only that I would kill her, and you, too, before I would let her have +you.” + +“Easy on there, my girl. Your last attempt at murder—at least I hope +that was your last attempt—was not, you may recall, very successful.” + +“I would be successful another time.” + +I clamped my teeth to keep them from chattering. I wished that I had +some way as easy for muffling the sound made by the pounding of my +heart, which was thudding away as loudly as a butter churn in rapid +action. Except for that I kept quiet; very quiet. Surrounded, in there +by explosives, and out there by people who talked of murder as calmly +and as comfortably as if they were discussing moss-roses, very quiet +did not seem half quiet enough. + +They went into the other room of the cabin and stayed there for a few +minutes. I could not hear what they were saying, but I did not budge +an inch. After I heard them passing the window, and was sure that they +had left the cabin, I remained, very quiet, in the chest for about +five minutes longer before climbing out of it. + +I was progressing toward home, shivering in every bone, limping, since +both my legs had gone to sleep, when Sam, riding his bad tempered +bronco named Wishbone, came up behind me and dismounted. + +“Corns bad, Mary?” he questioned. “Must be going to have rain.” + +“Keep water in the ditches. Both my feet are asleep, from the ankles +up.” + +“Upon my soul! First time in history you ever sat still in one place +long enough to have that happen. Well, well. ‘Do the thing that’s +nearest.’ Want to climb up on Wishbone and have me lead him?” + +“When I go to meet death,” I told him, “I shan’t go on the back of a +nasty tempered bronco.” + +“Speaking of tempers,” Sam grinned, “a person would think I had sung +your feet to sleep, Mary.” + +“Considering,” I replied, “that everyone on the Desert Moon is, at +this minute, in mortal danger of their lives, all your lighthearted +jesting seems pretty much out of place.” + +I told him, then, about the packages of explosives hidden under the +shelf. I had not told him about my climbing in with them; so I was in +no way prepared for his actions. + +He stopped. He dropped Wishbone’s bridle. He put both his hands on his +stomach and leaned over and burst into uproarious laughter. +“Ho-ho-ho,” it rolled out, seeming to fill the entire valley. He +leaned to one side; he leaned to the other side, and kept on laughing +to deafen the far distant deserts. + +“Fireworks,” he gasped. “I got them for Martha. Going to surprise her +on the fourth. Sent for them months ago. Hid them up there. Ho-ho-ho! +I told you to stop pussy-footing around, Mary. Ho-ho-ho! ‘Do not look +for wrong and evil, you will find them if you do——’” + +With as much dignity as a heavy woman, with both of her legs asleep, +could muster, I turned and left him. His words and his actions had +certainly given me one decision. From this time on, I would tell Sam +Stanley nothing. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +The Letter + +When I got back to the house, John was driving up the road in the +sedan. He had been to Rattail for supplies and for the mail. He tossed +the mailbag out to me, and drove around to the kitchen door to unload. + +As a rule the Desert Moon mail is mighty uninteresting, being made up, +almost entirely, of bills and advertising matter. Since the girls had +come, a few sleazy, foreign looking letters had livened it up a bit. +To a person who has never been farther east than Salt Lake City, a +letter from England, or from France, does carry quite a thrill with +it. There was a letter for Gaby to-day, postmarked France. + +About a month before this, Gaby had received another letter that was a +duplicate of this one; the same gray paper, the same sprawling +handwriting. Instead of taking it indifferently, as she did other +letters, and reading it wherever she happened to be, she had snatched +it out of my hand and had run off to her room. All that evening she +had seemed to be preoccupied, and worried. The writing looked like a +man’s writing; but, like a lot of other things, including cigarette +smoke, hip pockets and hair cuts, it is not as easy as it used to be +to distinguish between male and female in handwriting, at a distance. +Sending only two letters in close to two months, it seemed to me that +whoever had written them did not write unless he or she had something +of importance to say. I was still puzzling over it, when Gaby came +into the room. + +Sure enough, she snatched it out of my hands, just as she had done +with the other letter, and ran straight upstairs with it. + +When John and Danny came in, a few minutes later, I went upstairs. +Habit stopped me at Gaby’s door for a minute, with my ear to the +keyhole. Faintly, sounds don’t come plainly through our thick doors, I +heard the portable typewriter that she had brought with her when she +came to the ranch, click, clicking away. + +My first judgment was that she was not losing any time in answering +that letter; but, as I went down the hall, I had a hazy notion that +there had been something queer, different, about the way she had been +using the machine. Instead of snapping away on it, lickety-split, as +she usually did, she had been touching the keys slowly and carefully, +picking them out one at a time, the way I have to do when I try to use +Sam’s plaguey machine to copy recipes for my card catalog. + +I was tuckered and tired. So, after telephoning some instructions to +Belle and Sadie in the kitchen, I took plenty of time to tidy myself +up. I dawdled in my bath, and I cut my corns, and rubbed hair tonic +into my scalp. But, when on my way downstairs again, I stopped for a +second at Gaby’s door, the typewriter was still going, with its slow +click, click. There was nothing to be made out of it, so I went along. +It was fortunate that I did, because, before I had reached the top of +the stairway, Gaby’s door flung open and she called to me, with +something in her voice that made me shake in my shoes. + +I turned and looked at her. Her face wore an expression that was not +human; an expression that would have made any decent woman do as I +did, and turn her eyes quickly away. + +“Tell Danny to come up here,” she said. + +I hurried off downstairs, and delivered the message to Danny who was +with John in the living-room. + +“What’s the matter, Mary?” John questioned, when Danny had gone +upstairs. “You look as if you had seen a ghost.” + +“I think,” I answered, “that I have—the ghost of Sin.” + +“Doggone that girl,” he said. “I wish she were in Jericho.” + +“Gaby, you mean?” + +“You’re darn right. She’s causing all the trouble around here.” + +“What trouble?” I asked, just for a feeler. + +“I don’t know—exactly. She keeps Danny miserable. But that isn’t it, +or not all of it. Don’t you seem to feel trouble around here, all the +time? I thought everyone did. I do, Gosh knows.” + +“I know,” I said. “I feel it, too. I think Sam does, though he won’t +altogether admit it. Just the same, John, there isn’t a thing we can +put our fingers on, is there?” + +He walked to the window and looked out at the long range of Garnet +Mountains, turning blood-red, now, under the sunset. + +“I suppose not,” he said, at last. “Sometimes, though, when I see +Danny looking as she looked when she went upstairs just now, I feel as +if it would be a good thing if somebody would put their fingers around +that vixen’s throat.” + +“John,” I spoke sharply to him, “don’t say things like that. You don’t +mean it. It is wrong to say it.” + +I was sure that he did not mean it. I was sure that only the voice of +one of his rare ugly moods had spoken, and that the wicked thought had +died with the wicked words. But, from that day to this, I have never +repeated those words to a living soul. Because that was the way that +Gaby was murdered: choked to death, with great brutal bruises left on +her throat. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +An Insight + +In spite of all my efforts not to do so, I have, again, run on ahead +of the story. But, I declare to Goodness, the horror of it, after all +these months, is still so strong upon me, that I know the only way to +get that written is to write it, with no more dilly-dally, and then to +go back and lead up to it properly with the events that immediately +preceded it. + +That evening, then, the second of July, the two girls came down, late, +together. Danny was paler than usual, and her face had a drawn, hurt +look, which she explained by saying that she had a severe headache. +Gaby was gayer than gay. + +I kept watching her, trying to catch her face in repose, to see if any +trace remained of that dreadful expression I had seen in the +afternoon. Her face, nor one bit of her, was in repose for a minute +from the time she came downstairs until she went upstairs again, after +twelve o’clock that night. + +She put “La Paloma” on the phonograph, and did a Spanish dance, +clicking her heels and snapping her fingers until they sounded like +firecrackers. She did an Egyptian dance, slinking about, and +contortioning. It wasn’t decent. She got the whole crowd, including +the girls from the kitchen (who had stayed to gape through the door at +her dancing, instead of going home as they should have gone), and +excluding only Danny, with her headache, Mrs. Ricker and me, to join +in a game of follow the leader, and she led them a wild chase all over +the house from cellar to attic. Laughing, and jumping, and screaming, +and shouting they went, with the radio shrieking out the jazz +orchestra in Los Angeles; and me with depression so heavy upon me that +it felt real, like indigestion. + +Mrs. Ricker was doing some tatting. As I watched her, I decided that, +ears or no ears, she was not the woman I had heard talking, that +afternoon, up in the cabin. Hubert Hand had said to that woman that +she had attempted murder. She could not have been Mrs. Ricker, not our +Mrs. Ricker, the thin, silent woman who had lived so decently with us +for so long. Those white, bony fingers, darting the shuttle back and +forth, making edgings for handkerchiefs, had never held any murderous +weapon. Those tight, wrinkled lips had never said, “I would kill her, +and you too.” John had never said—I shivered. It was fanciful +thinking, but it seemed to me that for years the Desert Moon had +ridden in our sky, clean and clear, a lucky, fair weather moon, and +that now the shadow of the wicked world was slowly creeping over it, +inch by inch, with the darkness that was to end in its eclipse. Wicked +thoughts and wicked words breed wicked actions, and I knew it then as +now. + +Martha came crying to Mrs. Ricker. “Gaby hurt Chad,” she said. “I wish +she would die. We could make her a nice funeral.” + +Mrs. Ricker’s fingers darted faster, back and forth. + +Danny spoke, from the davenport. “You shouldn’t talk like that, +Martha, dear. It is wrong.” + +Her voice sounded as if it ached. She looked, lying in a huddle over +there, as miserable as I felt. I was drawn to her. I went and sat +beside her. + +“Could I do anything for your headache?” I asked. “Get you some +asperin, maybe.” + +“No, thank you, Mary.” There was so much gratitude in her big dark +eyes for nothing but common decency on my part, that I felt downright +ashamed of myself. + +“Danny,” I said, straight out, never caring much about mincing words, +“I know that something is troubling you. Why don’t you tell John, or +Sam, or even me about it? Just tell us the truth. We’d all go far to +help you, if we could.” + +Her eyes filled with tears. “Bless your heart, Mary,” she said. “Bless +all of your hearts. You are all so good, here——” + +I was enough annoyed with John for coming up right then, to have +slapped him. I answered his question for Danny. + +“There is plenty you could do for her,” I said. “You could shut off +that screeching radio, for one thing. And you could quiet down, and +get the others quieted down. Nobody ever told me that noise like this +was a remedy for a splitting headache; did they you?” + +“The dickens! By Gollies! It is a wonder you wouldn’t have told me +before, Mary.” Man fashion, putting the blame on me. + +Danny wouldn’t hear to John’s stopping the racket. Everyone was having +such a good time. Bed was the place for her. She couldn’t hear any +noise in her room, with the door shut. And off she went. + +I know now that she would not have told me anything that could have +helped matters. But I did not know it then, and I was sorely +disappointed. For those sudden tears in her eyes, and her voice when +she had said, “bless your heart,” had convinced me that there was +sincerity behind them, and honesty, and good. + +In the black days that followed, when all of us were living in the +dark shadows of doubts, and confusions, and fears and suspicions, I +was thankful, time and again, for those certainties, for that one +fleeting but sure insight into Danny’s soul. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +The Quarrel + +The morning of the third was biting hot, with that stinging, piercing +heat that we have, when we have heat at all, in this high altitude. +The sixty mile trip across the deserts to Telko, on a day like this, +would be exactly the same as a sixty mile trip through an oven at the +right heat for a roast of beef. + +Nevertheless, before seven o’clock that morning, every man-jack of a +puncher on the place, with all of his trimmings and trappings, +including wives, squaws, papooses, children and firearms, had set off +in flivvers or on horseback, bound for the celebration, leaving the +place hole-empty, as Sam said, when he came into my kitchen with a +gallon of cream from the dairy. + +He pulled the stool out from under the table, perched on it, and +remarked, as cheerfully as if he were reading it off a tombstone, +“‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’” + +I didn’t want him bothering me in the kitchen, when I had everything +to do, with Belle, Sadie and Goldie gone gadding; but being a woman, +normal I hope, I asked him what he meant by that. + +“I’m not going to be surprised,” he answered, “if we have another +visitor, one of these days.” + +“Nor me either,” I said, though much astonished, because it was as if +he had read my mind. At that minute I had been worrying about Sadie. +She was expecting her baby, before long, and Land only knew what such +a trip as she was off taking now, and the celebration to boot, might +precipitate. “That fool girl,” I went on. “It wouldn’t surprise me a +bit if this was the death of her—not a bit.” + +“Pshaw!” Sam said. “What have you found out, Mary?” + +“She told me herself, the last of July.” + +“Yes? I thought all along that she knew.” + +Since he seemed as sober as an owl, and as serious, I decided that +there was no answer to make, and I made none. + +“She’s off a few weeks, though. I sent a telegram, and got an answer +yesterday. It is the fourth of July.” + +“Sam,” I found breath to retort, “one of us is plumb crazy. I think it +is you. Do you think it is me?” + +“Not to make any bones about it,” Sam said, “I have thought, here +lately, that every dang soul on the place was only saved from being in +the asylum because of the ignorance of the authorities. But, in this +case, I think I am sane and certain. I wired the warden of the +penitentiary. He said that Daniel Canneziano was to be released on the +morning of the fourth of July. Gaby told you the last of July? +Probably some time off, for good behavior.” + +“I wasn’t talking about Canneziano,” I snapped. “And how did I know +you were? I was talking about Sadie’s baby.” + +I dropped into a chair, feeling sort of weakened from the news about +Canneziano, and waited with what patience I could for Sam to stop +laughing. + +“You mark my words,” I said, when the laugh had gone down to a silly +giggle, over which I could make myself heard, “all these queer actions +around here have something to do with that man’s release.” + +“I’ll bet you,” Sam said. “But blame my soul if I know what to do, +about anything.” + +“I know what I’d do about Canneziano, if he shows up here,” I told +him. + +“Yes, I know. But he is Danny’s father, and Danny is going to marry +John. After all, money is not much good unless you take it to market. +If I could come to a decent agreement with the fellow—— And if he’d +take that Gaby with him. I’m dead certain that her hanging around here +isn’t going to contribute any to John’s and Danny’s married life——” + +“What do you mean by that, Sam?” Gaby asked the question, walking +right into the kitchen. I was all taken aback; but Sam didn’t seem to +be. + +“Eavesdroppers, my girl,” he said, “hear no good of themselves. I mean +that I don’t think any girl who wanted to act right would treat her +sister’s betrothed as you treat John.” + +“You,” she said, very slowly, to make insult baste each word, “are a +damned old fool, Sam Stanley.” + +I shook in my shoes. I had not dreamed that there was a living human +being who would dare say that, in that tone of voice, to Sam. + +He stood up. He put his hands on her shoulders, gently though, and +turned her around. + +“You are a bad, wayward girl,” he said. “March out of here, now, and +get your manners mended before I see you again.” + +He sobered even her, for a minute. She walked to the door, without +another word. There, she whirled around like a crazy thing, and, I +declare to Goodness, I don’t know what she said. It was the sort of +talking I had never heard in my life; my ears were not enough +accustomed to the words to take in their meanings. But one thing that +she kept screaming, screaming so loudly that she could be heard all +over the place, was that Sam had threatened her once too often. Sam +stood there, paralyzed, I think, as I was, for perhaps a couple of +minutes, before he turned and walked off, into the backyard. + +Hubert Hand came rushing in. Gaby threw her arms around his neck, and +kept on with the screaming and sobbing. Chad came in through the +pantry. Mrs. Ricker opened the door that was at the foot of the back +stairway. + +She stood there, in the doorway, watching Hubert Hand, with both his +arms around Gaby, petting and soothing her. She dampened her tight +lips with her tongue; but, without saying a word, she went back up the +stairs, closing the door behind her. Hubert Hand led Gaby into the +dining-room, and through it into the living-room. + +“What in God’s name happened?” Chad said to me. + +I went and washed my face and took a drink of water. “Chad,” I said, +“Gabrielle Canneziano has lost her mind. She is insane.” + +His face went white as lard. “I don’t believe it.” + +“Either that,” I said, “or else she is the wickedest, the——” + +“Stop it,” he shouted at me. “You, nor anyone, can talk to me like +that about the girl I love.” + +“Love! Love your foot!” I snapped at him. The idea of mooning about +love to me, at a time like that. + +“None of you understands her,” he said, “nor tries to. She is in some +sort of trouble—terrible trouble. Anyone can see that. I’d give my +soul to help her—— To serve her——” + +“If you are so crazy about serving her,” I said, “you might go into +the dining-room and set the table, and help me serve her, and the rest +of you, some breakfast.” + +He went into the yard. Like a lot of men, I thought, who want to give +their souls and so on to women, he didn’t care to be bothered with +smaller details, such as feeding them. + +I wronged him. Whether or not a man has the giving of his soul, in his +own hands, I do not know. A man can give his life. That is what Chad +gave. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +Two Departures + +After dinner, which we didn’t have until nearly one o’clock on the +fourth of July, owing to Chad’s not getting the ice-cream frozen on +time, John surprised us all by saying that he was going to take the +sedan and drive down to Rattail for the mail. + +I suspicioned, right then, that he was up to something. He could not +fool me into thinking that he would take a fifty mile trip—twenty-five +miles each way—through the desert heat for no other reason than to get +the mail. He couldn’t do any trading, since all of Rattail would be +off to the Telko celebration. When Danny seemed hurt and troubled +about him going, and when he went riding right off, anyway, I decided +that Sam must have sent him, expecting some word concerning +Canneziano. I was wrong. + +We had had a stiff breeze, with a promising sprinkle of rain in the +morning; but it had died down about noon and, at two o’clock, it was +too tarnation hot to do anything but try to keep cool. I stacked the +dinner dishes, to wash in the evening, and joined the others, sitting +around in the living-room with the electric fans going full blast. + +Sam, chess board in hand, stopped long enough by my chair to say in an +undertone, “What did I tell you, Mary? ‘It is always darkest, just +before the dawn.’” + +That piece of optimism from him was due, in part, to the extra good +holiday dinner he had just eaten; and in part to a sense of quiet, +edging close to peace, that had pervaded the place since morning. I +had noticed it, too, with thankfulness, and had accounted for it with +the supposition that Gaby had spent all of her energy in meanness the +day before, and was obliged to rest up for a spell. + +“That’s a nice little piece,” I answered Sam. “There is another one, +though, isn’t there, about a lull before the storm?” + +That was not pure contrariness on my part. I was expecting, every +minute, to see Gaby break out again. She didn’t. She yawned around, +and fussed about, and then went and sat beside Danny, who was looking +at the pictures in _The Ladies Home Journal_, and put her arm around +her, and petted her up a little—a most unusual performance for her. + +When Chad, who had been monkeying with the radio, got a rip-roaring +patriotic program from Salt Lake, the two girls went upstairs +together. + +A few minutes later I had an errand upstairs—a real one, I wouldn’t +have taken myself up in that heat to satisfy any curiosity—so, out of +habit, I stopped at Gaby’s door to listen. I heard the girls giggling +in there; and, knowing no great harm is afoot when girls giggle, I +went on, got my scrap of pongee silk to mend Sam’s shirt, and came +downstairs again. + +Sam and Hubert Hand were deep in their chess game. Mrs. Ricker was +tatting. Chad and Martha were playing dots and crosses. In spite of +the noise from the radio, there was a comfortable feeling about the +room that made me lonesome for the days we had all had together before +the Canneziano girls had come. + +The radio program, which was to last from two until four o’clock, had +just that minute stopped. Martha, who when she didn’t forget it, +usually fed her rabbits about that time of day, had gone out to do it. +Gaby came downstairs, humming a tune. + +She had on the tomato soup colored wrap that she had worn on the +train, and the hat to match the wrap. She was carrying a beaded bag. +She never dressed up like that, to go walking around the place; a +wrap, even such a light one, in the heat of that day, was downright +ridiculous. + +Chad said, “All dressed up and no place to go?” + +She tossed her head at him, and hurried straight down the room and out +through the glass doors. Chad followed her. They stopped together on +the porch. She stood with her back to me. Chad faced me. In a minute, +I saw his mouth bend up into a grin of bliss. Nothing would have +surprised me more. For this reason. + +As that girl had walked through the room, I had seen that she walked +in mortal fear. In spite of her humming, in spite of her attempted +swagger, fear was in her widened eyes, in her drawn in chin, in the +contraction of her shoulders. Wherever it was that she was going, she +was afraid to go. But where could she go? John had the sedan. Except +for the trucks, which she couldn’t drive, and her pony—she surely +would not be dressed like that to ride horseback—there was no way for +her to get off the place. It must be, then, that someone was coming to +the place, and that she was going out alone to meet them. Who? +Canneziano? Not unless Sam had been mistaken about the time when he +was to be released from prison. Usually, when people think at all, +they think quickly. All this had gone through my mind while she had +walked the forty feet to the door. Before Chad smiled, I had spoken to +Mrs. Ricker. + +“That girl,” I said, “is afraid of something.” + +Mrs. Ricker darted her tatting shuttle back and forth. She moistened +her lips, with her tongue; but changed her mind and said nothing. + +Gaby and Chad stood on the porch talking for two or three minutes—a +very short time, at any rate. Then she went down the steps, and Chad, +still smiling, came back into the room. + +As he came in, Danny called down from the top of the stairway. +“Gaby—oh, Gaby?” + +She knows where Gaby is going, and whom she is going to meet, and she, +too, is afraid, I decided, because of the queer, strained quality of +her voice. + +“Gaby has gone out,” I called, in answer. And then, since I could +still see Gaby, walking down the path, “Do you want her, Danny? We +could fetch her back.” + +“No,” Danny answered. “Don’t bother. I’ll come down.” + +I had to reverse my first decision about Danny’s being frightened. At +least, her voice was natural enough, now; I fancied, perhaps, a note +of relief in it. + +It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes after that, when Martha +came running into the house, laughing and dancing, and wearing the +gold bracelet with the monkey clasp. Gaby, she said, had given it to +her, just now, out by the rabbit hutch. + +While we were all still exclaiming over the monkey, and praising it +up, to please Martha, Danny came downstairs. She was freshly dressed, +and sweet smelling with the nice, quiet flower scent she used, but she +looked really ill. She said her headache was worse again, and she drew +the curtains at the windows beside the big davenport, to ease the +glare of the light, before she curled up on it. + +I thought it was a good time to continue the conversation we had begun +the other evening. + +“Danny,” I said, as I sat down beside her, “if you just could tell +John, or Sam, or me what is troubling you, I am pretty sure that we +could find some way out.” + +“Bless your hearts,” she repeated. “You are all too good. I am afraid +I can’t tell you what has been troubling me. But I can tell you, +honestly, that I think now the worst of the troubles are over. They +never were really mine, you see; they were Gaby’s. And now Gaby has +decided to—well, stop being troubled. + +“We had a good long talk this afternoon. She has made me some +promises. She is going to try to act differently, to be good—as she +used to say when we were little. She had a dreadful disappointment day +before yesterday. It made her act very badly—at first. She has decided +now to make the best of it, for there is a best of it to make. You’ve +noticed how much better she acted last evening and all of to-day? She +is making a fresh start. You see, she has even given Martha her +precious monkey. I am sure we shall all be much happier, from now on.” + +“Do you know where she was going this afternoon?” I asked. + +“For a little walk.” + +“Why did she wear her wrap, and carry her beaded bag, just to go out +for a little walk?” + +Danny sat up straight, pressing her hands to her aching head. “Her +wrap—to-day? Her beaded bag? Surely not.” + +“That’s just what she did. Didn’t you see her before she left?” + +“I was lying down. She came to my door and said that she was going for +a walk, and asked me if I cared to go with her. I said that my +headache was too severe. She went into her room, and from there +downstairs. I felt guilty about refusing to go with her, after our +talk. I thought that I should; so I called after her. But, when you +said she had gone, I was afraid she would be annoyed at being called +back. I had gotten up; so, since John will surely be home before long, +now, I came down. I can’t understand her wearing a wrap. It is so +silly, on a day like this.” + +It sounded all right, but I was not quite satisfied. + +“I thought,” I said, “that, when you called after her, you were +frightened, or worried, or—something.” + +“Frightened? No, Mary, I had nothing to be frightened about.” + +“Gaby was frightened,” I said. + +“Gaby! She couldn’t have been. She was all right this afternoon. +Nothing could have happened since then.” + +“I don’t know. Something was the matter with her when she walked +through this room. I’ll go bond that, wherever it was she was going, +she was afraid to go.” + +“Mary, it must be that you are imagining this. Unless—Oh, it couldn’t +be that Gaby has not told me the truth about—about anything. I am sure +she was honest with me this afternoon. I am sure—— And yet—— Dear me, +I wonder where she went for her walk?” + +“She talked to Chad, just before she left. Maybe she told him where +she was going.” + +Danny called the question across the room to Chad, who was improvising +cheerful, happy music on the piano. + +“Not a word,” Chad spoke above his music, “except that she was going +for a walk and didn’t want my company.” + +“Gaby told me,” Martha piped up, from where she was sitting on the arm +of Sam’s chair, “that she was going to the cabin. She was in a big +hurry. She ran.” + +“Up toward the cabin?” Danny questioned, though we all knew we could +not put a mite of trust in anything Martha said. + +“Yes. Chad loves me better’n he loves her. Don’t you, Chad?” + +“You are positive,” Danny insisted, and I couldn’t see why, for a +minute, “that she went to the cabin, or toward it? You aren’t fibbing, +are you, Martha dear? Are you sure that she didn’t go around the house +toward the road?” + +When she asked about the road, her meaning was clear to me. Danny was +afraid that Gaby had gone to meet John, who should have been back from +Rattail before this. But, if she had hoped to get anything out of +Martha, she had made a mistake in her questioning. For anyone to +accuse Martha of a fib, was to make her stick to it like a waffle to +an ungreased pan. + +“She told me she was going to the cabin,” Martha answered. “She ran. +She was in a hurry.” + +Danny stood up. “I think I shall walk up to the cabin and see whether +I can find her. You’ll come with me, Mary?” + +I said not in the heat. Besides, it would soon be five o’clock, and +time to be starting supper. She asked Mrs. Ricker to go with her. Mrs. +Ricker refused. I wondered why, when neither of us would go, Danny did +not go by herself. She did not. Had she, perhaps, guessed at the cause +of Gaby’s fear? Did she share it? Was she afraid to go to the cabin +alone? + + + +CHAPTER XV + +One Return + +At five o’clock the men put up the chess board. Chad stopped playing +the piano, and the three of them went to the barns together. + +I went into the kitchen to get supper. Danny, in spite of her +headache, insisted upon helping me. She did the best she could. She +managed to get the table set, in between times when she was not +running to the window to see whether John was coming. + +At six o’clock, though neither John nor Gaby had returned, we sat down +to supper. Danny was too nervous to touch a bit of food. She kept +looking out of the windows, and at her watch, and out of the windows +again. + +“Don’t worry, Danny,” Sam said. “John has had tire trouble, on account +of the heat. They’ll come riding up the road any minute now.” + +“They?” she questioned. + +“Gaby togged up and went down the road to meet John, didn’t she?” + +“No,” Danny’s voice curled into a wail. “No, Uncle Sam, she didn’t. +Martha saw her going to the cabin. Didn’t you, Martha?” + +“Martha,” Mrs. Ricker astonished us all by saying, “doesn’t know where +Gaby went. She knows only where Gaby told her she was going.” + +“But why should Gaby tell her a fib about it?” Danny asked. + +“And why,” I questioned, “should Gaby go around the house to get to +the road, instead of going right out the front way?” + +Again Mrs. Ricker shocked us by speaking. “She would not go out the +front way, if she wanted to keep her trip to the road a secret.” + +“Mrs. Ricker,” Danny’s voice trembled, “What are you hinting? What is +it that you know?” + +“I know,” said Mrs. Ricker, “that there is not a man living who is not +as false as sin.” + +Sam growled, “Come down to facts, Mrs. Ricker, if you have any.” + +I think it was the first time Sam had ever spoken unpleasantly to her. +He betrayed his own anxiety by so doing. It was easy to see that she +was cut to the quick. + +“I have no facts,” she said, “except, that right after dinner to-day +John and Gaby had a private conversation, and he decided, very +suddenly, to go for the mail.” + +At that minute we heard a sound for sore ears—the car coming up the +driveway. Danny jumped up and ran to look out of the living-room +window. “He has gone all the way around to the kitchen,” she said, +when she came back. If it had not been sort of pathetic, showing how +worried she had been, her impatience at having to wait another minute +or so to see him, would have been funny. + +She ran into the kitchen. She and John came to the door of the +butler’s pantry. John was gray with dust. His brows were knitted, as +they are whenever he is troubled about anything. + +“He hasn’t seen Gaby,” Danny announced, with an exultation that showed +plainly what she had been most anxious about. “He brought up the +rock-salt. That’s why he drove to the kitchen. Come and see, Mary?” + +“I’d rather see you two come and eat your suppers,” I said. + +“Goodnight!” John answered. “I’ve got to go and get rid of a few tons +of dirt before I can come to the table.” + +“No,” Danny insisted. “Never mind the dirt, dear. Supper is all cold +now. Please come and eat——” + +John patted her on the shoulder, and smiled at her, and, manlike, did +as he pleased. He went through the kitchen and upstairs the back way. +Danny called after him, asking him to hurry. He didn’t. + +When he finally did come, all slicked up, and bathed and shaved, he +said it was too hot to eat, and would have nothing but some ice-cream. + +Sam asked him what had kept him so long, on the trip. John said tire +trouble; and that he had met Leo Saule, two miles this side of +Rattail, with his flivver broken down. John had stopped to help him, +and, at last, had been forced to tow him the six miles north to his +place. + +John has a way, when he is worried, of shutting and opening his eyes, +and of tossing his head back and to the side with a quick little jerk, +as if he were trying to get shed of something that was in it. All the +while he was eating and talking, he kept doing this. I asked him +whether his head ached. + +“No,” he said. “But I think I’m sort of loco from being out in the +sun.” + +“Gaby kept you waiting quite a while?” Hubert Hand stated and asked. + +“What do you mean?” John questioned. + +“Waited for her down the road, didn’t you, and took her to Rattail in +time to catch the train for Reno, or ’Frisco?” + +I thought John would fly into a temper. He has a handy temper. But he +only looked around at all of us, with a bewildered expression, and, +“Say, are you fellows trying to put something over on me, or what?” he +asked. + +“Then you don’t deny——” Hubert Hand began. Sam, who has enough dander +for John and himself both, when necessary, broke in. + +“John doesn’t have to deny anything. Marcus will be in the office now, +waiting for Twenty-one. ’Phone down. ’Phone’s handy. Ask him whether +he flagged Twenty, to-day, for a passenger, or whether he is going to +flag Twenty-one.” + +Hubert went straight to the telephone. From his end of the +conversation, we could tell that Twenty had not stopped, and that no +one was waiting for Twenty-one. He looked foolish, when he turned from +the telephone, and said, “Take it all back, John. My mistake.” + +Sam looked mighty serious. “Well,” he drawled, “I don’t know but what +as good a plan as any would be for us all to go out and have a look +around for her——” + +“Oh!” Danny exclaimed, sharply. “Uncle Sam, you do think that she has +met with some mishap?” + +“I think,” Sam said, “that she has met with another machine and ridden +off in it. But, better safe than sorry; then we’ll be fine and fit for +the fireworks. Eh, Martha?” + +Martha, who had been drowsy all during supper, was half asleep on the +davenport, and did not answer. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +The Murder + +Sam’s first plan, after he and Hubert had made a quick ride to the +cabin and back with no sight of Gaby, was for the two of us to go down +the road in the sedan. Fortunately, he decided at the last minute to +have John come with us to drive. Danny came along with John. Chad and +Hubert Hand were to scout around the place on their ponies. Mrs. +Ricker stayed at home with Martha. + +As soon as we had started, Sam said, in a cocksure, overbearing way he +never has except when he is not as certain of himself as he’d like to +be, “We’ll not have to go far. Not more than a mile, I reckon, to find +the fresh tire tracks of the machine that came up here to meet her. +After the breeze and the shower this morning, the fresh tracks will +show up like mud on a new fence. Whoa! What did I tell you? See +there.” + +Tire tracks, sure enough; but they were the tracks made by the sedan, +patterned like a snake’s back, and showing, plain as print, on top of +the dim tracks made by the outfit’s departure for Telko the morning +before. We rode along, watching the four long trails; two for John’s +trip to town, and two for his trip back to the ranch. The only breaks +were the spots where, as it was plain to be seen, John had twice had +tire trouble. + +Our road—and it is that, since Sam had it graded himself, and pays for +having it kept up—runs north, straight as a string, with Sam’s fields +and fences on one side of it, and sagebrush covered deserts on the +other side of it, for ten miles to where it joins the Victory Highway. +Sam has a sign at the junction with the highway; so no one has any +reason for using this road unless he has business with the Desert Moon +Ranch. + +We drove to the highway before we turned around. We had come back +about a mile, when the wind, that always ushers in a storm in these +parts, came howling up, blowing the sand and dust in thick clouds, +jerking and snapping the sage and the greasewood, chasing and bouncing +the tumbleweed balls. The sky turned black. The thunder growled, mean +as a threat, in the distance. + +John drove fast; but we barely made the ranch before the storm broke. +When we came out of the garage doors, the first drops of rain, big as +butter cookies, had begun to fall; and, just as we reached the front +porch, the rain came pouring down as if all the sky were the nozzle of +a big faucet and someone had turned it on, full force. + +“This will bring her in,” Sam said, as we ran up the steps. “She’ll be +there, high and dry, when we get in.” + +She was not. Chad and Hubert Hand had come in, and they acted as if, +since we had set out to get news of Gaby, it was a wonder we had not +done it. Martha was awake, and sobbing because she could not have the +fireworks. Mrs. Ricker was showing a little last minute sense by +hurrying around and getting the house closed against the storm. She +should have done it when the wind first came up. + +Sam went and touched a match to the fire, ready to be started, in the +fireplace. I ran upstairs and closed the bedroom windows, and turned +the fans off. I don’t care for buzzing fans during one of our +electrical storms. I had come downstairs, ready to take my rest, when +I remembered the attic, with all its windows wide to the drenching +rain. + +My corns had been hurting me all day; so, Chad being handy, I asked +him to go and close the attic. He went up the stairs, and almost at +once came back to the head of them to call down that the attic door +was locked. + +One of my principles is, that if you ask a man to do anything about +the house for you, you do it twice yourself. I thought, again, how +true that was, as I went on my aching feet up the stairs to prove to +him that the door was not locked, never had been locked, and, likely, +never would be. + +It was locked. Chad stood by, pleased as Punch, when it would not give +to my shaking and pulling. He walked off, saying that he would see +whether someone downstairs had locked it and had the key, or, if not, +whether he could find another key to fit it. + +I stood there waiting. I put my hand in my pocket for my handkerchief. +There was a key. It fitted the lock. I opened the door. + +About half way up the steps, Gaby was lying in a huddle of pink wrap. +Her hat had fallen off. I thought that she was asleep. I spoke to her. +She did not answer. I ran up the steps and put an arm around her, +trying to lift her. Her head rolled to one side. I saw her throat. It +was saffron color, with great blue black bruises at its base. I +touched her swollen face. It was cold. + +For an instant, my only sensation was one of violent nausea. I tried +to scream. My throat had closed. I must have shut my eyes, for I +remember thinking that, if I did not open them, the dizziness would +sweep me off into unconsciousness. I opened them. I saw, there on the +red carpet of the steps, something that shocked my reeling senses into +sanity. Dropped all over the bright beaded bag, lying there, were the +burned tobacco and the ashes from Sam’s pipe. + +All of my horror concentrated into a frantic desire to get those ashes +cleared away so that no one else could see them. I shook them from the +bag to the carpet. I brushed them from the carpet into my +handkerchief. Just as I got to my feet from my knees, Chad came up. + +“Call the others,” I said. “Gaby is here—murdered.” + +I stuffed the handkerchief filled with ashes into my pocket, and, for +the first and last time in my life, I fainted dead away. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +Suicide + +The next thing that I knew I was lying on my back listening to someone +screaming, above the voices of Sam and Mrs. Ricker. I realized that +those awful sounds were coming from my own throat. I tried to stop +them; but I could not. I put my hands to my throat to make it stop the +noise. Sam’s voice came, clear and strong then—real, like a light in +the dark. + +I sat straight up. The screams ceased. “What,” I managed, “is the +matter?” + +“Everything on God’s earth, that could be,” Sam answered. “But here, +Mary. Drink this. Get some sleep. Nothing to be done, now. We’ll need +you, to-morrow. Some water, Mrs. Ricker——” + +He shook a powder into my mouth. Mrs. Ricker held a glass of water to +my lips. + +When I opened my eyes again, it was gray dawn. I saw that I was in +Mrs. Ricker’s room. She was sitting by the window tatting. Yes, +tatting; darting the shuttle back and forth, back and forth, with her +long, white fingers. I watched her for a full minute before memory +seized me, and I cried out with the pain of it. + +“Sh-h-h,” she warned me, in a whisper. “You’ll wake Martha. She is +asleep here on the couch.” + +I got out of bed, shook my skirts down and fastened my corsets under +my dress. I felt in my pocket. The ball of handkerchief was still +there. I went into the hall bathroom, washed my face and hands, and +drained the last crumb of tobacco down with the water out of the +wash-bowl. I washed the handkerchief, scoured the bowl, and went back +to Mrs. Ricker’s room. + +As I opened the door, she again warned me against waking Martha. + +“Was the shock too much for her?” I asked, going and standing beside +Mrs. Ricker so that we might talk in whispers. She stopped to pick a +knot out of her thread before she answered me. + +“I didn’t allow her to go upstairs. She followed Chad out of the house +and saw him shoot himself. He died within ten minutes. It was terrible +for Martha. I had to hold her, while Sam gave her the narcotic——” + +“No, no,” I protested. “What—what are you saying? Not Chad? What was +it you said about Chad——” + +“He walked out and shot himself, through the head.” She pulled the +thread looser on her shuttle. + +I rushed out of the room, away from her. I staggered down the stairs +into the kitchen. + +Sam, Hubert Hand, and John all jumped up from their chairs and started +toward me. John reached me first, and put an arm around me. + +“Chad——” I began, but I couldn’t get any further. + +“There, there, Mary. Pour her some coffee, dad. Quick! Here, sit here. +Turn on that fan, Hand. Get some water——” + +“No, no. Tell me. Mrs. Ricker said—— It isn’t true. It—it can’t be +true. Not our Chad——” + +Sam answered, gruffly, to keep the choke out of his voice. “It is a +damn shame, Mary; but, it is true. The boy shot himself, not fifteen +minutes after we found her. Wait,” he went on quickly, “before you +think _anything_. I want to tell you what I have told the others. It +is God’s truth. That poor boy is as innocent of any connection with +the murder as I am.” + +“Sam!” I managed, and hid my ugly, twisted old face down in my arms. + +I will say that the men did pretty well, just sitting quiet, and +leaving me alone, and letting me have my cry out. It seemed to me I +never was going to be able to stop; but they didn’t bother me with +comforting, they let me get clear through to the sniffling and +swallowing stage. I was the first one to speak. + +“What,” I said, “are we going to _do_?” + +“We are going to do a lot, Mary,” Sam said. “We are going to keep +Chad’s name clean. Sure,” in answer to my protest, “we all know. But, +just the same, I’m mighty thankful that I have his alibis for him, +myself. A suicide looks bad, you know. That is, it would until we find +Canneziano. This is his work——” + +“But, Sam,” I said, “if he wasn’t let out of San Quentin until +yesterday morning, he couldn’t possibly have got ’way up here that +same evening.” + +“We’ve told Sam that, a thousand times,” Hubert Hand said. + +“All right, all right,” Sam said. “But if I ever get that long +distance call through, you’ll find that Canneziano was released a day +or two early. She met him yesterday——” + +“How’d he get up here, Sam?” I questioned. “You remember there were no +tracks on the road except the sedan tracks——” + +Hubert Hand snapped me short. “Did you have a passenger up from +Rattail, yesterday, John?” + +Sam spoke, before John could answer. “Son,” he said, “did you, by any +chance, as a favor to one of the girls, bring that skunk here +yesterday?” + +“I did not, dad.” + +“He got here, then, as I’ve said all along. Horseback, across the +deserts. And he murdered the girl. By God, he’ll hang for it, if it +takes my last dollar. He killed Chad, too, as much as if he’d shot him +down. We aren’t overlooking a couple of murders, not here on the +Desert Moon. Not right yet. She went out to meet him yesterday, I tell +you. She brought him into the house, for some purpose; through the +back way and up into the attic.” + +“Without anybody seeing or hearing them?” Hubert Hand questioned. + +“Nobody was looking nor listening, as I remember. You know damn well +that, with the doors shut, nothing can be heard from room to room in +this house—let alone upstairs to downstairs. I tell you, he killed her +there on the stairs, and he made his get-away——” + +“If you think that,” I said. “Why aren’t you out hunting him?” + +“Hell!” Sam exploded. “Why ain’t I out hunting last night’s lightning? +The girl had been dead anyway two or three hours—more likely longer, +when we found her. He had that head start on us. And he could ride. +God, how that skunk could ride; no mercy for a horse! He’s gone. He +went straight across the deserts, hell bent for Sunday. He’ll need +food. He’ll need water, worse. I’ve telegraphed to every town within +two hundred miles of here. They are watching. I’ve ’phoned every +ranch. I’ve kept that ’phone hot for six solid hours. I’ve got posses +at every water-hole——” + +“Listen, Sam,” I said. “You shouldn’t have doped me up with that +sleeping powder. Because, unless after he murdered her, he walked +downstairs, with none of us seeing or hearing him, and into the +living-room or the kitchen, and put the key in my pocket, Canneziano +is not the guilty man.” + +Sam’s pipe fell out of his mouth. I shivered. During all of his talk, +I had clear forgotten about those pipe ashes, dropped all over the +beaded bag. + +It was Hubert Hand who put the question to me about the key. He made +me feel guilty. My explanation to them that the key had been in the +pocket of my dress, the dress I had been wearing since morning, +yesterday, had the feeling of a confession. + +“Still,” Hubert Hand said, when I had finished, “that does not, +necessarily, disprove Sam’s theory. If Canneziano was let out of +prison in time to get here yesterday, he could have murdered her, as +Sam insists, and he could have given the key to some one of us to put +in your pocket. Chad, for instance, or——” + +“No!” Sam thundered. “That boy, I tell you, is as innocent as I am.” + +The telephone bell rang. + +Hubert Hand and John followed Sam into the living-room. I stayed where +I was. I had to have a minute to think. The ashes on the bag? The key +in my pocket? Sam? + +“Mary Magin,” I told myself, “for twenty-five years, ever since Sam +Stanley took you, a snivelling, pride-broken, deserted bride, into his +house, and gave you a chance to make a life for yourself, you have +never seen him do a mean trick to man, woman, child, or beast. You +never even heard of a questionable nor an unkind action of his. And +you never will, for the simple reason that the ingredients for +anything but honor and decency aren’t in him. If they were, he would +not be Sam Stanley, any more than bean soup would be bean soup if it +was made out of gooseberries and ginger. That being the one certainty +you have, at this minute, you had better hang on to it tight; stop +thinking and guessing; keep your mouth shut; and you won’t go far +wrong. Good resolutions are easy to make. So is lemon meringue. Both +are almost impossible to keep.” + +I went right on thinking. If Sam, I thought, had found it necessary to +murder Gabrielle Canneziano, he had probably done it to keep something +worse from happening. Sickened at myself, for that thought, I found +another way of thinking, not much better. + +It did seem to me, remembering the pipe ashes on top of the bag, that +Sam must have been there on the stairs at some time after she had been +murdered and before I had found her. He must, then, be keeping some +secret concerning the murder. It did look as if, considering his talk, +he must be shielding the murderer, with every ounce of his horse-sense +and ingenuity, both of which he had in plenty. But who would he shield +to that extent? Chad, alive or dead? No. Martha? Yes. But Martha could +not have done it. John? Not unless there was something to it than one +of us dreamed of. Hubert Hand, or Mrs. Ricker? No. Danny? I thought +not. Myself? I couldn’t be sure. + +The men came back into the kitchen. Sam looked ten years older than he +had looked ten minutes before. + +“It was San Quentin,” he said to me. “Canneziano was positively not +released from there until nine o’clock yesterday morning.” + +“That,” I said, “lets him out.” + +“And,” Hubert Hand said, “lets every man-jack of us here on the place, +in.” + +Habit was too strong for Sam. “‘Well in,’” he quoted, with a groan. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +Clarence Pette + +The sheriff, the coroner, the undertaker, a newspaper reporter, and +another man that the coroner had brought along for a juryman, drove up +to the ranch at five o’clock that morning. It had been past midnight +before Sam had been able to get hold of one of them at Telko, on +account of them all being out taking in the celebration there. + +Sam and the sheriff had been friends for thirty years. Sam’s money had +paid for the coroner’s medical education. They, and the others, were +mighty sorry to have to bother us at all, and their sole aim was to +make as little trouble as possible. + +They interviewed each one of us, alone, but pleasantly and informally, +in the dining-room; each one, that is, but Danny—the coroner, visiting +her as a doctor, said it would never do to pester her, in the state +she was in—and Martha, who was still asleep, and whom they said it was +no use to wake. They kept each of us about ten minutes. They brought +in the verdict of died by his own hand, for Chad; and, murdered by +person or persons unknown for Gaby. They left, on tiptoe, holding +their hats in their hands clear to the end of the driveway. The +coroner and the sheriff both came, I think, with the conviction that +Chad was the guilty person; but Sam was so right down violent about +Chad’s innocence, that they let that drop at once. + +The sheriff left, I am all but certain, with the strong conviction +that I had committed the murder, and with the resolution that he would +not do Sam an ill turn by depriving him of a good cook. The coroner, +and the others, except the reporter, were sure, I think, that one of +us was guilty; but were thankful to goodness that they had not found +out which one. + +The undertaker did not leave with the others. He was preparing the +bodies to take them to Telko; there to await the instructions that we +could not give until after we had gotten in touch, if possible, with +Chad’s people, and had come to a decision about Gaby’s burial place. + +The reporter, whose name—not that it matters except for its +fitness—was Clarence Pette, waited to return to town with the +undertaker. While waiting, he went snooping about the place, looking +for footprints—there could not have been any, after the deluge of rain +the night before—cocking his head to one side and the other, writing +in a notebook, making knowing, humming sounds between his tightly +closed lips. He had been bothering me, like a fly on the ceiling, all +morning. Finally, when he came poking right into my kitchen, and +opened the door to the back stairway, I turned on him. + +“What’s the matter with you?” I asked. “If you have any business, why +don’t you go about it?” + +“Yes, yes,” he said. “Precisely. Now, my good woman, if you can spare +me a few moments——” + +Sam came ambling into the kitchen and threw himself into a chair. + +“Ah, Mr. Stanley,” Clarence said. “I was just telling your cook here +that, if she could spare me a few moments of her time, I probably +could be of much service here, under these unfortunate circumstances. +You see, we reporters are, necessarily, detectives, in a smaller or +greater degree. Until I came to Nevada, I was on one of the large San +Francisco dailies. Not taking undo credit to myself, I will say that, +while serving there, I was instrumental in getting to the bottom of +numerous crimes. Have I your attention, Mr. Stanley?” + +Sam looked at him as he would look at some snapping puppy that was +pestering around his heels. + +I don’t know what Clarence thought. What he said, was, “Precisely. By +mere observation. Trained observation, that is, coupled with a +naturally analytical and deductive mind, _and_ imagination. +Observation, first. As an example: since entering this kitchen, I have +observed that your cook——” + +“If you mean Mrs. Magin,” Sam interrupted, “say so.” + +“Precisely. I have observed that Mrs. Magin has been but recently +divorced. She was married to a man of some property. Of this she +received a share, at the time of her divorce, in lieu of further +alimony. She has come here, recently, from Chicago, where she lived in +comfort, but not in luxury. She did not keep a servant. Her daughters +were dutiful girls. All of her children, at the time of the divorce, +however, sided with their father.” + +I glanced at Sam. He was resting his head in his hands, elbows on the +table. He had not, I could tell, heard one word that Clarence had +said. To my own discredit, at an hour like that, I was curious to find +out how a man could make so many mistakes in so short a time. “But +how——” I began. + +He was too eager to explain to allow me to finish the question. “Very +simple, for a trained observer. You no longer wear a wedding ring; but +the mark of one, worn for years, shows plainly on your finger.” (My +wedding ring is set around with garnets; so I always take it off when +I cook, and hang it on a nail for that purpose, over the sink. It was +hanging there in plain sight, right then.) “If you were a widow, you +would continue to wear your ring. Your clothes, your wrist watch, your +silk stockings, show that you have been accustomed to a comfortable +living. Since you came to Nevada, it was you who got the divorce. +Hence—alimony. Had you received a lump sum of money, or monthly +payments, you would not have taken a position as a cook. You +undoubtedly received property, on which you can not at once realize. +Your kitchen apron, here on the hook, and like the one you are +wearing, has the label of a Chicago firm in its waistband, and is of +excellent material. Had you been poor, you could not have afforded +such an apron—more than likely you would have made your own aprons. +Had you been wealthy, you would not have owned a kitchen apron. It is +easy to tell, from watching you, that you have been accustomed to +having help in your work—hence, your daughters. If your children had +been in sympathy with you, at the time of the divorce, you undoubtedly +would have returned to make your home with one of them, instead of +remaining as a cook in Nevada——” + +Sam, who had shifted his position, stretched, and crossed one leg over +the other, interrupted. “Oh, dry up, young fellow,” he said, as if the +sound of Clarence’s voice had tuckered him clear out. + +Clarence tittered; embarrassment, I think, made him do it. + +“And take yourself and your laughing out of here,” Sam said. “If you +need to be told that this isn’t a place for laughing, this morning, +I’m telling you, now.” + +“But, Mr. Stanley, I assure you——” + +“Never mind. Just get on out of here. That’s all.” + +“As you say. I shall report to my paper, shall I, that the millionaire +owner of the Desert Moon Ranch is, apparently, undesirous of having +the murderer discovered?” + +“Report what you damn please to your paper,” Sam answered. “But get +out of here.” + +That was all right for the Nevada papers, where Sam was known; but, if +the other papers copied the news, I didn’t care to have that +impression of Sam strewn all over the country. It never did do any +harm, I reckoned, to have the press on your side. + +So, with Sam glaring at me, I cozied Clarence up a bit. Told him to +sit down, and have some pie and coffee. While he ate, I flattered his +vanity by asking whether he had formed any opinions concerning the +murder. + +“Opinions—no,” he said, pulling back his chin for dignity. +“Theories—yes. Theories, I may say, that I have arrived at quite +independently, since the testimony at the inquest was without value. +Observation, trained observation, and a certain instinct that might +almost be described as clairvoyance. + +“For instance: the contents of the bead bag, carried by the victim. +Apparently, rather damning evidence, there, against Mr. Hand. Also, +apparently, other valuable clues. Pouff——” He made a gesture of +blowing the beaded bag and its contents off the palm of his white +hands. Since this was the first I had heard of the bag’s contents, I +was sorry to have them dismissed so airily. I let it pass, not wishing +to question him. “Even the coroner, and the other members of the jury, +untrained as they were, realized, I am sure, that all that was too +obvious. A murderer, my good woman, leaves clues—but not obvious ones. +The contents of that bag were probably arranged by the murderer, after +the murder had been committed. By someone, moreover, who had access to +the victim’s personal belongings. + +“Regard this, please, as a suggestion, merely. Does it occur to you +that it is peculiar that a young woman who was unable to meet the +coroner’s jury, should, in the next hour, be able to arise and assist +the undertaker?” + +“Is Danny up?” I questioned Sam. + +“Teetering around like a sick little ghost. Mrs. Ricker went to ask +her about what dress to put on Gaby, and nothing would do Danny but +that she get right up and help to lay Gaby out.” + +“You see nothing extraordinary in that?” Clarence persisted. + +Sam made another profane request concerning Clarence’s drying up. + +“Well,” I said, “she is her twin sister, you know. And she is a +loving-hearted, unselfish little thing. I reckon she thought it would +be the last service——” + +“True. True. But! The victim was last seen at the side of the house +near the rabbit hutch. Suppose that, as soon as she had gotten rid of +the child by giving her the bracelet, the victim had at once +re-entered the house, through the back way, and had gone, at once, up +these back stairs. Miss Danielle Canneziano was upstairs at the time, +was she not? Alone?” + +I remembered Danny, coming downstairs, not more than fifteen minutes +after Gaby had gone through the room. I remembered how fresh and sweet +she had been, and how untroubled, except for her headache. A dozen +defenses for Danny, who needed none, flashed through my mind. I should +not have deigned to use one of them, to Clarence, but unthinkingly, I +did. + +“If you are hinting at Danny,” I said, “she had neither the time nor +the strength. If she’d had a year, she wouldn’t have done it, and +couldn’t have, with those frail little hands of hers.” + +“In my opinion,” Clarence returned, “that job took science, rather +than strength. It took fingers that knew how to find the windpipe and +the carotid artery at the same instant. The Japs understand that grip, +perfectly. An Occidental might stumble onto it by accident. But, +granted your objection, that strength was required. The young woman +might have had an accomplice. One who, filled with remorse, killed +himself. Or one who, in tense excitement, dropped the key into her own +pocket——” + +I gasped. Sam rose. He took hold of Clarence at the back of his +collar, and at the back of his trousers, and began pushing him toward +the door. + +Sam’s first remark won’t do to repeat. His second was, “And now, you +blithering fool, if you publish one of your filthy, lying +insinuations, against that little, grief stricken sister, or against +our dead boy, or against Mrs. Magin, just one, in that rotten dirty +sheet of yours, you won’t be in Nevada long enough to get your +divorce.” Sam boosted him out through the doors. + +All the Nevada newspaper accounts made much of the fact that the +fiend, who had committed the terrible murder on the Desert Moon Ranch, +had made a complete escape, without leaving any clues of any sort. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +The Note + +No clues! Land’s alive! The place was positively cluttered with clues; +and most of them about as useful, in the end, as clutter generally is. +I am not saying that none of them were of value. I am saying that a +person, out in a grove of aspen trees, all bending and bowing to a +high wind, would be sort of simple to go hunting a straw to find which +way the wind was blowing. That was about how sensible I was, when I +asked Sam, after he had got shed of Clarence, about the contents of +Gaby’s beaded bag. + +“It is all on the table in her room,” he said, “where I put it for the +coroner’s jury. You can go and see. But, first, read this. It was +tucked inside her dress. The undertaker found it, and gave it to me. I +dread giving it to Danny.” + +He handed me a folded sheet of paper. I opened it, and read: + +“Danny dear: If you ever read this, I shall be dead—murdered. Don’t +have me buried here in this God-forsaken country. Take me to San +Francisco and have my body cremated. I love a flame. I hate the cold +earth. + +“You have had much trouble on my account, old dear. Don’t blame me for +having kept the fear and the dread of this thing, which I felt certain +was going to happen, from you. You, nor no living person, but one, +could have saved me. + +“Remember, Dan, that in spite of all the distress I have caused you, +and may still be causing you, I have always, in my own way, loved you. +Gaby.” + +“Sam,” I said, “I knew she was afraid, yesterday. Oh, why didn’t she +tell us? Of course you men could have saved her. Why did she go out +alone to meet that fiend?” + +Sam’s only answer was a slow shaking of his bowed head, and a deep +sigh. + +“Mary,” he said, then, “will you give this note to Danny, and explain +to her how it is?” + +“How what is?” + +“I mean—— Well, she can’t leave the Desert Moon, now, to take the body +to ’Frisco. Until we find out who murdered that girl, not a man-jack +of us is going to leave this place, for any reason.” + +“Sam Stanley!” I gasped. “You can’t refuse. That’s all. Own twin +sisters! And Danny as innocent as a new born babe——” + +“Don’t talk like a book, Mary. Danny may be as innocent as she seems +to be, and—she may not. She, nor anyone else, can leave this place +until we have gotten to the very bottom of this thing. That goes.” + +“To think you paid attention to that fool reporter!” + +“Don’t be a fool yourself,” Sam urged. “This note, in Gaby’s +handwriting, clears Danny of the crime, if all the other evidence +didn’t, which it does. We know that she did not kill her sister. But, +of all the people in this house, she is in the best position to know +who did do it. Of course, if she is involved in this she is involved +innocently. If she put the key in your pocket, while we were out in +the car, she did it with no idea of what she was doing. Just the same, +I want her right here on the Desert Moon, for a while. Mary, you take +the note to her, and explain, in your nice way——” + +“I’ll give her the note, Sam,” I said. “But you’ll have to do the +explaining yourself. I’ll tell you why. It isn’t right for you to try +to protect anyone, not even Martha, to the extent of refusing to allow +one sister to carry out the dying request of another sister.” + +Sam dropped his pipe. As I saw the tobacco and the ashes scatter, I +was more certain than ever that I was acting as a decent women should. + +The door opened, and Danny came in. She was so pale that her cheeks +had sort of a greenish tinge to them. Great dark circles spread far +down under her eyes that were red and swollen from crying. + +I hurried to her, and put my arms around her. She clung to me, and hid +her head on my shoulder, and said my name over and over. Sam turned +away, as if he could not bear to look at us. + +I took her into the living-room, and sat down in a big chair and held +her in my lap. + +“If only,” she kept saying, “if only she could have left us in her +beauty. She was so beautiful, Mary. And now——” + +Remembering what I had seen the night before, I knew that I must get +her mind into other channels if her reason was to be saved. I thanked +my stars, when I remembered the note. + +After she had read it, she cried harder than ever; but I knew that it +was crying of a saner sort. + +“Will you go with me, Mary?” she questioned, when she had quieted +some. “To San Francisco?” + +“We’ll have to talk to Sam about that, dear,” I said. It was the habit +of helping him, not any kindly impulse, that made me continue. “I am +afraid that Sam wants us all to stay here, for a while. There, there, +dear. You see how it is, don’t you? Sam thinks that the duty of each +one of us, right now, is to stay here and help try to find the guilty +person.” + +“Does Uncle Sam think we will find him here?” she questioned. + +I tried to tell myself that I had been mistaken; that she had not +emphasized Sam’s name in a hard, pointed way, as she had seemed to do. + +“There isn’t anywhere else to try to find him,” I said. “Did you know +about the key in my pocket?” + +She nodded. “I knew about that,” she said. + +“What else did you know about?” I asked, a mite sharply, for there was +no mistaking her emphasis this time. + +“Nothing,” she said, hurriedly. “Nothing. But, Mary, doesn’t it seem +possible to you that someone, clear from the outside, did it? And gave +the key to Chad, and asked him to put it in your pocket? And that, for +some reason we probably never shall discover, Chad could not, dared +not, tell on the person who gave it to him? And that that is why he +shot himself?” + +“And we hadn’t thought of that!” I gasped. “I do believe it. It is as +clear as day.” + +Her sudden, definite silence talked as plainly as any words she could +have spoken. + +“Danny,” I questioned, “you thought of that, but in your heart you +don’t believe it. Do you?” + +“I—I want to believe it,” she evaded. + +“But you don’t?” I persisted. + +She was silent. + +“Danny,” I pleaded, “tell me about it. Just tell me, dear. I’ll never +breathe it to a soul, if you say for me not to. What is it that you +know, or think that you know?” + +She waited so long before answering me that I thought surely she was +finding the words with which to take me into her confidence. I was so +disappointed I could have cried with her, when she hid her face on my +shoulder, again, and moaned, “Mary—I can’t. I dare not tell. I tell +you—I dare not.” + +She jumped up out of my lap, and ran upstairs as if wicked, dangerous +things were running after her. + + + +CHAPTER XX + +A Confession + +John came into the room. “The outfit is back, or most of it,” he said. +“Darn their souls! Curiosity, nothing else. But for this, they +wouldn’t have shown up for two days yet. I think the women went into +the kitchen just now, Mary.” + +There they were, Belle, Sadie and Goldie, all huddled up together like +a bunch of something, near the back door. As I came into the room, +they jumped and screeched. The only thing that makes me madder than +being scared myself is to scare somebody else. I spoke to them right +sharply. + +I told them that I expected them to go about their work, and to act +like sensible girls while so doing. I told them that we had enough to +put up with, just now, without adding a parcel of jumping, squealing +girls to our load. + +Sadie, the sauciest of the lot, on account of imagining that being +married made her more independent than the other girls, spoke up. + +“We haven’t decided yet that we want’a go workin’ in a house where a +murderer, and maybe moren’ one, is livin’.” + +“If that’s the way you feel about it,” I said, “the sooner you leave +the better. It is an honor to work in the Desert Moon ranch-house, and +you know it.” + +“Maybe ’tis. Maybe ’tain’t.” Sadie sauced back. “You’ll not get girls +as easy to-day as you would of yesterday. Murders and suicides—if it +was a suicide—don’t do much in makin’ a ranch pop’lar for help.” + +“Very well,” I said. “If you are going, go now. If not, put on your +aprons and get to work.” + +I could scarcely believe my eyes. The three of them skedaddled out +through the door. I felt sort of sick, watching them go. Not because +I’d have to teach new girls the work and my ways, but because their +leaving gave me my first realization that the Desert Moon Ranch was +darkened by the shadow of sin, that the eclipse I had feared was upon +us. + +When I telephoned to Sam, down in his office in the outfit’s quarters, +I tried to keep the truth from him; saying, only that the girls and I +had had a spat, and asking him to find some new girls for me. + +He came up, in about half an hour, with an Indian girl, not more than +fifteen years old, trailing along behind him. Answering his nod, I +went with him into the living-room. + +“She is the only one I could get,” he said. “We’ll have to send to +Reno or Salt Lake. None of the outfit want their women folks working +here. I don’t blame them. The Desert Moon Ranch is disgraced——” He +stopped short. + +I thought that it was because he could not bear to go on with what he +had begun to say; until, following his eyes, I saw that he was looking +at a piece of paper on the writing desk just in front of him. It had +been propped up against a vase; but it had slithered down into a +curve. He reached for it; read it, and handed it to me. + +“I killed her. Chadwick Caufield. P. S. Sorry to put you to the +trouble of disposing of me. Make it cheap and snappy. I haven’t a +relative in the world. P. G.” + +“A lie,” Sam said. + +“I think so.” + +“I know damn well it is. I tell you, she had been dead two or three +hours, anyway—probably longer—when we found her. Listen, Mary. Between +four and five o’clock—we all saw her alive at four—Chad sat right +there at that piano, and he never left it once. Did he?” + +“No, he didn’t. I kept thinking he would, to join Gaby. But he +didn’t.” + +“Between five and six o’clock,” Sam went on, “he was with me, every +minute of the time, down in the barn, and coming up to the house. +Never out of my sight. Between six and seven he was with us all at +supper. If he’d been gone all afternoon, I’d know that note was a lie; +know it just as well as I know it now——” + +“But, why did he shoot himself, then, Sam?” + +“God knows. He thought he loved her.” + +“But this note! A confession! Why would he die in disgrace, when we +know he was innocent?” + +“God knows. To shield someone else, I reckon.” + +“Who?” + +Sam dropped his pipe. + +I heard him stamping the sparks out. I did not look down. I did not +want to look down. + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +A Summons + +“It might be,” Sam said, as he refilled his pipe, “that Chad did not +write this. I’ll send it, with some of his other writing, to one of +these handwriting experts I’ve read about.” + +“He wrote it,” I said. “The writing is his. So is the wording. You +know it.” + +I looked at him, straight. I felt something tighten around my heart as +if it had been roped by a professional. I guess I was too sentimental. +But I couldn’t bear to see Sam’s good old face all aching with worry. + +“Sam,” I wheedled, “have sense. We’ve a confession here that will +satisfy the world. He killed her; and, when the body was found, he +shot himself. Nothing could be more reasonable. No one would doubt it. +We can send this to the papers—he has no relatives to be disgraced, or +to sorrow over it—and the Desert Moon will be cleared of crime. One of +your favorite sayings, Sam, is to let well enough alone.” + +Sam drew himself up to the top of his six feet and five inches and +looked down, from there, at me; away down—as far, say as if I had +suddenly dropped into a dirty old cistern. “There is no question of +well enough,” he shouted, so that I could hear him in my depths, +“until the Desert Moon is cleaned, clean, Mary Magin. Cleaned and +fumigated, or destroyed. It is not going to be whitewashed. There is +someone on this ranch who is as guilty as hell; who knows who +committed the murder; who aided and abetted it. We are going to find +that person. Then we will find the murderer. They’ll be hung together. +After that, we can leave well enough alone.” + +“Suppose,” I suggested, “that Chad was the accomplice.” + +“I reckon,” he said, growing suddenly kind, “that you’ve been through +too much, Mary. That’s it. You aren’t quite responsible to-day. I +don’t wonder. But reason with me, Mary. + +“Somebody suggested, already to-day, that it was Chad who put the key +in your pocket. When did he get the key to put it there? Well, say +that he got it between seven and eight o’clock, when he was out +scouting by himself. Did he meet some entire stranger, then, who asked +him to dispose of the key? Did he agree to do it, as a favor to said +stranger? Did he, later, shoot himself and leave a lying confession to +shield the stranger? The stranger, that is, who had killed the girl +Chad loved? Chad did carry some secret to the grave with him, Mary. I +am sure of that. But not a secret that we can’t discover. We are going +to discover it.” + +To doubt Sam, standing there before me talking so earnestly to me, to +doubt his honesty of purpose and his goodness, was more than a +question of doubting my eyes, my ears, my senses, for the moment. It +would have been to doubt the things that had made up my life for the +past twenty-five years; it would have swept away all of my accumulated +certainties, all of my conclusions, all of my standards, as a wind +sweeps trash from the desert. It would have uprooted me, and it would +have left me as aimless and as wind-tossed as tumbleweeds. + +“Sam,” I began, resolved to tell him, then and there, about those pipe +ashes of his on the beaded bag. I had waited too long. Mrs. Ricker was +coming down the stairs. + +“I think,” she said, “that Martha should not sleep so late. I fear +that she is sleeping too heavily.” + +“It is a blessing that she can sleep,” Sam said. “She is all right. +Those sleeping powders are as powerful as all get-out. I got them from +a doctor in ’Frisco, when I was down there last year, and they made me +sleep when I had neuralgia. I’m going up, though, I’ll have a look at +her. + +“By the way,” he added, from the stairway, “I want you two ladies to +be here in this room, at promptly three o’clock this afternoon.” + +“Upon my soul!” I said, when Sam was out of sight. “What do you +suppose that means?” + +I might have spared my breath. She did not answer. But she did +something downright unusual for Mrs. Ricker. She looked at me; and, as +I met her look, it seemed to me that there was a pleading expression +in her face, as if, were she able to talk, she’d like to ask me to do +something for her. I have seen dogs look like that, at times. + +“What is it, Mrs. Ricker?” I questioned. + +She shook her head, and walked to the windows and turned her back on +me. + +I looked at the straight, gaunt back, and at her long arms hanging at +her sides. She seemed frail. And yet, she could hold Martha still, +when Martha was in one of her tantrums, and that was more than I, a +much stouter woman, could do. She, with no one but Martha who did not +count, had been alone in the house for an hour the evening before, +while the others of us had been out hunting for Gaby. + +Sam insisted that Gaby had been dead two or three hours when we found +her. But was he certain of that? How did he know? Might he be +mistaken? Mrs. Ricker had hated Gaby, as only a jealous woman can +hate. + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +The Pact + +All the while I was getting a make-shift dinner ready, that last +thought of mine kept bothering me like the smell of something burning. +So, as soon as dinner was over (I need not have bothered with it; +everyone straggled in and straggled out again, without doing any +justice to good food. Mrs. Ricker and Martha did not even come down.), +I told the Indian girl, whose name was Zinnia, to manage the dishes +the best she could, and I went off up to my room. + +I took up some dinner on a tray with me, for Mrs. Ricker and for +Martha. When Mrs. Ricker opened her door, I managed to get the +information that Martha was awake, at last, and that Mrs. Ricker had +just been helping her with her bath. + +“Is she all right, now?” I questioned. + +“I—suppose so.” She edged the door shut, in my face. + +I went into my room and combed my hair. I can always think better when +I am doing some absolutely unimportant thing like that. But, to-day, +it was as if someone had put an egg-beater into my mind, and was +beating it to best time. My thoughts whirred, and tossed, and foamed. + +Sam’s pipe ashes. The key in my pocket. Chad’s suicide. Chad’s note of +confession. Gaby’s fear. Mrs. Ricker alone in the house. What it was +that Danny knew and dared not tell? Not all plainly, and separately, +as they look in writing; but all jumbled, and each one seething with +its own details and complications. + +Sam’s pipe ashes—— Lands alive! What had been the matter with me? Sam +was the only member of our household who smoked a pipe, but he was not +the only man in creation who did; nor was his the only pipe, I +supposed, that had ever dropped and spilled its contents. A very nice +and comforting thought, if I could have fooled myself into believing +it. + +Try as I might, I couldn’t keep from thinking that part of Sam’s talk +was bluff—that is, soon as I got away from him I thought that. Did it +mean that he was trying to shield Chad? No. It could not mean that. +Besides, Chad himself had surely been trying to shield someone. Sam? +Gaby had feared someone, when she had left the house. No woman had +ever feared Sam. + +Mrs. Ricker had hated Gaby. But, so had John hated Gaby. Mrs. Ricker +had said—— John had said—— + +I jumped to my feet, holding my head in my hands. It seemed to me that +the only decent thing I could do, since it held my brainpan, was to +wrench the disloyal thing off and sling it away. How dared I think +such thoughts of people with whom I had spent the best part of my +life? They were the only friends I had in the world. I had never seen +one of them do an unkind thing. Never. Mrs. Ricker was as queer as +Dick’s hatband, but she had always been gentle and patient. She had +always been the first to spread crumbs on the snow for the birds in +winter. Though, of course, she had said to Hubert Hand—— I was off +again. + +I could not endure the thinking of such thoughts. I must stop it. I +must find work to do; someone to talk to. I ran across my room and +pulled open the door, just in time to see Hubert Hand straighten from +where he had been stooping to my keyhole. + +He brazened it out. “Sorry, Mary. But I guess it will be dog kill dog +around here, from now on.” + +“Hubert Hand,” I said, “what I want to know is, why are you listening +at my keyhole?” + +“I wasn’t listening. I was looking, or trying to. This keyhole peering +is the bunk, Mary. You might as well cut it out yourself.” With that +he turned and walked on down the hall. + +I stood watching him, trying to account for an odd sense of relief +that had come to me. In a minute I understood. Since he had been at my +keyhole, he must have had some suspicion of me, for something. +Possibly he had a good reason for that suspicion. As good a reason as +I had, for suspicioning Sam, and John, and Mrs. Ricker. He was clear +off the track with his suspicion. Probably, I was just as far off with +mine. + +He turned, quickly, and came back to me. He looked up and down the +hall. He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Mary,” he said, +“I’ve gone at this all wrong. I’m off my nut to-day—that’s all. I’ve +discovered that I—— Well, I guess I cared a lot more for the girl than +I thought I did. By God, I believe I loved her. It is hell—having her +clear gone. But my hanging for her murder isn’t going to do her any +good; not now.” + +Horrified, I backed away from him. For one wild moment I thought that +the man was confessing to me. + +“No!” he said. “Not that! I swear to God I’m innocent. But they are +going to try to pin it on me, and they may not have much trouble doing +it. I want to make a bargain with you. You’ll get the best of it, for +I know damn well that I’m innocent, and I don’t think that you +are—entirely. It is this. If you’ll keep your mouth shut, I’ll keep +mine shut. Fifty-fifty. Will you do it?” + +“Hubert Hand,” I said, “I don’t know one solitary thing about you that +would be of any importance if I told it to the world. Anything that +you think you know about me, I’m glad and willing to have you +broadcast, or publish in the papers.” + +“Sure of that? Sure you are willing to have me broadcast that you +found the body; that you didn’t scream; that you stayed there, quiet +and alone with it for ten minutes, before you gave the alarm?” + +Fool that I was, I said, “It wasn’t nearly ten minutes. It wasn’t more +than four or five.” + +He smiled. I saw what I had done. “It took me that long to discover +the truth. I thought she was asleep. I had to run up the steps——” + +Double fool, to try to explain. + +“Say it took you a minute to run up a few steps. Another minute to +discover that she was dead. Should it take you three or four minutes +to run down again, and give the alarm?” + +“I was sick, stunned, dizzy with horror.” + +“Probably any jury would believe that, all right. Just the same, I’ll +bet it would save you a lot of trouble, now and later, if no one knew +anything about your lonesome five minutes, or longer. I’ll tell you +how I know. I came out of my room at the minute you opened the attic +door. I saw you leave the hall to run up the steps. I went on +downstairs. Chad was kidding around down there, collecting keys. I +didn’t know what he wanted with them, fortunately for you, or I’d have +said you’d gotten the door open——” + +I interrupted with a new, and it seemed to me a clever idea. “What you +are forgetting,” I said, “is that I fainted dead away.” + +“Gosh, Mary, but you are a rotten liar. Don’t try it. Sam and I both +saw you totter and go down, just as we got to the top of the stairs, +after Chad had shrieked the news down at us. That was close to fifteen +minutes after I’d seen you open the door.” + +“And—and,” I couldn’t keep my teeth from chattering, “you think I +killed her, then?” + +“Rot! She had been dead for hours. Rigor was complete. No, all I think +is that you were—trying to cover someone, maybe. All that I know is, +that you know more than you are telling.” + +“I did tell you. I was frozen, stiff, with horror.” + +“All right. Tell the jury. Tell them, too, why you came rushing out of +your room, as you did just now, white and trembling. Don’t like your +thoughts, all by your lonesome, do you? Come on, Mary. Be a sport. We +are both innocent. But—— Fifty-fifty? Shut mouth for shut mouth?” + +His talk about telling a jury scared me. I had heard of third degrees. +I knew that if I ever told anyone but Sam himself, about those pipe +ashes, the words would choke the life out of me, as I would want them +to do. + +“Dog kill dog, then?” he asked. + +“Hubert Hand, I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t know what it is +you want me to keep my mouth shut about.” + +“Don’t? Well, I want you to keep still about that conversation you +overheard between Ollie Ricker and me in the cabin. She went back to +get her parasol and saw you coming out. We knew you had been hiding +there in the closet, listening.” + +With the sense I had been showing, it is a wonder I didn’t speak right +up and tell him that I had not been in the closet, but in the chest. I +did not. + +“Lands alive!” I said. “I’d had no idea of telling that, anyway. It +was none of my business.” + +“Fine! I didn’t have any idea of telling anything, either. It was none +of my business. Shake on it.” + +I let him take my hand. I said yes, when he made me promise. I felt +like I’d been associating with a sidewinder. + +I went on down the hall, wracking my brain to remember exactly what I +had heard in the cabin. Mrs. Ricker’s threat. That would incriminate +her, not him. And, though the threat had proven, of itself, that she +was in love with him, I had certainly come away with no idea that he +was in love with her. His mention of a previous attempt at murder, +made by her. Again, that was nothing against him. No; what he was +afraid of having told, must have been said in the room with the +closet. I found slight, but some comfort in realizing that, though I +had probably been a fool to make the promise to him, he had probably +been a worse fool when he made the one to me. + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +An Omen + +As I was trying to hurry past Gaby’s door, Danny opened it, and asked +me if I would come in and sit with her for a while. + +I should have been there, long before. I went right in, apologizing, +and trying to explain. But, when I saw that she meant for us to sit in +Gaby’s room, I suggested that we go somewhere else. + +“No, please Mary,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone; but I do want +to sit here. I feel as if here, with all her things around me, I +might—get in touch—I mean—something might come to me. They say, you +know, that people who have died—violent deaths, do not leave the earth +sphere at once. I don’t know whether I believe that or not. But, it +could be true. If she is still on earth, she would come here. Wouldn’t +she? And she would try, I am sure, to give me a sign. Something to +help me—to help all of us. If it should come, I want to be here to +receive it.” + +“It won’t come, Danny, dear,” I said. + +“No. I suppose not.” She leaned back in her chair and sighed, and her +arms dropped straight down over the chair’s arms—a position that +showed how tuckered she was. The engagement ring that John had given +her slipped from her finger and came rolling over toward me. I +scrambled to pick it up. When I rose from the floor she had jumped to +her feet. She was ashy, shaking and trembling as if she had a chill. + +“Mary! Promise me that you’ll never tell that, not to anyone. It +didn’t—— It couldn’t mean anything.” + +“It means,” I said, handing her the ring, “that you are wasting away. +You’d better let me go down and bring you up some good, hot soup; or +an eggnog.” + +She clung to me. “Don’t leave me, Mary. I am afraid. I am dreadfully +afraid. Promise that you won’t tell about the ring. It—didn’t mean +anything.” + +I will admit that I did not like it any too well myself. There, just +as she was asking for a sign, the ring, which had fitted snugly +enough, I had thought, had dropped off. But, of course I had to put up +a brave front to her. + +“Nonsense,” I said. “I won’t tell anybody, because it is nothing to +tell. All that it means is that the ring is too large for you.” + +“It is too large,” she agreed. “I’ve been losing weight, lately. I +have meant to ask John to send it to have it cut down—but I hated to +be without it. Still—just as I was asking for a sign. Though it has +dropped off several times before this. I shouldn’t think it meant +anything, this particular time, should I?” + +“Of course not, dear,” I said, relieved to hear that it had dropped +off before. “You had your hands hanging straight down, that’s all. You +are all overstrung, and no wonder. Anyway, what could it have meant?” + +How a person will babble along, seemingly for no reason. I had paid no +attention to what I was saying; but, the minute I had said it, the +question needed an answer. + +It could have meant that Gaby did not want Danny to marry John. Or, +since nothing in the house could have signified John’s name as plainly +as that ring could, it might have meant—— I refused to go on with it. + +Danny must have been answering the question to herself, as I had been +doing. She sat down in a deep chair, opposite me, her hands clasped on +her knees, and leaned forward, and looked into my eyes. + +“Definite things, Mary,” she said, “are always so wise. A definite +answer to your definite question proves, as nothing else might have, +that this was a silly, futile little accident. The ring has dropped +off, I suppose, half a dozen times this week. Gaby’s last note to me +was all affection. Living, if Gaby could have taken John away from me, +for herself, she would have done it. Dead—she wants us to marry. I +know that. As for any other implication——” As I had done, and in spite +of her talk about definite things, she refused that. “If only Uncle +Sam were not so heartless,” she finished. + +“Heartless!” I spoke sharply in spite of myself. “If the Creator ever +made a man with a bigger heart than Sam Stanley’s, nobody ever saw +him.” + +“He has been good to you,” she said. “But you give him his own way +about everything.” + +“Well, after all,” I said, “he does own the Desert Moon.” + +“And everyone on it, body and soul,” she said. “Sometimes I think he +owns everyone in this county.” + +I did not want to know what she meant by that; so I only reminded her +that Sam was John’s father. + +Her voice, when she spoke next, came muffled from where she had hidden +her face in her curved arm on the back of the chair. “Uncle Sam is not +John’s father,” she said. + +“What do you mean by that?” + +“John is uncle’s adopted son. They are so different, so utterly +different, they could not be father and son.” + +“Maybe not,” I said, trying to keep pleasant, for I did not want to be +snapping at the poor child on this day, “but no real son ever loved +his father better than John loves Sam. He all but worships him, and he +has ever since he was a little fellow.” + +“I know. I know. Sometimes I think John cares more for uncle than he +does for me. Mary, tell me, honestly. Do you think John loves me as +much as he loves Uncle Sam?” + +It is hard to explain; but, ever since we had begun to speak of Sam, I +had had a fighting feeling, as if I were warding off danger; so I was +right down relieved to have the conversation take this silly turn. + +“Love,” I told her, “though, mercy knows, I know little enough about +it, can’t be measured with a pint cup like flour. But John is a good, +normal boy. That means that his sweetheart comes first with him; first +and last.” + +“I—don’t know,” she answered. “I should hate to have John have to +choose between uncle and me.” + +“That is foolish talk. Why should John ever have to choose between you +and Sam?” + +She sighed, and shook her head. A sudden certainty came to me. +Whatever it was that Danny had refused that morning to tell me, +whatever it was that she had said that she dared not tell, had had +something, somehow, to do with Sam. + +I did not urge her again to tell me what it was. I did not wish to +know. I sat there, dumb, trying to think of some decent excuse that +would take me away from her and from that room, and from the need of +fighting; fighting, not in a fog, but the fog itself, trying to fell +nothingness with a blow, trying to catch smoke in a trap. My dull wits +worked too slowly. She began, again, to speak. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +Clues + +“What I can not understand,” she said, “is, that Gaby knew that she +might be killed. And yet, so far as anyone knows, she did not do one +thing to save herself. If only, only she had confided in me! Surely I +could have found some way to help her—to save her.” + +“You know, dear,” I said, “I think that Gaby was not—well, at least +not doing any clear thinking, those last few days.” + +“I know. I thought it was only her disappointment. But now—— Who could +be quite sane with such a fear confronting her? Yet—she left all of +her things in order; as if, deliberately, she prepared for death. She +burned her papers and letters. See——” Danny pointed to the fireplace. + +I crossed the room and looked into it. Papers had recently been burned +there. I took the poker and stirred in the fluttering, black bits; but +nothing had escaped the flames. I hung the poker back in the rack with +shovel and tongs and bellows. It did not catch on its hook. As I bent +to fix it, I saw a little white circle, down in the corner of the +stand. I stooped and picked it up. It was a tiny round of celluloid, +with the letter “Q” printed on it. + +“It is one of the caps for her typewriter keys,” Danny replied to my +question. “She put them on over the keys; softer for her finger tips, +or saved her finger nails—something of the sort.” + +“I wonder why she burned them?” I said. + +“Do you think that she did?” + +“Well, this one being here on the hearth——” + +“It probably rolled there, sometime, when she was taking them off her +machine.” + +“Why did she take them off, if she always used them?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“Shall we,” I suggested, “look and see whether the others are where +she kept them?” + +Danny opened the desk drawer. “They aren’t here, at any rate,” she +said, and came back to me, and reached out her hand for the little +cap, and turned it over in her fingers. “It could mean only,” she +said, “what we knew before. That she expected death. That she tried to +leave everything tidy and in order.” + +“I don’t know,” I objected. “It seems more than orderly, to have taken +these off the machine and burned them. It seems right down queer.” + +She smiled a little pitying smile at me, and patted my shoulder. “Poor +Mary,” she said. + +“Well,” I tried to defend myself, “in all the mystery stories that I +ever read it was always some stray, meaningless little thing that +solved the mystery in the end. A criminal never was discovered without +any clues, was he?” + +“I believe,” she said, “that you are the only one in the house who +hasn’t looked at what Gaby had in her bag——” + +She walked to the table by the window. I followed her. I dreaded +seeing that bag again; but I was curious about its contents. It was +lying limp on the table. + +She picked it up, brushed it flickeringly with the tips of her +fingers, and blew on it, as if she were trying to blow something off +of it. “Everything,” she explained, “sticks to the little pointed +beads.” + +I took it from her and looked at it closely; but I could see no speck +of ash, no minute particle of tobacco, nor of dust on its pattern of +parrots, tree branches, and flowers. + +“It is a beautiful thing,” I said. + +“Gaby got it in Vienna.” + +“I’ve wondered,” I said, “why it was that Gaby had all the beautiful, +expensive things, such as this. Your clothes are pretty and tasty, but +they aren’t near the quality of Gaby’s.” + +She hesitated a moment before answering. “I have been in England for +the past eight years, while Gaby has been on the continent, where +beautiful things are more plentiful, and cheaper.” + +“Lands alive! I thought you girls had lived together, all these +years.” + +“No,” she said, and picked up Gaby’s cigarette case, and handed it to +me. + +It was made of a dull gold, with her monogram, “G. C.” set in tiny +black opals, with green and blue lights flickering in them as if they +were alive. + +I opened the case. It was full of cigarettes, except for a space at +one side, where about two of the pesky little things would have fitted +in. + +“And, see,” Danny said, opening the gold match-box that was like the +cigarette case, “it is quite empty. It doesn’t seem reasonable that +she would start out with an empty match-box. I believe that she used +the matches to smoke the cigarettes.” + +“She wouldn’t have used a box of matches to light two cigarettes.” + +“She may have shared her matches with another person, who was +smoking.” + +“Likely she had only a few of these short matches,” I said. (Sam would +use about as many matches as that box would hold to get rid of one +pipeful of tobacco.) + +I picked up another little gold box. It had powder, rouge, lipstick, +and a mirror in it. I had seen it often enough before. I put it back +on the table, and took up a beaded coin purse that matched the large +bag. It was entirely empty. + +“Isn’t it queer that that should be empty?” Danny asked. “And her +bill-fold is missing. She surely would not start to go anywhere with +not a cent of money. Doesn’t it look as if she had been robbed?” + +“Only,” I said, “if anyone had robbed her, why would he have left the +valuable gold cigarette case, and vanity case, and match-box?” + +“He might have thought they would be hard to dispose of.” + +I stood silent, thinking and shaking my head. + +“Mary,” Danny’s voice, always low, grew lower still with her +intensity, “there is one thing that no one has thought of. Daniel +Canneziano could have reached here from California in a few hours, by +aeroplane.” + +“I had thought of that. But, Danny, no aeroplane ever came within +twenty miles of the ranch without every man-jack of us hearing it, and +rushing out with our heads tipped back to gape at it. Aeroplanes +aren’t stealthy things, you know, that people can slip up in, and slip +off again.” + +“But, on the third of July, two aeroplanes passed over, going to the +Telko celebration.” + +“On the third,” I reminded her, “as advertised. And you know how much +noise they made. And how we all went out and watched them, from tiny +specks in the south until they were tiny specks and lost in the north +again.” + +She shook her head, and drooped her shoulders with a sigh. + +I picked up a little red handkerchief. It was crumpled in a ball; if +ever I saw a handkerchief that had been cried into, and turned to a +dry spot, and squeezed, and cried into again, it was that little red +wad. It was dry now, of course; exposed to the air in this altitude. I +wondered whether it had been dry when it had come out of the bag. It +was a question not to be asked; so I dropped the handkerchief on the +table, certain, only, that the fastidious Gabrielle had never started +out with a handkerchief in that condition in her Vienna bag, and +picked up the carved ivory cigarette holder. It fell to pieces in my +fingers. + +“Was this broken in her bag?” I questioned. + +“Yes. Snapped in two. And she loved it.” + +I fitted the pieces together again, on the table, and took up a folded +sheet of paper, and opened it, and read: + +“Glorious Gaby: Be a good sport. Be a darling. Be game—that is, be +Gaby, and meet me this afternoon, around four thirty, in the cabin. H. +H.” + +“Well!” I said. + +“Yes, I know,” Danny answered, “but Hubert Hand swears that he wrote +that note several weeks ago. Too, we know that he was playing chess +with Uncle Sam at half-past four.” + +“He could have gone to the cabin later, when the men went to do the +chores. Or was he right with Sam and Chad all the time?” + +“I suppose so. He must have satisfied the coroner’s jury, at the +inquest, of his innocence. Mary,” her voice went all tense again, +“does it seem to you that the jury was very readily satisfied?” + +Perhaps this would be as good a place as any to explain that this tale +is not being written to prove that Mary Magin was, or is, a wise, +clever, or smart woman. As I have said before, and will say again, +from the beginning to the very end I was a fool. I made mistakes, over +and over; and, as will be told, I made a disastrous mistake in the +end. If I had been blind, deaf and dumb, I could not have been as big +a fool; for then, all the time, I should not have been imagining that +I saw things, which I did not see; heard things, which I did not hear; +and I should have been obliged to keep my clattery old tongue quiet. +The only virtue I can claim, concerning this story, is that if I were +a vain or a conceited person, I should never have written it. + +I spoke sharply, too sharply to her in answer to what I had imagined I +had seen in her attitude. “Never mind about the jury being easily +satisfied. Sam is not going to be. He told me this morning that he +would find the murderer if it took every dollar he had in the world to +do it. Sam is going to get to the bottom of this. Be sure of that.” + +“I—wonder,” she said. + +“What do you wonder?” + +“Mary!” she exclaimed, close to a reproach, “I merely wonder whether +or not Uncle Sam will succeed.” + +I looked at her brown eyes, all red and swollen from tears, and at the +deep, dark circles under them, and I was ashamed. + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +More Clues + +I put my arm around her shoulders and drew her close to me. “Honey,” I +said, “forgive your old Mary. We are all overstrung, overwrought. I +didn’t mean to speak so sharply.” + +“There is nothing to forgive, dear,” she said. “But—I don’t +understand. What did I say, or do, that made you feel like being cross +to me?” + +“Nothing,” I told her. “I’m all on edge—that’s all.” + +“I know. Were you looking for something else, on the table? There was +nothing else in her bag.” + +“I was wondering,” I said, “about that foreign looking letter she got +on the second of July. Did she burn it, with the other things?” + +“Oddly, she didn’t. I found it in her desk; or, rather, beneath her +typewriter. Either she forgot about it; or knew that none of us could +read it.” + +“It was written in a foreign language?” + +“No. In code. Here it is.” + +Code, indeed! When I took it from its envelope, this is what met my +eyes. + +“Paexzazlytp! f-y nyx ogrgrsgo, rn fgao atf jan j-asn, ahzgo zkg c-. +ahhalo, vkgt nyx clplzgf rg lt zkg kypulzae, zkaz nyx palf, vlzk nyxo +lrlzazgf r-yta e-lpa prleg, ‘p-yoon, yef fgao, l- rafg——” + +I have copied only the first lines on the first page. There were four +sleazy pages, all closely typewritten. Not a scratch of handwriting on +it. What I judged to be the signature, was, “Slrsl.” + +“Do you know who wrote this?” I asked. + +“I am sure, if I dare be sure of anything, that it was written by a +man named Lewis Bauermont.” + +I counted the letters of “Lewis” on my fingers. Five. The number of +letters in the signature, “Slrsl.” + +“If he signed his name Lewis,” I said, “then ‘S’ would be, ‘L,’ and +‘l’ would be ‘e’ and so on. Get a pencil, dear. Let’s see if we can +work it out.” + +She came and looked over my shoulder at the jumbled letters. + +“No,” she said, “you see, the letter ‘s’ comes twice in the last word, +and there are no duplicate letters in Lewis. I am sure it will be more +difficult than any substitution of letters. I don’t know anything +about codes; but I have a notion that the letters are mere symbols of +something else—numbers perhaps, that work out with a key quotation.” + +“I’m going to have a try at my idea, anyway,” I insisted. + +I went and sat at the desk. She sat beside me, and handed me a pencil. + +“Perhaps,” I suggested, “the man who wrote this, signed some nickname. +Did he have one?” + +“Men called him ‘Mexico,’ and ‘Mexie.’ Gaby never used either of those +names for him.” + +“What name did she use?” I insisted, though I felt like a brute. + +“None, except ‘Lewis,’ that I know of. She didn’t read the signature, +when she read the letter to me. At least I don’t remember——” + +“She read it to you!” I exclaimed. + +“I thought that she did. Now—I don’t know. I can’t be sure of +anything. She read to me what she said was a copy of the letter; that +is, the worked out code. She may have left out entire paragraphs. She +may have changed it, in any way, in order to keep her terrible secret +from me.” + +“Yes, but what did she tell you the letter contained?” + +Danny looked at her wrist-watch. “It is too long even to begin to +tell, now. And—I don’t want to tell it again; not to-day. I have told +John all about it, you see. Later, of course—— Or you may ask John to +tell you. It—it was an insult from beginning to end. An insult to her. +I can’t bear thinking of it, any more; not to-day. + +“Mary,” her voice changed suddenly as did her manner, “do you know why +Uncle Sam asked me—almost commanded me to be in the living-room at +three o’clock to-day?” + +“No, Danny, I don’t. But he told Mrs. Ricker and me to be there, too. +I guess he just wants to talk to all of us, together.” + +“Oh—talk! What good is talk going to do? Talk, in a place like this, +now, where there is not one true, certain thing to get hold of, +anywhere; where not one of us can believe in another——” + +She put a quick hand to her lips; her eyes widened; she turned, and +hastily pushing aside the heavy curtain, went through the clothes +closet into her own room. + +I sat still, at the desk. The paper before me, and the sharp pencil in +my hand, tempted me to make a list, as they always do in books, of the +clues, to date. I wrote: + + “Locked door. + “Key in my pocket. + “T. A. (I put only the initials of tobacco ashes.) + “Chad’s suicide. + “Chad’s note. What person was he trying to shield? + “What did Hubert Hand think that I had overheard in the cabin? + “Mrs. Ricker’s threat. + “‘Q’ cap for typewriter key. + “Contents of the beaded bag. + “1. Two cigs missing from full case. + “2. Empty match-box. + “3. Empty purse. Missing bill-fold. (Robbery?) + “4. Crumpled handkerchief. (Tears? Pleading?) + “5. Broken cig. holder. + “6. Hubert Hand’s note. + “The code letter. + “Gabrielle’s note to Danny.” + +This, I submit as the world’s worst list of clues. It is the best +example I have ever seen of the saying that a person could not see the +forest for the trees. The forest was there, right enough. All I would +have needed to do, was to back off far enough away from the trees to +look at it. + +My face burns, even yet, when I realize that, at half-past two o’clock +on the afternoon of the fifth of July, if I had been possessed of just +one lick of sense, I could, instead of writing that list of clues, +have written another one; a list that, step by step, just as sure as +straight ahead, would have led to the guilty person. + +Why did I not take into consideration the fact that, for two months, +the Canneziano girls had been searching for something on the Desert +Moon; something which I was all but certain they had not found? + +Why did I not give a thought to the fact that John, after a secret +conversation with Gaby—according to Mrs. Ricker—had been clean and +clear away off the place since early afternoon until evening? + +Why did I not include in my list the fact that Gaby had given the gold +monkey to Martha? + +Why, instead of trying to puzzle out the code letter, did I not read +between the lines of Gabrielle’s last note to Danny? + +However, at the time, since it was of my own making, I was quite well +satisfied with my list. I took it to the table to check over the +items. Sam had put the key, with which I had opened the attic door, +alongside the other things there. + +I picked it up, now, and looked at it for the first time. I had not +looked at it, I had merely used it, the night before. My heart jumped +up in my throat. It was not the key to the attic door. It was a rusty +old pass key that had hung on a nail in the broom closet, off the +kitchen, for more years than I could remember. + +Whoever had put this key in my pocket, must have been well acquainted +with the Desert Moon kitchen, to have found that old key, under the +brooms, and mops, and dust-rags, and chamois skins, and the rest, that +hung around it and over it in the broom-closet. + +What had become of the key to the attic door? + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +The Session + +When I went down to the living-room, at five minutes before three, +Danny, John, Mrs. Ricker and Martha were all there. Danny and John +were sitting at the far end of the room. Mrs. Ricker was in a chair +near the window, tatting. Martha was on the biggest davenport, playing +with the monkey charm. I went and sat beside her. + +“I feel sleepy,” she answered my question. “But I am happy, now. I am +very happy.” + +“That’s nice,” I told her. “But, if I were you, I wouldn’t talk much +about being happy; that is, not to-day.” + +“I don’t care. Gaby was hateful and mean, even if she did give me the +monkey. She was good, then; but she wasn’t good long enough for me to +like her. I’m sorry because Chad died, though. I was awfully sorry, +until I happened to remember about heaven. He is happy there now. When +I die, I’ll go to heaven and be happy, too. He’ll love me then, won’t +he? I know he will.” + +“Of course, Martha,” I said. “And he loved you here, too.” + +“Only like a little girl. I wanted him to love me like a lady. He +would have, I guess, if he hadn’t shot himself. I am sorry he did +that. But I’m happy, anyway, ’cause we are going to have the fireworks +to-night.” + +“Tut, tut,” I said. “We won’t be having any fireworks to-night.” + +Her lower lip curled out. “Daddy promised,” she whimpered. “Yesterday, +when it looked like rain, he said never to mind, that we’d have them +the very first night it didn’t rain. To-night is the first night. +Daddy promised.” + +To my shame, I never, in all the years, had gotten used to Martha. She +looked like a big, healthy, strapping girl. And when, as now, I +realized that a smart five-year-old child would have had a better +mind, it shocked me all over. + +Sam and Hubert Hand came into the room together. Sam looked around, +counting noses. + +“All here,” he said, and locked the door he and Hubert had come +through, and dropped the key in his pocket. He went all around the +room, closing and locking the doors and windows. He moved a chair to +the foot of the stairway, pulled a small table over beside it, took +his six-gun out of his back pocket, put it on the table, and sat down +in the chair. + +No one had moved nor had said a word. I know that I was frightened. I +was not afraid of Sam, and I was not afraid of that six-gun. It did +not make me a mite more uneasy than a bouquet of flowers would have; +that is, if Sam had carried the bouquet in and put it on the table +with the same manner with which he had carried and placed the gun. +Mostly, I guess, I was afraid of being made afraid; partly, I was +afraid of myself. + +Hubert Hand spoke first. “Cannon, ugh?” he sneered. + +“That’s all right, Hand,” Sam answered. “This is here, mostly I think, +for ornamental purposes.” + +“Daddy,” Martha piped up, “aren’t we going to have the fireworks +to-night?” + +Sam frowned at her. “Not to-night, daughter.” + +She opened her mouth and began making those dreadful noises she always +made whenever she was crossed in anything. + +Sam rapped on the table, “Shut that up, here and now,” he said. “Not +another whimper out of you. Hear me, Martha?” + +She closed her mouth with a snap. I thought those immense eyes of hers +would pop out of her head. I am sure that the others of us all felt +the way she looked. In all the years we had lived together on the +Desert Moon, it was the first time any one of us had ever heard Sam +speak impatiently to Martha. As for scolding her, being stern with +her, up to this minute it had never been in the book. + +“John,” Sam said, “you and Danny come out of that corner, up here +nearer the rest of us, and where it is light.” + +I tell you they came, straight, and sat on the small davenport beside +Hubert Hand. + +“I reckon,” Sam began, “that all of you in here know that anyone could +walk up to any man or woman in here and call him or her a murderer, +and that not one of us could give him the lie, right now. + +“I reckon that you know, too, as everyone in the country knows that, +at this hour, the Desert Moon Ranch is rotten with the muck of crime +and suspicion. Maybe you don’t know that it is not going to stay that +way for many more hours. + +“We have called the law in, as was right and proper. And the law has +been real polite, and blinked its eyes, and departed. ‘Folded its +tents like the Arabs, and silently stole away.’ Well, that’s all +right. I didn’t much care about having those fellows mix into my +private business; anyway, not until I had found out that I couldn’t +attend to it myself. I am not going to find that out. I can attend to +it. I am going to, right here and now. Later on, when we need the law +again, we’ll call on it. The innocent in this room will have their +names cleared. The Desert Moon will be a fit place for a white man to +live on. + +“Now this gun here may look like I felt violent or something. I don’t. +And I’m not going to act violent. This gun is here for just one +purpose, and I’m dead certain it won’t be used for that. A word to the +wise, though. No person, barring none and including the ladies, is to +leave this room until I give the word. No innocent person in here will +try to leave. Any guilty person in here—and, before God, there is a +guilty person here; guilty, at least, of aiding and abetting—is going +to have too much sense to try to make a break. That is why I won’t +need the gun. Not, I mean, until we find the guilty person. When we +have found him, it may be of some use until the sheriff can get here. +That is all of that. Except that we are going to stay here, one and +all, right here in this room, until we are ready to ’phone for the +sheriff. + +“If everyone does as I am going to tell them to do, we should be +through with this session by supper time. But, if we don’t get through +until midnight, or until next week, we’ll stay here until we do. All +I’m asking, of everybody here, is that you all tell the truth. You’ll +have to, sooner or later. Better make it sooner.” + +During this speech my dander had been rising. It had got up pretty +good and high by this time. “Sam Stanley,” I spoke out, “you ought to +know that you can’t force truth out of anybody at the point of a gun, +nor by keeping them locked up. We’ll get hungry. We’ll get thirsty. +And when we do we’ll eat and drink and go about our affairs. At least +I will—unless you shoot me. I’m not fixed to put up with this kind of +foolishness.” + +“Mary,” Sam roared at me. “That’s enough out of you. You be quiet. You +are going to do as you are told. So are the others.” + +Sam had never spoken like that to me before. It left me limp as a +drained jelly bag. Before I could get my breath for an answer, Hubert +Hand was talking. + +“Changed your mind since morning, haven’t you, Sam? You were dead sure +this morning that no one on the place had had anything to do with the +murder; that Mary had locked the attic door herself, earlier in the +day, and, absent-mindedly, dropped the key in her pocket.” + +“Never mind about my morning’s opinions, Hand. You are right. Dead +right. I’ve changed my mind. Now, since you are already going pretty +good, I’ll begin with you and work around the room, taking each one in +turn. I want you to tell everything you know, and everything you +suspect concerning the murder.” + +“Sorry,” Hubert Hand said, “but I don’t know a damn thing except that, +apparently, she was strangled to death sometime between four o’clock +yesterday afternoon and eight o’clock yesterday evening. We saw her +alive at four. We found her dead at eight. That’s the extent of my +knowledge.” + +“All right. Now go ahead with what you suspect.” + +“I can’t see,” Hubert Hand objected, “that suspicions have any place +here. Beyond stirring up a rumpus and hard feelings, they wouldn’t get +any of us any place.” + +“That is for me to decide,” Sam said. “You were mighty busy for a +while this morning, throwing out hints and slurs. If this session +doesn’t do anything else, it can anyway clear out all this whispering +that is going around. Just now, everybody here is busy suspecting +everybody else here. Suspicions usually have some reasoning behind +them. ‘Where there’s smoke there’s fire.’ It is only fair to give +everyone here a chance to examine everyone else’s suspicions, and +disprove them, if they can. If you think that I did the killing, I +want to know it. I want a chance to prove you wrong. Come on now, +Hand. Come clean.” + +“Suppose I refuse?” + +“That is up to you,” Sam drawled. “As the sheriffs say, everything you +say will be used against you. But, as they don’t say, everything you +don’t say will be used against you, a sight harder. If I knew you had +no suspicions, I wouldn’t try to force you to invent some, just to be +sociable. But you were pretty free with your hints this morning. All +right. Talk.” + +Hubert lowered his Roman nose and pulled at his moustache for a +minute. It was easy to see he was busy with a decision of some sort. +He settled back in his chair more comfortably and, still pulling at +his moustache, he began. + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +Hubert Hand Talks + +“Well,” he said, “I can talk all right. But I want to start with this +understanding. I don’t know any facts that amount to a damn. You’re +right that I have suspicions. If you weren’t forcing them out of me, +I’d have sense enough to keep my mouth shut, from now on, at least +until airing them might do some good. But, since you are determined to +have them now, at the point of a gun, I’ll say that I think John did +it, and that somebody else in the house is shielding him.” + +Danny gave a thin, sick little shriek and threw her arm around John in +a protecting way. John straightened. Under his tan I could see the +color seeping out of his face. Gently, he removed Danny’s arm. + +Sam lowered his white eyebrows until his eyes looked like two slits of +blue light, glinting out from away behind his face. When he spoke his +voice was iron. + +“Why do you think John killed her?” + +“In the first place, John is the only one here who hasn’t a +water-tight alibi——” + +“Not by a damn sight he isn’t,” Sam interrupted. “But never mind. Go +on.” + +“At four o’clock Gaby came down through the room. While she was still +in sight, Danny called down, trying to get her to come back. Now this +is just another suspicion, I don’t know whether anyone here will back +me up in it or not—probably not,”—he added the last in a hateful, +slurring way—“but I noticed that her voice sounded strange, like she +was excited, maybe, or else afraid.” + +Sam asked, “Did anyone else here notice anything of that kind?” + +I had decided, right at first, to keep my mouth shut about everything; +so I did. + +“I thought not,” Hubert Hand said, as if he had known from the start +that he was the only honest one in the crowd. + +Mrs. Ricker spoke. “I noticed it,” she said. + +Hubert bowed at her, in a sort of mocking way. Knowing what I knew, I +thought that her corroboration would do Hubert Hand more harm than +good. But, of course, the others did not know what I knew. Nor were +they going to know it, since Hubert Hand was keeping his part of our +bargain. Right or wrong, I was thankful, just then, that we had made +that bargain. + +“Let me see,” Hubert Hand continued, “where was I? Gaby, after going +through the room, stopped on the porch for a minute to talk to Chad. +He came into the house in a fine humor. Gaby then went around the +house to the rabbit hutch, and for some reason, gave her bracelet to +Martha. When Martha’s turn comes, in this inquisition, I suggest that +she be questioned rather closely.” + +Sam banged his fist on the table. “Never mind your suggestions. You +are accusing John now. Stick to that.” + +“You bet,” Hubert Hand accepted, “especially since Martha was in the +house again within five or ten minutes, with every last one of us. +Danny had come down by that time. From four to five, then, you and I +were playing chess. Chad was at the piano. Danny and Mary were over +there, talking together. Mrs. Ricker was tatting, where she is now, by +the window. Martha was bothering us, part of the time, and part of the +time she was just fooling around the room. I’m pretty certain not one +of us left this room during that hour. You might check up on that, +Sam.” + +Sam asked Mrs. Ricker, and Danny, and me, if we remembered anyone’s +leaving the room during that hour. We all said we did not. Danny added +that she might not have noticed. I wished, seeing Hubert Hand smile, +she had let well enough alone and not bothered to add that. + +“At five,” Hubert Hand resumed, “we three men went together to let the +cows in and to milk. Mary, I believe, was in the kitchen alone, +getting supper, during that time. Mrs. Ricker, Danny and Martha +remained here in the living-room. Is that right?” + +“Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t,” Sam said. “There is the hour in +there, before supper, that we’ll all have to account for, right +accurately, before any of us has that water-tight alibi you were +talking about, Hand. And,” Sam added, with his own sort of emphasis, +“we won’t have it then.” + +“All right,” Hubert Hand agreed. “You and Chad and I went down to the +barns together. We let the cows in. We milked them. At least, you and +I did. Chad stayed with you and was kidding around down in your end of +the barn. I heard you laughing and talking down there, together, the +whole time. Is that right?” + +“Practically,” Sam answered. “All but, I couldn’t swear that you were +in the barn during the entire time.” + +“No? Well, I’ll admit that I hadn’t thought of that. If I’d thought of +it, I’d probably have known that you—how is it?—couldn’t swear that I +was in the barn during the entire time.” + +“Meaning?” Sam demanded. + +“That if John is guilty, you’ll shield him with your last lie.” + +Sam’s fist knotted at his side. His voice was not iron, now; it was +tempered steel. “We’ll settle about my last lie later, Hand.” + +“You’re begging for this,” Hubert Hand reminded him. + +“Get on!” + +“I milked four cows. Not very good, for the time—about forty minutes; +but as good work as you did. And I will swear that you were in the +barn the entire time. Anyway, that is easy settled. Mary, did I, or +did anyone of the three of us, come through the kitchen and go +upstairs during that hour?” + +“No,” I answered. + +“Weren’t you,” Sam questioned, “going back and forth between the +kitchen and the dining-room?” + +“No. Danny set the table for me. I didn’t step foot out of the +kitchen.” + +“Mrs. Ricker,” Hubert Hand questioned, “did any one of us men come in, +and go upstairs through the living-room, during that hour?” + +“No,” she said. + +“Mrs. Ricker,” Sam asked, “were you right there, alone, in the +living-room during that entire hour?” + +“I was not alone. Martha was with me. And, several times during the +hour, five or six times at least, Danny came in from the dining-room +to see whether she could see John coming up the road.” + +“Danny,” Sam spoke to her, “were Mrs. Ricker and Martha in the +living-room every time you went in there?” + +“I—think so.” + +“Only think so, eh?” Hubert Hand half sneered it. + +“I mean,” Danny explained, “that I am sure Mrs. Ricker was here. She +was sitting right by the window. I did not particularly notice +Martha.” + +“I can vouch for Martha,” Mrs. Ricker snapped. + +“All right,” Hubert Hand went on, “so far, so good. The ladies, I +think, especially if you remember the glass doors between the +living-room and the dining-room, have established alibis that would +satisfy any jury. + +“Now for you and Chad and me, again. We walked together, carrying the +milk, to the dairy. There we took off the barn coveralls, and, at your +suggestion, washed up in the dairy kitchen to save time. We came back +to the house together. Mary said that supper was on the table. We all +sat down to the table together. All present, you see, except John. + +“Would it have been possible for you, or for me, or for Chad, to have +gone down to the barn (you and I each milked four cows, remember), +come back to the house and through it, with not one of these ladies +seeing us, committed the murder, got back to the barn, and then to the +house again, all in an hour? I think, Sam, the wisest thing you can +do, is to grant us all our alibis for that hour, anyway, and then work +on from there, if you’re bound to.” + +I felt reasonably certain that, if Hubert Hand had gone through the +living-room, between five and six o’clock, Mrs. Ricker would not tell +of it. But I was more certain that Danny, on the watch out for John, +would have seen anyone who had come in through the front door. + +“The alibi hour sounds fine, Hand,” Sam said, “but you are making a +mistake. You are assuming that I think that someone here committed the +murder. I don’t think that. I do think that someone in this room, +right now, knows who did it. Where any one of us was, or was not, at +the particular hour you’re making such a stew about, probably doesn’t +cut any ice.” + +“I think it does. I began this, you know, by saying that I thought +John——” + +“You said that once,” Sam interrupted. “Once is plenty. Go ahead with +it now, if you can. Give your proofs.” + +“There you go. I told you I didn’t have any proofs, didn’t I, when you +made me talk? But I have got some pretty solid bases for my +suspicions. John decided, all of a sudden, to go to Rattail for the +mail—or something. The kidding he came in for, right then, shows +whether he usually went for the mail on a holiday afternoon. He was +gone four hours instead of the two—two and a half, anyway—that he +could have made it in. He had two bum excuses. First, tire trouble. +That would be a better excuse, if the car wasn’t standing in the +garage right now with the same tires on it that he started out with.” + +“I know you said you had no proof of anything,” Sam broke in. “I +reckon, of course, you can prove that, though?” + +John spoke. “I don’t think he could prove it, dad, since the spare was +a Truetread, same as the others. But he’s right. I changed tires +twice, that’s all. The spare was rotten. When I had the second +blow-out, I patched the first tire and put it back on. The patch is +there, to prove that.” + +“And the rotten spare?” Hubert Hand questioned. + +“It wasn’t worth bothering to put on the rack. I rolled it off across +the desert.” + +“My mistake,” Hubert Hand said. “Maybe. Two hours is a long time to +change tires, even twice. The second excuse was, that he had met Leo +Saule and had given him a tow. Saule is a rotten little half-breed, +who could be bought for a half dollar. Also, he lives alone, away off +the main road——” + +John jumped to his feet. “Get this, Hand——” + +Sam had jumped too. He got to John and put his hands on his shoulders. +“Keep your shirt on, son. I am to blame for this. Your turn is coming. +Wait for it. Go on, Hand.” + +John hesitated, and sat down again. Sam went back to his chair by the +table. + +“Sorry,” Hubert Hand apologized, “I don’t like this a damn bit better +than John does; but it seems to be up to me. Well, then, he came in +two hours late. He came through the kitchen; and, instead of leaving +the car in the garage, he left it in the back entrance. He went +straight upstairs. It took him half an hour, or more, to get shaved +and change his clothes. When he came down he acted like a man in a +daze. He couldn’t eat. He offered being out in the sun as an excuse. +He is out in the sun every day. + +“I think that he had met Gaby, as they had planned, right after dinner +when he started for Rattail. Maybe she had promised him to leave the +place. He was crazy to get her off the ranch. I know that. He told me +so, just the other day—said she was making trouble here, and so on. +She may have had something on him, that she was threatening to tell +Danny, or Sam. I don’t know about that, either. I don’t know a damn +thing about whatever they might have had between them. But I think +that he killed her, out on the desert some place. + +“I don’t think that he had planned to do it. I think he must have +threatened her, off and on, though; her note to Danny, and other +things, show that she was afraid for her life. All the same, I think +he started it, yesterday, as a bluff. But the desire was back of the +bluff—that’s pretty certain. + +“I don’t know why he brought her body back and hid it in the house. I +don’t give him credit for figuring out what a smart thing that was to +do. He may have been afraid of footprints in the road, or on the +desert, if he carried the body away and tried to hide it out there. He +didn’t know that the storm was coming, to cover up his traces. I +think, though, that it was pure funk that made him come driving home +with the body hidden in the car—covered with the sacks of rock salt. + +“I didn’t like to think that it was Danny who helped him out, after +that. It didn’t seem like her. I couldn’t think of anyone else, +though, who would help him. In the last few minutes, I’ve managed to +think of someone else. It is a lucky thing for John. You are a damn +sight stronger ally, Sam, than Danny or any one else would have been. +For instance—this present magnificent bluff of yours.” + +“All right,” Sam said. “All through?” + +“I’m satisfied, if you are,” Hubert Hand answered. + +“I’m not,” Sam drawled. “Because, like the caterpillar said, ‘It’s all +wrong from beginning to end.’ It is a queer thing, though, the way +quotations always come to me. Most of the time you were talking, Hand, +I kept thinking of this one: ‘Give a guilty man enough rope and he +will hang himself.’” + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +John Talks + +“If you mean me, dad,” John spoke right up, and I’d given a pretty +penny to have had him say something else, for, of course, Sam had not +meant him, “I’m not worried. They don’t hang innocent men in Nevada, +no matter how much rope their friends present them with.” + +“As a matter of fact,” Hubert Hand said, “I guess they don’t hang any +men in Nevada, now, do they? Lethal chamber, isn’t it?” + +Sam growled at him to shut up; and told John that it was his turn to +talk, and to go ahead and to try to talk sense, if possible. + +“I don’t know where to begin,” John said. “I’ve got nothing to talk +about.” + +“Begin at the beginning. What did Gaby say to you, after dinner, that +made you decide, right off, to go to Rattail?” + +“I’ve told you that already. I’ve got no changes to make in it. Gaby +told me, after dinner, that Danny’s headache was getting worse. She +said that Danny had sent to Salt Lake for a certain kind of headache +medicine, the only kind that ever did her any good. She said it should +have come in the morning’s mail. She said that Danny would be peeved +at her for telling me about it—asking me to go, that is. So, if I +didn’t want a fuss, and wanted to be allowed to go, I’d better make a +sneak of it, with no explanations. I did. Here is something I haven’t +told, though, for Danny just told me, when we came in here at three. +She hadn’t sent for any headache medicine to Salt Lake, nor anywhere. +That certainly looks as if Gaby wanted to get either me, or the sedan, +off the job and out of the way, yesterday afternoon. She must have had +some reason for sending me on a fool’s errand like that.” + +“Well, well, go on, son,” Sam said, after we had all sat in dead +silence for about a minute. + +“Go on where?” John asked. “I’ve got nothing more to say. Hand’s told +the rest of it, hasn’t he?” + +“Answer him, you fool,” Sam roared. “You’ve got answers, haven’t you? +Use ’em. Sitting there like a dummy! Did anyone see you towing Saule +to his place?” + +“Not that I know of. I towed him all right; but I can’t prove it. Hand +was right when he said he could be bought for a half dollar. He might +come cheaper. I’d try him with a quarter, first, Hand.” + +“Good God!” Sam shouted. “What are you trying to do? Pry your way into +the lethal chamber? Can you give a reason for driving to the back +door, instead of leaving the car in the garage?” + +“Only two hundred-pound sacks of rock salt. They’d dumped them on the +platform for us this morning from Eighteen. I could give a reason for +bringing them up, instead of leaving them there until we went down +with the truck. Sure, I’m full of reasons. Got a good reason for +taking half an hour to bathe and dress. It would be hard to find a guy +with more reasons than I can produce for everything—all, but murdering +the twin sister of the girl I love.” + +“Son,” Sam said, “I don’t blame you a damn bit for being sore clear to +the bone. But, come to that, we haven’t any right to blame Hand, here, +either; not if he is honest in his suspicions, and, maybe, he is. I +forced them out of him. Can’t you swallow your pride, for a while, +and——” + +“I’ve swallowed it already,” John said, “if that’s what you want. +Swallowed it till I’m choked with it.” + +“I know, I know. But it is like this, John—and this goes for all you +folks, too—a person can’t get to the bottom of anything without going +down. In this case, it looks like we were going to have to go pretty +low down—a trip to hell for most of us, I reckon. But it will be a +round trip. Most of us will come up clean, to a clean Desert Moon. +Can’t we go down, then, like a lot of reasonable human beings, and not +like a kennel of yapping dogs?” + +“It won’t hold, dad,” John answered. “Not this round trip to hell +stuff, as human beings. If I hadn’t stopped being a human being; that +is, a man, I wouldn’t have sat still here and let Hand have his say +out. And I wouldn’t have done it, not to save my own neck. But I know +how you feel about the ranch. I’ve gone through with it for that +reason, and—for Danny, though I know that all of this is a rotten +mistake on your part. I know that; but it is no use telling you, now +that you’ve started. I’ll go on with it, the best I can. I guess the +others will, too. But none of us will come up clean, as you say. Don’t +look for that—not after this muck. All right. Hop to it, dad. What’s +your next question?” + +I was relieved when Sam asked, “Do you suspect, with reason, anyone in +this room?” I had thought, following right along with Hubert Hand’s +accusations, as Sam had been doing, that his next question would be +about what was troubling and bothering John when he came in. Why he +had acted so queerly that he had had to explain it by saying he was +loco from the sun. + +“I do not.” John answered Sam’s question, straight. “But it seems darn +queer to me the way everyone is leaving Chad’s suicide out of this. +Hold on, dad! I’m not saying that I think Chad killed her. I know he +didn’t. But I know just as well that he didn’t walk out and shoot +himself simply because he had loved Gaby. Chad was a queer bird, all +right. I guess none of us understood him very well. He was as +emotional as the deuce, too—I’ll grant that. But he was not, ever, a +damn fool.” + +“John!” Danny interrupted. “Do you think that a man who kills himself, +when he finds that the girl he loves has been cruelly murdered, needs +to be a fool?” + +“Yes,” John answered. “A man might not care much about living, after +that, but if he killed himself he’d be a fool. I mean—— It is like +this. Regular fellows, and Chad sure was one, don’t walk out and kill +themselves, when they find the girl they love is dead. It takes more +than death to make a real man kill himself. Sounds like a book, I +know; but, loss of honor is a reason, and shame—maybe that’s the same +thing—is another reason. Or, a fellow might kill himself to save the +honor of his girl—or to save a friend’s life, if he owed the friend a +lot——” + +Danny interrupted again. “Absolute despair should be a reason——” + +“Sure, I know how you mean. But Chad had despaired of Gaby’s love long +ago. Dozens of times I’ve seen her treat him so rottenly that, if he +had been the suicidal sort, he would have killed himself right then. +No sir. I tell you Chad did not shoot himself because Gaby was dead. +Sure, that was a part of it; but not the main part. + +“Chad was a darn good guy. Good all the way through. We all know that +he didn’t kill her. We’d know it, if dad didn’t have his alibis for +him. But what I’m getting at is, that, someway or other, and not +meaning to at all, he got himself mixed up in it. When he saw what had +happened, and realized that he had been involved—— There’s your +reason, all right. I think that, if we can find out why Chad shot +himself, we’ll find out most of the other things we want to know. I’m +through, dad. I’ve said all I’ve got to say, and more too.” + +Sam hesitated a minute. I was relieved to see him take Chad’s note out +of his pocket. “Chad says that he killed her,” he said, and read the +note aloud. Everyone but me, to whom it was no surprise, and Martha, +who was almost asleep again, squeaked, or gasped, or otherwise showed +their horrified astonishment. + +John spoke first. “I’ll bet four dollars he never wrote it.” + +Sam passed the paper to him. “It looks like his writing. It +sounds like him too. Soon as I can get track of one of these +what-you-may-call-em’s, handwriting experts, I’m going to send it to +him. I reckon it will match up all right. I wish there was an expert +of some kind that we could send it to, to find out why he wrote it.” + +“Uncle Sam,” Danny said, and I could see that the note had upset her +pretty badly, “there is something no one has thought of. We haven’t +had time to think. But, where was Chad during the hour we were hunting +for Gaby? You, and John, and Mary and I were in the sedan. But where +were the others, during that time; between seven and eight o’clock, +wasn’t it?” + +“I reckon,” Sam spoke real gently to her, “that we have all had time +to do some tall thinking about that hour, little girl. But there +couldn’t be any doubt that Gaby had been dead a sight longer than an +hour, when we found her.” + +“But can you know that, for a certainty?” Danny insisted. + +“Just as certain as I know that she was dead, Danny. I—— Well, in the +early days here—— Never mind that, though. I’ve had experience with +deaths, kind of on that order. I know. The coroner and the sheriff +knew. But, she might have been brought into the house during that +hour. Hand let loose on his alibi business a little too early——” + +“I’m no fool,” Hubert Hand interrupted. “You admit that she could not +have been murdered during the hour between six and seven. Every one of +us, except John, can account for every minute of our time from four +o’clock, when we saw Gaby alive, up to seven.” + +“All right. All right,” Sam said. “Have it your own way. But you’ve +had your say, and plenty of time to say it in. You’ll maybe have +another turn later. Now, keep still. We are going to hear from the +others. + +“It is your turn next, Danny, I’m sorry. You understand, we haven’t +any time to lose. Take it easy, though. Do you suspect, with reason, +anyone in this room of being connected with the murder?” + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +Danny + +“I think,” Danny said, “that Chad did it.” + +Sam lowered his brows, and turned those blue searchlights of his on +her. “That is a bad beginning, my girl,” he said, kindly enough, +though. “You don’t think that. Not for a minute. Better start over +again.” + +“Uncle Sam,” she pleaded, “listen. You spoke about clearing everyone’s +name, and about the honor of the Desert Moon. Chad’s confession does +that—does all of it. Why not let well enough alone?” + +My own words; but I had not expected to hear them from Danny. The only +reason for them seemed to be that Hubert Hand had frightened her with +his case against John. Was she the sort of girl who would keep on +loving John, and marry him, if she thought that he had killed her +sister? I did not believe it. + +John said, “Danny!” And, knowing as little as I do about being loved, +I knew that I should hate to have my sweetheart pronounce my name with +a pinch of horror, and a pinch of anger, and a big dash of +bewilderment, as John had pronounced hers. + +Sam said, “Somebody else suggested that to-day, Danny. I told them +that there was no question of well enough while the man who had +murdered your sister was going about alive, and while his helper was +keeping his secret on the Desert Moon.” + +“You said that?” Danny questioned, and gave us all another severe +shock by accenting the pronoun. + +“I said that, yes.” Sam showed signs of rising dander. “And I thought +that you, if anyone, more than anyone, would agree with me.” + +“Only,” she answered, “I should rather let a guilty person go free, +escape, than to persecute an innocent person.” + +“No innocent person is going to be persecuted on the Desert Moon,” Sam +said, “and no guilty one is going to escape, either. You’re going to +be a good, sensible girl, too, and answer a few questions I want to +ask you. + +“First thing I want to know is, what was it that you girls were +hunting for, all the time, here on the ranch?” + +“We had been told,” Danny answered, “that there was a very large sum +of money hidden here on this place. We came to get it. That is—Gaby +did. I mean—before we left the continent I knew that I wanted to stay +here, for a long time. I cared much more about staying here, and +keeping Gaby here, than I cared about finding the money. Really, I—I +hoped not to find the money. The people with whom I had been living in +England had broken up their home there. I had no home. That is how I +happened to be in Switzerland, with Gaby. I——” + +She broke down, and hid her face in her hands. We all sat, quietly, +and waited. + +With her face still covered she appealed to Sam. “Uncle, I can’t tell +all this, to-day, I can’t. I loved Gaby. I did love her. If she were +alive—— But she isn’t. Please, please don’t force me to go on with +this.” + +“You’ve got me wrong, Danny,” Sam said, “I didn’t expect you to tell +about all of your past lives, and that. But this stuff now about money +hidden here. Could it have any bearing on the murder?” + +She shook her head. “I think not. Not possibly. There was no money +here, anyway, as it turned out. That is—if Gaby told me the truth +about anything. I thought that she did. But now—she spoke of keeping +fear and dread from me, in her last note to me. I—— I can’t talk of +this, to-day, I tell you!” + +“See here, dad,” John spoke up, “Danny isn’t fit to go through with +this to-day. I think she has told me everything she has to tell. She +told me most of it this morning. I’ve got it straight. How about +allowing me to go on with it?” + +“Do you think any of it might have a bearing on the murder?” + +“Yes, I think it might.” + +Sam banged on the table with his fist. “By God,” he roared, “what kind +of people have I got to deal with? Not five minutes ago, you sat right +there and swore that you had told everything you know. Couldn’t even +begin. Couldn’t think of a thing to say. No suspicion. No hints of any +kind, except a slur at a dead boy. Now you come out with this. By the +Lord, Hand, you may be a better man than I think you are——” + +Danny’s voice cut in like scissors slithering through taffeta silk. +“Be careful, there,” she said. I remembered the way she had brushed +the beaded bag. Something cold went trailing down my backbone. It was +time, and past, I thought, for me to take a hand. + +“Sam,” I said, “what’s become of all your fine talk about us not +acting like yelping dogs, and swallowing our pride, and helping out, +and so on? I told you, when you started this, that it was a fool piece +of business. You, nor nobody, can force truth out of folks. You’re +kind of back on your quotations, or you’d remember the one about +leading a horse to water. How do you think anyone is ever going to get +any place with you pounding and shouting and blaspheming around all +the while? If you think the fact that John wouldn’t betray Danny’s +confidence to satisfy a crazy whim of yours makes him out a murderer, +you’ve got less sense at sixty-five than you had when you were born. +The best thing you can do, is to follow your advice to me, and be +quiet. John’s ready to talk now, if you’ll keep still and give him +half a chance.” + +I have never yet seen the man who wouldn’t quiet down, mild as mush, +when a sensible woman took it on herself to give him a good scolding. +The strongest man will drop before a good, strong volley of woman’s +words, the same as he would before a shooting squad. + +“Go on, John,” I said, seeing that Sam had dropped, and wanting John +to get a start before Sam had had time to pick himself up, and dust +off, and ask Danny what she had meant by hissing at him to be careful. + +“Shall I, Danny?” John asked. She nodded. + +“It isn’t any too pleasant, even for me,” John began, “but the +straight of it is, that while Danny, for years, was a companion to +this lady in England, Gaby was running around over Europe with a +darned rotten lot of associates. On the face of things, she was an +actress; leading lady with a company that traveled all over the +country—over several countries—giving plays. That seemed to be mostly +a blind, though, for her real occupation, which was leading lady with +a crew of blackmailers. Danny doesn’t admit it, but I think there is +no doubt but that she had a lover named Lewis Bauermont—something like +that. He was leading man in the theatrical company, manager of it, and +also of the blackmailing gang. + +“About six months before Danny wrote here, the lady, whom Danny had +been serving as a companion, died. It left Danny at loose ends. She +had stayed there more for love than for money. She had next to no +money saved. Gaby wrote that she could give her a small part in her +company. Danny joined her in France. She had been there a couple of +weeks, when the company went on the rocks. Danny thought it was done +purposely, since one of their blackmail victims was making it too hot +for them. + +“Gabrielle and Danny went to Switzerland. This Lewis +what’s-his-name——” + +“Bauermont.” + +“Bauermont, showed up there in a few days and hung around. He and Gaby +got to quarreling all the time. Gaby, who had always had plenty of +money, began to be short of funds. + +“Danny was as miserable as—well, as Danny would be in a mess like +that. She remembered this place, and begged Gaby to come here, and +rest a while, and get rid of this Bauermont, and the other hangers-on, +and get ready to make a fresh start. You know, a clean start. Dan says +Gaby had real ability as an actress; and that she could have easily +found a position in some stock company in the United States. Gaby +wouldn’t listen to Danny’s plan of coming here. But, once or twice, +she used the idea as a threat to make this Bauermont bird come to +terms. He wouldn’t come. Later, Gaby began to give him some of his own +blackmailing medicine. I guess he was pretty keen to get rid of her. +And her having talked about the Desert Moon gave him his idea. + +“He showed up one night with a letter from Canneziano, written from +San Quentin. Bauermont was old enough, by the way, to have been Gaby’s +father. He and Canneziano had been pals here in the United States; and +had gotten together again, three years ago, when Bauermont had been +over here for six months. The letter, which had been forwarded all +over this country and half of Europe, said only that he was to leave +prison on the fourth of July, and wanted to know where he could meet +Bauermont shortly after that date. Probably all Canneziano wanted was +to renew his old connections; but the letter was cryptic enough for +Bauermont to make his story out of it. + +“A cock-and-bull yarn about how he and Canneziano had held up that +Tonopah mail train, three years ago—the train that was carrying a big +shipment of currency for the federal reserve bank. A hundred thousand +dollars, wasn’t it? We all remember it, I guess. The robbers got away. +Well, this Bauermont bird told the girls that he and Canneziano had +been the robbers. + +“It seems he made a pretty fair story out of it—how he and Canneziano +had decided that every bank in the country would have the numbers of +the bills by morning, and how they’d agreed to cache them in some safe +place for a rather long time. They’d thought it best, too, to part +company. So Bauermont went on to Salt Lake, and Canneziano, since we +were handy, came and hid the money here on the ranch.” + +Sam interrupted. “Like hell he did!” + +“No, of course he didn’t, dad. I’m giving you Bauermont’s story, +that’s all. According to him Canneziano hid the money here. He was to +have joined Bauermont in Salt Lake, but he got scared and went south +instead, to ’Frisco. He’d been there only a few weeks, when he got +pinched for running a gambling hall and sent up for three years. + +“Bauermont went to see him after he was in prison. He told Bauermont +that he had hidden the money here, all right; but he would not tell +him where. He said it was safe, that no one could find it—not in a +thousand years. That was all Bauermont could get out of him, except a +promise to meet him, when he got out of prison, and come here with him +to get the money. + +“You, anyone, can see that the whole story is as full of holes as a +sieve. I don’t understand how Gaby ever fell for it. Danny will +believe most anything anyone tells her. She is so honest herself, she +thinks everyone else is honest. You can imagine how this plan, of +coming here to get the money, went against the grain with her. But she +was so desperate about Gaby, and the rottenness there, that she was +willing to accept any plan to get Gaby away from it.” + +“I thought we could not find the money,” Danny supplemented. “Though +John says I believe anything, someway I never did fully believe that +story. I never believed anything, really, that Lewis said. It was the +only chance I had to get Gaby away from there—and I took it, on the +principle, you know, of solving one problem at a time.” + +“Well,” John said, “that’s that. The letter Gaby got, a few days ago, +was from this Bauermont. Danny could not read the code, but she has +every reason to think that the copy Gaby read to her was genuine. In +it he said that the whole thing, from start to finish, had been a put +up job on Gaby. He and Canneziano had been in Denver at the time, had +read all the accounts of the train robbery in the papers, and had +kicked themselves to think that they hadn’t been smart enough to have +pulled it off themselves. But they had not; had had no connection with +the affair. The point of it was, that he had found another girl, was +tired of Gaby, and wanted to ship her out of the way. Danny says the +whole thing was an insult, from beginning to end; and that it seemed +to have been written with no other motive than a desire to humiliate +Gaby, twit her—laugh in her face.” + +“Sounds fishy to me,” Sam mused. “If this fellow wanted to be shed of +her, seems as if the best thing he could have done was to keep his +mouth shut, and keep her here, hunting the hidden treasure until the +end of time.” + +“I think,” Danny answered, “that he thought Gaby might grow tired of +searching, and return to him. Lewis knew that father was to be +released, and that he and Gaby might meet at any time, and Gaby would +then learn the truth. Lewis is mean and cruel. He wanted the zest—if +you can possibly understand—of writing that cruel, wicked letter.” + +“See here,” Sam said. “Suppose, after writing it, he got scared of +what he had done. Gaby, you know, was—well, she was a pretty violent +girl. He might have thought it over, and decided that it would be a +lot safer to have her clear out of the way. Or, more likely, before he +ever wrote that letter, he might have made arrangements with some one +of his gang over here to come up and put her out of the way, shortly +after she’d got the letter——” + +“I move,” Hubert Hand interrupted, “that we all adjourn, and go to +hunt for the secret staircase and the concealed passage-way.” + +“Trying to be funny?” Sam asked, with a bright blue glare. + +“Not at all. But the secret staircase is all that is lacking, isn’t +it? We’ve begun with the buried treasure, we’ve got the motive, and +the international band of organized criminals. Slick. All there. +Romantic and thrilling as you please. Only, it is a long way from +Switzerland to Nevada and the key in Mary’s pocket.” + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +An Accusation + +“Damn the key in Mary’s pocket!” Sam exploded. “I’m beginning to think +I was right, at first, when I said that Mary locked the door, absent +mindedly, and dropped the key in her pocket herself.” + +I judged that I could wait until my turn came to mention that the key +in my pocket was the old pass-key, and not the key to the attic door. +In the next minute I wished that I had not waited, but had told it so +that Sam might have busied his mind with that. + +“Well, John,” he said, “does that finish up the part of the story +Danny couldn’t tell?” + +“I think so, dad.” + +“All right. Now, Danny, what did you mean, a few minutes ago, when you +warned me to be careful, like you did?” + +“I—” Danny stammered, “—wanted you to be careful about what you said, +in anger.” + +“In other words, you wanted me to be careful about saying anything +that would seem to implicate John?” + +She did not answer. + +“If John was guilty,” Sam insisted, “would you want him to go scot +free?” + +“John is not guilty.” + +“How do you know that?” + +“I know it in the same way that you all seem to know that Chad was not +guilty. I know John.” + +“That’s all right. But you can’t know John’s innocence like we know +Chad’s; because, from the time Gaby came downstairs, until we all set +out to look for her, Chad was not out of my sight. He was at the +piano. He walked to the barn with me. He stayed in the barn with me. +He walked back to the house with me. He was with us all during +supper.” + +“You,” said Danny, “say that Chad was in the barn with you during all +of that hour. I wonder whether Chad, if he were alive, could swear +that you were in the barn with him, during all of that hour?” + +“What do you mean by that, my girl?” Sam questioned. + +Danny sat and stared at him, her eyes wide, her lips bitten tight; sat +and looked as if she were frightened plumb out of her senses, and did +not say one word. + +“You meant something when you said that,” Sam insisted. “Now what was +it? Come, speak up.” + +It was no way for him to talk to her, feeling as she felt, and her +sister not yet in her grave. I was downright ashamed for him. I guess +the others felt as I did, for Hubert Hand said, “Never mind. Lay off +that, Sam. What do you expect to get from an hysterical girl. You +don’t deserve it; you let me down flat; but, just to prove that I’m a +white man, I’ll say that I know you were in the barn all the time. Of +course, if I wasn’t there, my testimony for you wouldn’t amount to +much. But you know damn well I was there; and I know damn well that +you were. So let up on the little lady. Mary’s turn, next, isn’t it?” + +“Hold on!” Sam said. “Since Danny’s gone this far, she shouldn’t +grudge an extra word or two. Come, now, Danny. I don’t aim to treat +you mean, and you know I’m sorry for you, and feel for you in your +trouble. But what is it you have on your mind?” + +She sat there, still as a mouse; her big eyes growing bigger from +fright. + +I guess there is some of the brute in every man. I had never before +suspected that Sam Stanley had his share. + +“You’ll have to talk when this case comes to court,” he said. “It will +come to court—don’t forget that. Just now, it looks as if John were +going to have to come up for trial. Your silence does him a sight more +harm than good; you should know that.” + +“Oh!” she exclaimed, short and sharp, as if it hurt her. “It isn’t +John I am trying to shield. I am—I am trying to save his happiness for +him, that’s all. His happiness, and my own.” + +“Just now,” John said, gently, “isn’t the time to be thinking about +our happiness, Danny. If you have anything to say—please say it.” + +“You won’t blame me?” she pleaded. “You won’t blame me, afterwards?” + +“Could I blame you for telling what you think is the truth?” + +“Hubert,” she spoke suddenly, and very sharply, for her, “did you see +Uncle Sam, all that time, in the barn? Could you see him, all the +time, while you were milking the cows? He says he could not see you.” + +“No——” Hubert hesitated. “No—I guess I didn’t see him, all the time. +He was at one end of the barn, and I was at the other. But I heard him +talking to Chad all the time. They were kidding back and forth. Sam +baiting Chad along; you know how they do—did. Sam was right there all +the time, Danny. No getting away from that.” + +“But there is,” she said. “You all seem to have forgotten it, but Chad +was a mimic and a ventriloquist. He could have stayed there in the +barn alone, and with no trouble at all, made you think that Uncle Sam +was there, too, and that they were talking together.” + +I stopped breathing. I think the others stopped breathing. Their +breaths would have sounded noisy in that silence. John spoke first. + +“Four cows got milked. Chad couldn’t milk. He never milked a cow in +his life.” + +“How do you know?” Danny said, and I was surprised that she should +oppose John like that. “You know only that Chad said he could not +milk. We all know that he was lazy. He was raised on a farm——” + +“How do you know that?” John echoed her own words. + +“I don’t know it. He told me that he was.” + +John said: “He told me that he was born and reared in Chicago.” + +“Shut up, John,” Sam commanded. “Go on, Danny.” + +“That’s all,” she said. “Except, that if Chad could milk, that would +have given Uncle Sam nearly all of that hour——” + +“Dan!” John’s voice sounded as if he were talking to one of his +meanest broncos. “Stop it! Sitting here and accusing dad, with no +evidence—nothing but a crazy, wild idea——” + +“That is not true. I have evidence. I picked up Gaby’s bag from the +steps yesterday evening. Tobacco and pipe ashes were sticking to it. +Only a few. I think someone had tried to brush them off, hurriedly, as +a man might, and had made a poor job of it. No one else on this place +smokes a pipe. No one else, anywhere, drops his pipe whenever he is +excited.” She turned to me. “That is what I told you I dared not +tell——” She hid her face in her hands. + +Sam’s pipe fell from his mouth. + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +The Session Ends + +It seemed to me that, when Sam’s pipe hit the floor, it made a noise +like doom cracking. We all sat still as stones. I suppose it could not +have been more than a minute, but it seemed a long time before John +left Danny’s side and went and picked up the pipe and handed it to +Sam. + +“It’s all right, dad,” he said. + +“Not by a damn sight, it’s not all right,” Sam came back to his senses +vigorously. “But it is interesting—this thing. It is getting +interesting, anyway. Let me see—— If I had got Chad to help me—and I +could have, by telling him it was some joke or other I had on hand—I +could have sneaked out of the barn, met her and killed her, during +that hour. When could I have got the body upstairs, though? That’s the +first missing link. My reason for killing her would be another, but——” + +“Say! See here, dad,” John cut in. + +“You shut up, son. We are waiting to hear the rest of what Danny has +to say. Come, Danny, can you supply either of those missing links?” + +“No,” she said, and sighed. It was easy to see that she was plumb +tuckered out. “No, of course I can’t.” + +“If,” Sam went on, seemingly talking entirely to himself, “if I’d +hurried like blazes, I might have done the deed, and carried her into +the house during the time I was absent from the barn. I’d have had to +pass Mary in the kitchen—I’d have been bound to sneak in the back +way—but, if I asked her not to, more than likely Mary wouldn’t tell on +me. Or, I might have had a hireling (that’s what they call them, isn’t +it? There’s another word, something like—marmot—no, never mind.) on +the outside, who would have toted the body in for me, while we were at +supper.” + +Written out, that sounds as if Sam had been trying to be comical. He +was not at all. He was sitting there, speaking his thoughts for all to +hear, making out a case against himself, cool as Christmas. For my +part, I had heard enough of it. + +“Sam, you look here——” I began. + +“You shut up, too, Mary,” Sam said. + +Mrs. Ricker spoke. She had her say out. Nobody, not even Sam, would +any more think of telling Mrs. Ricker to shut up, than they would +think of telling any other dumb object, that suddenly started to talk, +to shut up. Leading a life of silence, I thought, certainly did have +its advantages, at times. + +“I think,” Mrs. Ricker said, “that the girl herself probably killed +her sister. If Sam’s pipe ashes were on the bag, she put them there, +afterwards, to make trouble for him.” + +Sam said, “Shucks!” + +I thought John would be the first to speak. I was mistaken. + +It was Danny herself who said, “Make her talk, now, Uncle Sam. Don’t +wait for her turn. I—can’t bear it. Make her talk now, and give her +reasons for saying such a cruel, wicked, lying thing.” + +“Mrs. Ricker,” Sam put the question very solemnly, “have you any +reasons for making this accusation?” + +“My only reason is, that I believe it.” + +“Don’t beat around the bush. Why do you believe it?” + +“I have a feeling that she is guilty.” + +“This,” Sam said, sternly, “is no time for feeling, nor for quibbling. +You made a serious accusation—straight out. I want your reason, or +reasons, for making it, and I want them just as straight.” + +“I have no reasons,” Mrs. Ricker said. “That is why I suspect her.” + +“Ah-ah-ah! Women!” Sam said; and the way he said it, it was the +blackest oath he had used that day. + +I looked at Danny. I had not been feeling any too kindly toward her, +for the past few minutes; but, just the same, seeing her there, white +and pitiful, with her hands caught up to her throat, and with the echo +of Sam’s last blasphemy still in my ears, I had a woman feeling toward +her. I knew then, as I know now, that Danielle Canneziano could no +more have killed Gaby than she could have created her. + +“I think,” I said, talking fast to keep Sam from shutting me up before +I could get anything said, “that if, in suspicioning an innocent girl +like Danny, Mrs. Ricker is simply drawing on her woman’s instinct, +she’d better pass it up, for the present, and listen to some plain +sexless sense. + +“Gaby came downstairs at four. Danny called after her, right then; so +Danny was in the house right then. Gaby went to the rabbit hutch and +stopped long enough to give Martha the bracelet. Almost as soon as +Martha was in the house with the bracelet, Danny was downstairs with +us, cool, collected, and undisturbed. Now suppose, as an idiot +suggested this morning, that Gaby had come straight back into the +house. I guess everyone would agree that it would take her five +minutes to get back upstairs. That would leave Danny not more than ten +minutes to kill her, and to come downstairs, as I’ve said, collected +and undisturbed. Come to think of it, Gaby could not have talked to +Martha and got to the attic stairway in any five minutes. At the +widest figuring, that leaves Danny about five minutes——” + +As I had been fearing he would, Sam stopped me. “That’s all right, +too, Mary. But there is no need to draw so long a bow. No need to +count minutes on Danny. The note in Gaby’s bag fixes her innocence +better than all the minutes on the clock could.” + +“No, it does not,” Mrs. Ricker said. “Gaby knew that she had reason to +fear an enemy. She probably found that out from the code letter. She +may never have suspected that the enemy was her own sister.” + +“I wish I knew,” Sam said, giving Mrs. Ricker a long look, “what you +are getting at, Mrs. Ricker. I’d give that,” Sam dangled out his right +hand, “to know what any one of you was getting at. You, for instance, +know that Danny did not kill her sister. I think that Hand knows that +John didn’t do it—maybe not. I’m beginning to suspect him of honesty +in this; but a damn mistaken honesty, at that. I think that John knows +that Chad is as innocent as—as—a new born babe, as Mary says. I think +Danny would have to be pretty hard put to it, before she’d invent that +story about my pipe ashes——” + +“Dad,” John said, and high time he was saying something, “Dan didn’t +invent any story. I know that she was clear off about the pipe ashes, +and I think she shouldn’t have made such a mistake. Since they +couldn’t have been there, she couldn’t have seen them. But Danny +doesn’t lie. She thought she saw the ashes there, or she would not +have said so.” + +“All right, son,” Sam conceded. “I’d a heap rather think that than +not. But, see here, did anyone else think they saw my pipe ashes +around there?” + +I looked into my own blue voile lap. I imagined I could feel Hubert +Hand’s eyes boring into me. My face burned. I could feel the waves of +red going up into my scalp and spreading out around my ears. I prayed +a quick, private prayer to the Lord. But I have learned, through the +years, that trying to instruct the Lord, through the pretense of +prayer, is a supreme impudence that he usually punishes pretty +promptly. My face burned hotter than ever. I raised my eyes. Sam was +staring straight at me. + +“Mary,” he said, “you found the body. Did you see pipe ashes there, +then?” + +My only excuse is, that it takes longer than a minute or two minutes +to betray a person who has been your best friend for twenty-five +years. + +I said, “No.” + +“I am going to ask you to swear to that. Somebody get the Bible.” + +Nobody moved. + +“You haven’t made any of the others swear to anything,” I said. + +“I haven’t caught any of the others in what I was sure was a direct +and deliberate lie.” + +I felt weaker than filtered water. It is one thing to tell a lie, +offhand into the free air. I haven’t much use for a person who can’t +do that, when absolutely necessary. It is another thing to put your +hand on the Good Book and swear to a lie. I knew that I could not do +it. + +“Martha,” Sam said, “run and get the Bible for dad.” + +Martha seemed to be sound asleep again. I did not notice anything +queer about her appearance. Mrs. Ricker must have noticed something +queer. She jumped to her feet and dashed across the room to where +Martha was lying. A shriek went piercing through the house, +splintering the air into quivering bits of agony. + +Everyone has wakened from sleep, cold with the sweating terror of some +hideous nightmare, but with only the vaguest impressions of its +detail. So it is with me, and that nightmare hour. I can not +reconstruct it. It remains, yet, in my mind as nothing but a horror of +confusions. + +We all ran about. I know that there was telephoning. That some of us +made desperate attempts with restoratives. I remember Sam’s crying, +with his face uncovered, like a child. I can hear him saying that he +had given her the sleeping powder, had forced it upon her. I can hear, +plainest of all, Mrs. Ricker’s voice, with all the pent up passions of +years breaking forth in torrents of heartbreak. + +“My baby. My baby girl. My darling. Mother’s life. Mother’s heart. +Speak to mother. My lamb. My baby . . .” + +Her voice again, but cruel now, as she shrieks at Hubert Hand. “Stand +there, you beast! Stand there, dry eyed and look at your dead +daughter. The child you deserted. The child you ignored——” + +I remember the feeling of the fresh air as I walked beside Sam, who +was carrying Martha, out of the house. I think that it was John who +explained to me that the doctor, who had left Telko, was going to meet +us on the road, in order to save time. We must have walked slowly, but +I can not rid myself of the impression of Mrs. Ricker, running beside +us. I remember her scream, when—futile, unnecessary horror—Sam +stumbled with his burden as he went to step into the sedan. + +As the car went dashing away, I remember looking out of its windows at +the house—the great structure, with its wide expanses and its towers; +and it seemed to me that it looked like some monster, crouching there +in the green; some grim, horrible monster, waiting for its victims. +Three of us had been caught in its clutches. Were any of us to escape? + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +A Part of the Past + +The doctor, who was younger and more cruel than even a doctor has a +right to be, said that Martha had died from a stoppage of the heart, +undoubtedly induced by the strong drug in the sleeping powder that had +been administered. In other words, Sam had killed her. He loved her. +How deeply he had loved her, none of us had ever had sense enough to +realize. + +We had her funeral, and Chad’s, two days later. They were buried in +the second grove of aspen trees, two miles beyond the cabin. All the +people in the valley came. At first, I thought that they had come to +honor the dead, and Sam. But, as I stood by the graves, and watched +the faces about me, faces that held suspicion, horror, curiosity; sly +faces, cruel faces, eager faces, I did not care to think why most of +them had come. + +Sam noticed it, too. For, though I had not said a word to him, as we +walked home from the graves, he said to me, “Don’t blame them, Mary. +What else could we expect? Decency breeds decency, and—filth draws +filth.” + +There were only four of us around the table that evening. Mrs. Ricker +had gone straight to her room, after the funeral. Danny, with no +protest from Sam, had left the day before to take Gaby’s body to San +Francisco. It had seemed heartless to allow her to go alone; but I +could not be spared, and there was no one else to go with her. John +might have gone; but Danny refused to allow him to, saying, +unselfishly, that Sam needed John more than she needed him. + +“You people,” Hubert Hand spoke suddenly, to John and Sam and me, as +we sat there, looking at a supper that nobody pretended to eat, “have +been awfully decent about not asking questions since the other +afternoon.” + +“I’m done with questions,” Sam said. “Through. Finished.” + +“Just the same,” Hubert Hand replied, “there are a lot of answers that +are going to have to be given, sooner or later. You heard Mrs. Ricker +say that I was Martha’s father——” + +“Never mind that, now, Hand,” Sam interrupted. “I’ve known, since the +first week you came to the ranch, that there was, or had been, +something between you two. You’d been her lover, I suppose. Well—men +do. That’s all. I never went around thinking you, nor any man, was a +plaster saint. I reckon you deserted her, eh? And treated her like +hell, generally. And she found a refuge here. And, later, probably, +heard that you were in trouble, and sent you a letter and told you to +come here. Put you wise about the chess racket. Helped you. Made a +refuge for you. Women do. + +“I suppose she slipped poor Martha in, in place of the child she’d got +from the orphanage—used the same papers. Well—to keep on repeating +myself, mothers do. You and she have both lived straight and acted +decent for the years you’ve been here. If the two of you want to keep +on living in this hell-hole, and keep on straight and acting decent, +you’ll get the same treatment from me you’ve always got. If you are +Martha’s parents, that’s more reason, not less, for my not wanting to +break up our family here, or make trouble for either one of you.” + +Hubert Hand pushed back his chair, got up, and walked to the window. +“By God, but you’re a white man, Sam!” he said. “You’re so damn white +that you make every one around you look yellow as sulphur by contrast. + +“You’ve got it doped out right about Ollie Ricker and me. She was +twelve years older than I was—I always felt like that was kind of an +excuse for me. Guess not, though. She was a good enough girl until I +came along, just out of prison, and as rotten as two years in prison +can make a kid. That’s pretty damn rotten. I shouldn’t have been sent +up, that time. Nothing but a kid’s trick—grand row in a dump down on +Barbary Coast. + +“My mother was dead. My dad was a high-hatter. He went back on me, +cold, after that. Found my room locked when I went home. I went back +to Ollie. She kept me pretty straight for a while. I ought to have +married her, and I know it, before the kid was born. But she was so +jealous that she made life a living hell for me. I—well, I wouldn’t +marry her. + +“It was her fault that I got sent up the second time. She talked to a +girl friend of hers, and the girl snitched. Up to that time, I think +that Ollie Ricker talked more than any living woman. She took a vow, +the day they got me, that she’d never speak an unnecessary word again +in her life. I’ll say she’s kept that vow pretty well. I wish to God +I’d taken the same vow, before I shot my mouth off about John, the +other day.” + +“You don’t think that I did it, then?” I wished John could have seemed +less eager. + +“On the square,” Hubert answered, “I don’t see who else could have +done it. That makes no never minds. I wish I’d kept my mouth shut, on +account of Sam——” + +“Leave me out of it,” Sam growled, “and forget it. Forget the whole +damn thing, if you can. I’m through. If I hadn’t been so busy playing +the fool while Martha was dying, we could likely have saved her. We’ll +never get any place with this thing. Nobody will. Look at us, messing +around with a lot of damn fool clues, and suspicions, telling one lie +to cover another—like a batch of gossiping old grannies, while Martha +was lying there, dying. And me growling and snarling at her all +afternoon. I’m a fool. I’m a damn sight worse—I’m an old fool. A girl +got killed on the Desert Moon Ranch. A boy killed himself for love of +her. The killer got clean away. So far as I’m concerned, it is going +to rest there. I’m closing the book. Soon as I can, I’ll sell out the +damn place, lock, stock and barrel.” + +“That doesn’t go for me, dad,” John said. “And I think you’ll change +your mind. I’m not willing to go on the rest of my life with half a +dozen people thinking that I killed Gabrielle. No sir, not with one +person thinking it. Hubert Hand seems to be in a sort of sentimental +mood, right now. How long’s he going to stay that way? When he gets +over it, what’s he going to do with the club he has in his hand? +Nothing? Maybe. Depends on how much he might need some cash, sometime +in the future.” + +Hubert said, “I’m no damn blackmailer.” + +“What did you serve your second term in prison for?” + +“None of your business.” + +“All right.” + +“No. Hold on, I’ll tell you. It’s up to me to tell things to-day, and +I’m telling them. It was forgery, all right; but, just the same, I +don’t feel, yet, like I was much to blame. I’d gotten in with a rotten +crowd, and——” + +“Never mind. Let it go at that. Here’s another thing, dad. Danny +honestly believes that, someway or other, you are mixed up in this +thing. We can’t marry, with a thing like that between us. I guess it +doesn’t make any difference in the way we feel toward each other; but +it makes a barrier, just the same, that will have to come down before +we marry. I haven’t talked it over, exactly, with Dan, but I’m dead +certain she feels the same way I do about it.” + +“You think Danny is coming back here, then?” Hubert questioned. + +“How do you mean?” + +“I’m not looking for her to come back—that’s all.” + +“You’re crazy with the heat. They read a telegram to me, not an hour +ago, saying that she’d get in on number Twenty-one Friday afternoon.” + +“I’ll bet she’s not on it.” + +“Say, Hand——” + +“Keep your shirt on, John. We all know that Danny is innocent of the +crime, and that she is a good little scout—a lot better than Gaby was, +if not half as charming and attractive. But—she knows more than she +wishes to know. She knows more than she’s going to tell. Maybe more +than she can tell, in safety. For the love of Mike, folks—couldn’t you +see that she had some reason for working up that case against Sam? +Cutting it out of whole cloth. If she’d been trying to shield John, do +you think she’d have used Sam for that purpose? Not on your life she +wouldn’t have, she’d have pinned it on me, or Mrs. Ricker, or even on +Mary. She did try to pin it on Chad——” + +Mrs. Ricker came tottering into the room. Sam jumped to meet her, and +helped her over to his own big chair at the head of the table. + +She leaned forward, her long black-sleeved arms stretched straight in +front of her over the white cloth, her hands clenched into fists. + +“For hours,” she said, “I have been trying to reach a decision. I have +reached it. I have come here to confess.” + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +Another Confession + +“Before I came to the Desert Moon——” she began, but Hubert Hand +stopped her. + +“Never mind, Ollie. No need confessing, as you say, any of that. Sam +knows all about us. He’d guessed it, or most of it, years ago. I’ve +just now told him the rest. It is all right with him. I mean—he +realizes it’s all long past. He thinks, as I do, that the best thing +we can do is to forget it; and, as he says, keep on living straight +and decent.” + +“Do you know all of our story?” Mrs. Ricker lifted her faded eyes to +Sam. + +“Enough,” Sam sort of sighed it. “I don’t care about details. All +but—I was kind of wondering what became of the brown-eyed baby, named +Vera, who the papers from the orphanage were made out for.” + +“I found her a home with the mother and father of one of the nurses in +the hospital. They thought that she was my own child. They loved her, +and were kind to her. Until she died, during the influenza epidemic in +San Francisco, in 1918, I sent half of my salary to them, for her, +each month.” + +“I always knew you were a good woman,” Sam said. “Now what do you say +we forget it, let by-gones be by-gones?” + +“No,” said Mrs. Ricker. “Martha did not kill Gaby, as you think she +did, Sam. I killed her.” + +Sam dropped his pipe. + +There was another one of those dead, awful silences. + +“The guilt,” Mrs. Ricker went on, “is entirely mine. All of my life I +have been cursed with an abnormal jealousy, and with the violent +temper that usually accompanies such jealousy. Martha, you all know, +possessed both of these traits—a heritage from her mother—without the +balancing power of an adult mind.” She turned to Hubert Hand. “Have +you told about Nina Ziegelman?” + +“No,” he spoke sharply. “I wouldn’t, Ollie. No need——” + +“But I would,” she said, and continued, more rapidly. “About four +months before Martha was born a woman named Nina Ziegelman betrayed +us—Hubert and me. I had given her a confidence, and she betrayed it. +When I found what she had done I went to her hotel room and tried to +kill her. I did not succeed. I shot her; but she recovered. For many +reasons, of their own, she and her friends proffered no charges +against me. I went free. But I had marked Martha for murder. She was +powerless against it; as powerless as she would have been against any +evil physical inheritance. She can’t be blamed. No one could dare +blame her for that. It was I, who planted those seeds of violence, +jealousy, hatred, and murderous intent, who killed Gabrielle. Martha +was only the helpless instrument.” + +I was sorry that there was eagerness, mixed with the pity in John’s +voice, as he asked, “Did Martha tell you that she committed the +murder?” + +“No. Other parental heritages of hers were a lying tongue, and +slyness. She persisted in her denials, to me. But it is all so +evident. + +“Gabrielle joined Martha at the rabbit hutch. You know how one sits +down on one’s heels to peer in at the rabbits in the low hutch. I +think Gaby must have been squatting, so, when Martha jumped at her and +overpowered her. Martha was strong, you know. Her hands were very +strong. You remember, Mary, how she could open fruit jars that neither +you nor I could budge? She had hated Gaby ever since Gaby had come. +Martha had said to me, dozens of times, that someday she thought she +would kill Gaby. + +“The marks on her throat, I thought, and so did the coroner, looked as +if she had been caught by someone who had been standing behind her. +Seized unawares, it would not take long to strangle a person. Martha +must have done it in two or three minutes. She took the bracelet then, +rolled the body under the clump of berry bushes, right there, and came +straight into the house. + +“She showed no feeling of guilt, because she had none. At that moment, +we should all have suspected something. We should have known that girl +would not, suddenly, have given Martha the bracelet. Later, she told +you about it, didn’t she, Sam? And you left Chad in the barn, to +hoodwink Hubert, and came up and hid the body for her?” + +“By God, I did not,” Sam said. + +“No need to deny it, now, Sam,” she said. “It was the deed of a good +man. Martha was never responsible—but courts might not have +understood. Now we will all shield her—keep her secret. Chad’s +confession will satisfy the world. Danny must know, I suppose; but no +one else need ever know——” + +“But I tell you——” Sam shouted. + +I don’t know how, without raising her voice, she made it sound through +his shouting, and silence it, but she did. “Sam—don’t. Why can’t we be +honest, now, among ourselves? You see, I know that both you and Martha +were on those stairs when the body was put there——” + +My thoughts jumped out into words. “Chad must have known it, too. He +must have decided that he’d rather die than betray either Sam or +Martha.” + +“He might have thought it,” Sam said, with a lack of emphasis that +edged stupidity. “He could not have known it. It is not true.” + +“Mrs. Ricker,” John questioned, “what makes you think that dad and +Martha had both been on the stairs?” + +“Sam’s pipe ashes were strewn about. And there was an old tatting +shuttle, with which I had been trying to teach Martha to tat, that +morning. She had it in her pocket. It must have dropped out. I think +that Mary tried to clean the pipe ashes away. They were gone when I +saw the body the second time. I should have tried to do it, but I +didn’t think. I had no time. I was frantic with fear. + +“Wait,” she answered our looks and our exclamations of astonishment. +“I will explain. Martha and I, as you know, were alone here in the +house while the rest of you were out looking for Gaby. Martha was +sleepy. I was worried about her sleeping so much, and tried all sorts +of ways to keep her awake until bed time. I kept sending her out to +look at the sky, to see whether a storm was coming to spoil her +fireworks. She would run out, and right in again, to curl on the +davenport and try to sleep. Finally, though, she stayed outside, for a +long time. But for Sam’s pipe ashes, I would think that then she had +managed to drag the body upstairs by herself. Still—though I believe +that she did have strength enough to move the body, I do not believe +that she would have had wits enough. + +“When the wind rose, I looked first for Martha. I called her several +times before she answered. Finally she came around the house from the +direction of the rabbit hutch, again. Surely, you must have noticed, +as I did, that she had seemed strangely excited during all the late +afternoon and early evening. At the time, I thought it was because she +had been given the monkey charm, and because she was to have the +fireworks. + +“But, when we were alone, she talked very foolishly—even for her. She +began with it again, when she had answered my call. She kept insisting +that soon we were all going to be surprised about something; something +very nice, that had to do with Chad—but she would never, never tell +what it was. As a rule, I should not have paid any attention to such +talk. But, for some reason, her excitement, and her insistence about a +surprise, disturbed me. I spent some minutes quizzing her. I even +tried to bribe her. I could get nothing from her but further talk +about the nice surprise. + +“At last I gave it up, and ran upstairs to begin closing the house +against the storm. I thought I’d begin with the attic, and come down +through the house. I tried the attic door. It was locked, and the key +was missing. I was alarmed. Possibly, because we were all disturbed +concerning Gaby’s absence; and possibly, because inside doors are so +seldom locked here. I remembered the old skeleton key hanging in the +broom closet. I ran down and got it. + +“I opened the door. I saw the body. I touched it—and knew, even before +I saw the tatting shuttle there, and the beaded bag, covered with +Sam’s pipe ashes. I snatched the shuttle and hid it in my dress. At +that instant, through the open window at the end of the hall, I heard +your voices, as you ran up the road from the garage to escape the +rain. I shut the door, locked it, and ran downstairs. Do you know, +when I met you, I had that key in my hand? + +“Mary came up to me to help me close the French windows. I did not +think. I had a wild desire to rid myself of that key. I was determined +to protect Martha, at any cost. Mary’s pocket was hanging like an open +bag, right below me. I dropped the key into it. It was a frightful +mistake. If I had kept it, and thrown it away, everyone in the house +would have been exonerated. It was, as you know, the one link that +connected this household with the crime. That is, after Mary had +cleaned away the pipe ashes. The little fleck or two of them, which +Danny saw, might have fallen there days before——” + +“Mary,” Sam questioned, “were my pipe ashes on the bag? Did you stop +to clean them off, before you gave the alarm?” + +“Yes, they were, Sam. Yes, I did.” + +“Then,” Sam said, “whoever put the body there, put the pipe ashes +there to throw suspicion on me; and whoever it was, knew my habits, +too. He must have put the tatting shuttle there, as well, for good +measure. Does anyone of you think that Martha would have had the wits +to save ashes out of my pipe and put them on the bag? I tell you, that +would take an amount of logic, of reasoning, that Martha could no more +have managed than a kitten could.” + +“Chad!” John almost sang it, in his eagerness. “He was wise enough, +and fool enough. His one idea was to protect Martha. He helped her get +the body up there, between seven and eight o’clock, and he put the +ashes there to shield her. I said fool enough. But, come to think of +it, he knew what he was doing. He was protecting her with the one +person in the house who could not have done it; with the one person +that no Nevada jury would convict. Then, he turned around and shielded +dad with his death and his written confession. From start to finish, +it works out, plain as day. Gosh! Say—it is terrible. Gosh—horrible! +Think of it—— But, thank God, it is cleared up, anyway.” + +“‘Cleared up, _anyway_’ is right,” Sam said, and looked around at all +of us, pityingly, like he’d look at a litter of sickly puppies. + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +Defense + +“All satisfied, then?” Sam questioned. “All satisfied that Martha +killed her, and that Chad carried the body upstairs and hid it for +her, and left the false clues—including the tatting shuttle, for +reasons unknown—and came down, merry and happy enough, until he took a +sudden notion to write a false confession and walk out and shoot +himself through the head?” + +I was satisfied; but I felt like a fool for so being, when Sam put it +like that. I said nothing. + +Hubert Hand said, “It looks like a pretty clear case, Sam.” + +“Does? What’s become of your clear case against John, unchanged tires, +and everything?” + +“I had not heard Ollie’s story, then.” + +“Dad,” there was pleading in John’s voice, “you don’t mean to say that +you can’t see the thing? That you aren’t satisfied with this +absolutely logical explanation?” + +“Yes,” Sam answered, with his most dangerous drawl, “that’s what I +mean to say. It takes more, or seems to, to satisfy me than it takes +to satisfy some folks. Satisfied? Not by a damn sight!” + +John lost his temper. “For the love of Pete, why aren’t you? What +would satisfy you? Say? What are you trying to do? Do you like the +case against me so well that you can’t give it up? You made us all +come clean the other day, or tried to. Come clean yourself, now? What +have you got up your sleeve?” + +“I’ve got a couple of good fighting arms up my sleeve,” Sam answered. +“And I’ve got a daughter, dead, in a grave up there. Since she was +knee high to a duck, she’s counted on me, for food, and shelter, and +protection generally. I don’t know—but I reckon she may still be +counting on me, somewhere not too far away, for protection. She is +going to have it.” + +Mrs. Ricker began to cry, quietly; but Sam saw her. + +“No, no, Mrs. Ricker,” he said, “don’t get me wrong in this. You +believe that she was guilty. I believe that she is innocent. Believing +that way, it is my bounden duty to clear her name. It is my fault that +she isn’t here to stand up for herself. It is my fault, too, I guess, +that I’ve raised John so that he won’t stand up for his own +womenfolks——” + +“That’s rotten of you, dad. It is unfair. I’d stand up for Martha till +the cows came home. But what’s the use of bucking straight facts?” + +“Damn your straight facts. We haven’t got any. I’ve a few straight +fact questions, though, that will blow this story galley-west. Here’s +one of them: + +“Does it stand to reason that, for two months, Gaby lived right here +unharmed by Martha? But that, on the very day, when she feared death +from some outside enemy, Martha should kill her?” + +“It is coincidental,” John admitted. “But, just the same, there are +lots of coincidences. We all meet them, all the time.” + +“It wasn’t a coincidence that Gaby was afraid of meeting, when she +walked out of this house on the fourth of July. Here’s another +question. + +“Mrs. Ricker, she says, was plumb convinced that Martha committed the +murder, and that I helped her by carrying the body upstairs +afterwards. She thought this the night of the murder, and the next +day, and ever since. Why, then, didn’t she come to me and, anyway, put +out a feeler or two in my direction? She knew that I’d go as far to +save Martha as she would go. I wouldn’t protect John, nor any other +person on this place; but Martha was a child—younger, even, than a +child in some ways. Mrs. Ricker knew that I’d save Martha with my last +dollar, and, as somebody said the other day, with my last lie. Mrs. +Ricker and I were alone together for more than half an hour the +morning of the fifth. Why didn’t she give me a hint, then, of any of +this?” + +“I—I was afraid,” Mrs. Ricker answered. “I was waiting. I thought that +you would give me the hint—the sign. I was not sure——” + +“Not sure then, but sure now?” + +“I tell you,” Mrs. Ricker flared up, “I was afraid. So long as she was +living, I was afraid of everything—of everyone. I was afraid of +myself. I dared not think; I dared not look. I scarcely lifted my eyes +from my tatting. I—I was afraid.” + +“Now, now,” Sam said. “I see your point in that, especially since +talking had got you in bad once. But—see here. I said a while ago that +I’d always known you were a good woman. Well, I am going to keep on +knowing it, for the present. There are enough folks around here to +jump at conclusions without me doing it. But you, thinking as you say +you think, directly accused Danny the other day. That was not the act +of a good woman——” + +“God, Ollie!” Hubert Hand burst out. “He is going to try to pin it on +you, to save Martha and the Stanley name—even yet.” + +“You,” Sam said, “are a liar.” + +“Safe enough. I wouldn’t fight you, and you know it, old man.” + +Sam jumped to his feet. I had to stumble over John, but I managed to +reach Sam first, and to stand in front of him. “Boys, boys,” I begged. +“Not here. Not in this house to-night. Remember——” + +Hubert stuck his hands in his pockets and walked away. Sam dropped +into his chair. The telephone bell, in the other room, began to ring. + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + +A Visitor + +Hubert answered the telephone, and called to Sam. I followed him into +the living-room to hear what was to be heard. I think that John and +Mrs. Ricker followed for the same reason. + +When Sam said, “Read it, please,” I knew that it was another telegram. +They telephone all of our telegrams to us from Rattail, and mail them +later, when they get around to it, if they don’t forget. + +We had been pestered nearly crazy with telegrams, on account of all +the ruckus Sam had stirred up about Canneziano, on the night of the +murder. I supposed this would be another one of them, about some poor +Indian or other who had been found at a desert water-hole. But, almost +right away, I could tell from Sam’s answers that this was about +something different. He kept writing things on the telephone pad, and +asking central to repeat, and to repeat again, and to spell that, +please. Lands, but I got nervous, before he finally hung up the +receiver, and turned to us, and asked: + +“Any of you ever hear of a fellow named Lynn MacDonald?” + +None of us, of course, ever had. + +“Seems he is a kind of detective,” Sam explained. “He calls himself a +crime analyst, and he specializes in murder cases. Works on his own +hook, kind of like Sherlock Holmes did, I guess. He had a list of +references, and past cases, long as your arm. They sounded fine. I +forget them now. Anyway, he made a straight proposition. He wants to +come here and take the case. He wants his expenses, and nothing else, +if he fails. If he succeeds, he wants ten thousand, cash. Poor fish, +I’d have paid twenty thousand just as quick. Anyway, that’s a fair +proposition. It is the way I am used to trading; money down if I +deliver, nothing if I don’t. I’m going to wire him to come.” + +“Dad,” John objected, “you don’t know a thing about this guy, except +what he tells you. If you have to drag a detective into this, now, +after what Mrs. Ricker has told us, why don’t you wire to a reputable +agency, and have it send someone?” + +“I like the tune this fellow sings. I like the straight way he made +his proposition. When I wanted the best doctors for Martha, I always +got specialists, didn’t I? Well, this fellow’s a specialist. His +references were damn good. I like his name. An honest Scotchman comes +pretty close to being the noblest work of God. + +“Let’s see—Danny is coming up on Friday afternoon, isn’t she? I’ll +wire MacDonald to take the same train. That will save us two trips to +Rattail in the heat.” + +“Listen, dad—sleep over it,” John urged. + +I hated the quick, sharp way both Sam and Hubert Hand looked at him. I +hated him noticing it, and jumping right into an explanation. + +“If Mrs. Ricker is right about all this,” he said, “and I swear that I +think she is, isn’t it enough for us to know about it, dad? If you get +a detective here, and he comes to the same conclusion, we can’t keep +it a secret, then.” + +Sam said, “He won’t. And we aren’t wanting, nor needing any secrets on +the Desert Moon, just now.” + +He sat down and began to write the telegram. Five minutes, and he was +reading it to the operator at Rattail. He had just hung up the +telephone receiver when the doorbell rang, a long, impudent ring. + +Nobody, I thought as I went to the door, with any sense of decency +would ring our bell, like that, on this evening. + +I was right. For a minute I did not recognize the man standing there +on the porch. In the next minute I did recognize him. My heart stood +stock still. He was Daniel Canneziano. + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI + +Canneziano + +He pushed right past me, into the room, without waiting for an +invitation. He always was a polished-up, perfumed little fellow, but +that evening, what with his gray spats and a cane, he was right-down +dandified. + +“Got a chap to drive me up from Rattail,” he said. “Beastly things, +these Ford cars. What?” + +He gave that explanation of how he had got up from Rattail, as if it +were the only thing any of us could possibly be wondering about him, +or wanting to know. + +“I left my trunk down there,” he went on, taking off his light gray +overcoat, and brushing it, and folding it across his valise that he +had set on a chair. “The Ford chap couldn’t bring it. I thought you +could send a truck down for it, to-morrow, Sam.” + +“Counting on paying us quite a visit, eh, Canneziano?” + +Sam found his voice at last. “Trunk and everything.” + +“As a matter of fact,” Canneziano answered, sitting down and making +himself comfortable on the small davenport, “all that mess you stirred +up about me, on the night of the murder, makes traveling not +altogether agreeable for the present. Yes, I think, all things +considered, that having me for a guest, after having set all the +police in the country on my trail, keeping me safely here, as it were, +is about the least you can do, isn’t it?” + +“I reckon I could do a little less, in a pinch,” Sam drawled. “But, +all things considered, as you say—though it might be you and I aren’t +considering the same things—I’m glad to see you here. Make yourself +right at home, for you may be going to stay even longer than you +planned.” + +“Righto! However, if you have some neat little scheme of trying to pin +the murder on me, I’d advise you to abandon it. If I hadn’t had +water-tight alibis, all along the line——” + +“Keep your water-tight alibis in a dry place till you need them,” Sam +advised. “Maybe you will need them. We’ve got a crime analyst, +specialist in murder cases, coming up here Friday. You can give your +alibis to him.” + +“That crime analyst sounds like Lynn MacDonald. That’s what she calls +herself.” + +“She!” Sam said. + +“If you’ve got Lynn MacDonald, you’ve got a woman.” + +“Hell!” Sam exploded. + +“Just the same,” Canneziano said, “she’s the best dic on the coast. +Some say that she is the best in this country. Not that I give a hang. +But, this is inside dope, if anybody can find who killed the Gaby, +this MacDonald woman can. You should hear some of the San Quentin boys +compliment her—in their way.” + +“We don’t want a woman. Better wire her not to come, dad,” John urged. + +This time it was Canneziano who looked quickly and sharply at John. +“You’re dead right you had,” he said, “if you don’t want the murderer +discovered.” + +“Sam,” Hubert Hand suggested, “you’d better wire and verify her +references, anyway.” + +Canneziano laughed. “I see what you are getting at. I take it you’ve +all gotten pretty jumpy around here, these last few days. Can’t see +the woodpile for the niggers. Now this gentleman—by the by, Sam, you +are forgetting your manners; I have not, as yet, met any of your +guests—thinks that this coming dic may be a pal of mine; something of +the sort. If that were the case, what good would it do to verify her +references, by wire? The people you wired to would all answer that +Lynn MacDonald was honest, capable, and so forth. She’s got a +reputation around the bay that is hard to beat. But, if this were a +plant, Jane Jones or Amaryllis De Vere could come along, just the +same, posing as Lynn MacDonald. If you are really concerned about it, +why not have a Burns man bring her up? You shouldn’t mind the extra +expense, Sam.” + +“There’s generally more than one way to skin a cat,” Sam said, +“besides the way you are told to do it.” + +Leaving us to think that over, he went to the telephone and called the +office of _The Morning Record_, at Telko, and asked for Mr. Clarence +Pette. + +When he finally got him, he asked him whether he knew Lynn MacDonald. +Evidently he said that he knew who she was, for Sam told him to take +number Twenty-one at Telko, Friday afternoon, and to meet him here, +and he would pay him fifty dollars for his trouble. + +“Pretty work, Sam,” Canneziano approved. “Too bad I got you all so +rattled. As a matter of fact, I rather fancy myself in the rôle of a +sleuth. If Lynn MacDonald weren’t coming, I’d like to take a try at +this job myself. For instance, I noticed that, though Dan is in +’Frisco now—according to the papers—none of you suggested that she +meet Lynn MacDonald, have her identified, and bring her back here with +her. I am trying to decide whether that means that you don’t trust the +gentle Dan, or whether, though the newspapers say she is to return at +once to her home in Nevada, you do not expect her to return.” + +“It means neither,” John snapped. + +“Mr. Canneziano,” I said, “this is John Stanley, Sam’s adopted son. He +and Danny are engaged to be married. This other gentleman is Mr. +Hubert Hand, and the lady is Mrs. Ricker.” + +Things felt real polite, for a minute, as they always do just after +folks have been introduced. + +“Bad times you have been having around here, lately,” Canneziano said, +pleasantly, as if he were talking about the weather. + +Mrs. Ricker excused herself and went upstairs. + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + +Strangler Bauermont + +Sam spoke directly to Canneziano. “Did you ever know a man named +Bauermont—Lewis Bauermont?” + +“Strangler Bauermont? Very well indeed. Has he anything to do with +it?” + +“What’s that you called him?” Sam asked, sharply. + +“Strangler Bauermont, you mean?” + +I remembered that Danny had told me his nickname was “Mexico.” + +Sam said, “That’s what I mean. How did he come by a name like that?” + +“He is by way of being a wrestler, I believe; and won the name for +some particularly clever hold that brought his man down every time. I +have never gone in for that sort of thing—can’t give you scientific +details. He was a jiu-jitsu expert, also. Oh, no, no,” as he noticed +our quickening interests. “He is a continent and an ocean away, at +present. Moreover, murder is quite outside his line—quite. And he was, +I believe, rather smitten than otherwise with the Gaby.” + +“You are sure he is in Europe now?” Sam questioned. + +“I had a letter from him, only a few days ago, written and sent from +Deauville. A cable to Scotland Yard would locate him precisely for +you, I have no doubt. Assuming, of course, that you don’t mind +spending a few dollars.” + +“I suppose,” Sam mused, “that he could easy teach his strangling trick +to another man.” + +“Undoubtedly. But isn’t the entire connection rather foolish, when one +stops to think that Strangler has been, for years, badly smitten with +the lady?” + +“I guess he got over that,” Sam said. “Seems, now, as if he was +anxious to be shed of her.” + +“Oh-ho! And he famous for his constancy to the Gaby. Nine, ten, +I don’t know how many years. However, though I’ll grant his name +belies it, he was a smooth, diplomatic cuss. I think you can be +practically certain that he would draw the line at murder—under any +circumstances.” + +“That letter you had from him,” Sam said. “I suppose you destroyed +it?” + +“I don’t tie my letters into packets bound with blue ribbons.” + +“Was it written in code?” + +“No. You see, the hotel where I was putting up just then was, one +might say, over regulated. Letters written in code were not favorably +regarded there.” + +“Could you read a letter written in his code?” + +“I fancy so. If you have a Spanish dictionary.” + +“There was nothing Spanish about this one. It was just a jumble of +letters.” + +“I don’t know it then. I’m rather clever with codes, however. I fancy +I could decipher it, with a bit of study.” + +“Do they speak Spanish in Mexico?” I questioned; and was rewarded by +having all present look at me as if they thought that I had just +developed a yearning for cultural, geographical knowledge. + +“I am getting at something,” I explained. “Was this Bauermont man ever +in Mexico?” + +“Unfriendly persons,” Canneziano answered, “insinuate that Mexico is +his native land.” + +“Did anyone ever call him ‘Mexico’?” + +“To his fury, yes. Is it relevant?” + +Sam asked, “Where were you, do you know, at the time of the Tonopah +train robbery, three years ago? You were here, right shortly after +that, I seem to remember.” + +“I stopped for a friendly visit, and you kicked me out, and into my +downfall at ’Frisco. My three years in the big house are at your door. +But I hold no grudge.” + +“What I want to know is, where were you at the time of the train +robbery?” + +“I was in Denver, since you insist.” + +“Was this Strangler fellow there with you?” + +“He was. Pardon my curiosity, but is this leading to something?” + +“I don’t know. Do you? This Strangler friend of yours told the girls +that you and he robbed that train.” + +Canneziano’s face went dark and ugly. “So the girls say, ugh?” + +“He told them that,” John said. There was threat enough in his voice +to make Canneziano come off his perch. + +“Is that possible?” he questioned, but pleasantly enough. “I can’t see +his motive. As a matter of fact, when we read the accounts of how +easily the thing had been pulled off, we did rather regret that we had +not taken a try at it ourselves. If he had not included himself in his +confession to the girls, I would think that he had some friendly +reason for preferring me in captivity. . . . No, I don’t get it.” + +“We think he has denied it, since,” Sam said. “We think that the code +letter, which none of us can read, is his denial. No matter. Your +story tots up straight enough with the one we have.” + +“Gratifying, I am sure. I wonder whether I might see this code letter? +As I’ve remarked—I’ve a beastly habit of bragging, I hope you don’t +mind—I am rather clever with the things.” + +I went upstairs to get it. I am not denying that it gave me the creeps +to go into Gaby’s room, alone at night. When I opened the door, and +saw that the light on the table was lit, and that someone was standing +beside it, I all but jumped out of my shoes. + +It was Mrs. Ricker. She turned to me, and apologized, quietly, for +having startled me. “I was looking at these things,” she went on. +“They know. They were there. If only one of them could talk——” + +“I thought,” I am sure I spoke too tartly, “that you knew. You said +that you did.” + +“Sam doesn’t believe it,” she answered. “Doesn’t that give me, her +mother, a right to doubt, if I can?” + +I was all out of sorts. “It would have been better to have doubted it, +in the first place,” I said. + +“I know. But I didn’t—I couldn’t. Sam does. And then, that man coming +into the house to-night—I can’t explain it; but, someway, he made all +of us, even Hubert, seem so good. The house itself felt, to me—do you +understand?—good. As if any wicked thing would have to come into it +from the outside, from far away, just as he came into it to-night?” + +I did understand. I had had that feeling of drawing close to the +others and away from him, the minute he had come into the room. But I +was so put out with her, for startling me, and for being in Gaby’s +room, anyway, poking around—though land knows she had a right to be +there, and I might have done the same thing myself, with my lists of +clues, and so on—that I just said I supposed so, and picked up the +letter, at the same time looking over the other things on the table to +be sure nothing was missing. + +“Perhaps,” she said, “I should not have come in here? I suppose, when +the detective comes, he—she would like to see the room as nearly as +possible undisturbed. Do you think it would be a good plan to lock it, +and to give the key to Sam, until she does come?” + +She went around with me, while I locked the doors on the inside. We +had to lock the doors in Danny’s room, too, since the two rooms had +only the curtained doorway between them. We went into the hall through +Danny’s room. I locked that door after us. She told me good-night and +went to her own room. I went downstairs, and gave the key and the +letter to Sam. + +“Wise idea, Mary,” he said, when I told him that I had locked the +rooms, “I suppose Canneziano would tell you, though, that locked doors +do not a prison make.” He handed the letter to him. + +“Looks rather confusing, doesn’t it?” Canneziano said, when he had +unfolded and straightened the pages. “Still, these things are +generally quite simple. What price deciphering it, Sam?” + +“No price, to you,” Sam answered. + +He returned the letter to its envelope and tossed it on the table. +“Fair enough,” he said. + +“I fancy,” he questioned, next, “that Lynn MacDonald is going to get +rather a good thing out of this, eh?” + +“That depends on her success,” Sam answered. + +“Yes? I understand that she takes jobs on that basis quite often. It +is not thoroughly approved in the best criminal circles. Too much +incentive to frame a case. However, that theory of framing has been +over exploited. My proposition, cards on the table, is this: If I beat +the lady to it, discover the murderer before she does, will you pay me +what you have agreed to pay her?” + +“Canneziano,” Sam said, “get this. Get it now. I’ll pay you not one +red cent for anything. Not one red cent.” + +“Fair enough,” Canneziano repeated. “And my mistake. Undoubtedly, I +should have worded it differently. For instance— What will you pay me +not to discover the murderer on the Desert Moon Ranch?” + +A week ago, Sam would have got up and kicked him out through the door +for that question. This evening Sam sat still and looked him over, +sort of sliding his eyes up and down over his smooth dapperness. +Finally he drawled, “Go as far as you like, Canneziano. Only—you won’t +get anywhere you’d like to be, not on that line.” + +“Presently, perhaps,” Canneziano answered. “No hurry.” + +I’ll be switched if Sam didn’t sit there and murmur, mildly, “‘Said +the carpenter,’” to himself. + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + +Lynn MacDonald + +On Friday afternoon, late, I went with John and Sam down to Rattail to +meet the train. When it came thundering, snorting up, I thought of the +last time that Sam and I had met a train together, and of how our +entire world had changed in the two months. Was it going to keep on +changing, I wondered. I could not bear to look into the past; I found +that I did not dare to try to think into the future. + +Just before the train stopped, with its usual roar of protest against +Rattail, Clarence Pette swung off it. He came over to us with a timid +air, like an animal just learning to eat out of a person’s hand. He +took no risks, until Sam had greeted him, real pleasantly, and +politely. + +“Miss MacDonald is on this train,” he said to Sam and me. “Is there +anything else I can do for you?” + +“Not a thing, if you are positive that she is Miss MacDonald, except +to take your fifty—here it is—and vamoose.” + +“I’m positive. Thanks. Here she comes now.” + +I looked up to see her coming. I could hardly believe my eyes. I don’t +know what I had expected; but I surely had not expected anything to +get off that smoke-dirty train, in the middle of a Nevada desert, on a +sweltering hot July evening, that looked as she did. + +In the first place, in her pongee silk dress with coat to match, and +perky little green hat, she looked as if she had been fresh picked, in +the last nice California garden, and had been kept under glass, on ice +ever since. But that was only a part of it. She looked, too, like +linen sheets feel, at the end of a long hard day; sheets that have +been hand-washed, and sun-dried, and dew-dampened, and ironed smooth +as satin. She looked like very early on a September morning, in our +mountains—that was the zip and the zest of her, combined with her +comforting freshness and cleanness. + +She was tall; taller than most women, and with weight enough to look +durable and useful, but not a mite fat. She had eyes that were as gray +as pussywillows, and that did no monkey-tricks of changing to green or +blue; she had wavy carrot-colored hair, that was so full of life it +looked as if it were trying to break the bonds of its neat, boyish bob +and go floating off, on its own, to make maybe a tiny sunset cloud. +Her nose was small; her mouth was a mite too large, showing freely in +a smile her teeth, little and polished white, like a puppy’s. + +Coming straight from San Francisco, she used no visible cosmetics; +which is much the same as if I had said, rising out of the Pacific +Ocean, she was as dry as a chip. But you could no more imagine Lynn +MacDonald stopping anything, much less herself, to peer at her +freckled nose in a vanity-case’s mirror, than you could imagine a +baseball player stopping between first and second base to take his +temperature with a clinical thermometer. + +All of this general satisfactoriness, coming through the alkali dust +and offering to shake hands with a person, was, I might say, +disarming. My impulses were all mixed. I felt like putting my old, +muddled head down on that nice high chest of hers and having a right +good cry. And yet, I felt for the first time in days, like a broad +grin. I managed it, and forewent the other. + +Her voice was low and pleasant, but there was something brisk and +crisp about it, and about all of her, that seemed to say plenty and +plenty of time for everything, but not one precious minute to waste. + +In the background, during this meeting, John and Danny had been +hugging and kissing, as if the rolling train right behind them, filled +with staring people, were a peaceful, flowing river, and the people +fishes that were swimming past. At last, to my relief, they came over +to join us; Danny, looking paler and more snuffed out than usual, by +contrast, maybe, with Miss MacDonald; John beaming with triumph at +having her home again. + +“But,” Danny said, after Sam had introduced her to Miss MacDonald, and +had explained why Miss MacDonald had come, “you didn’t tell me that +you were coming here.” + +“You girls get acquainted on the train?” Sam asked. + +“We had breakfast together in the diner this morning,” Miss MacDonald +answered. + +“Did you know who I was?” Danny questioned. + +“It was my business to know that, wasn’t it?” Miss MacDonald smiled. + +“Only—why didn’t you tell me?” Danny persisted. + +“I don’t wonder that you ask,” Miss MacDonald said. “And I hope that +you will forgive me for seeming unfriendly, secretive. It is, simply, +that I never want my first history of the case to come from the +nearest relatives. Of course they feel too deeply to see clearly. +Mistaken impressions are so hard to eradicate, that I go to any +lengths to avoid them. If I had made myself known this morning, Miss +Canneziano, I should have had to seem more rude and ungracious than I +seemed by acting as I did. Because, please,” she included all of us in +her glance, “I have to ask each of you not to talk to me about the +case. I should have to refuse to listen. When I need to know anything +about it—I shall need to know many things—I’ll ask it, as a direct +question. Until I ask for more, from you, if you will all do that, +simply answer my questions, you will help me immeasurably.” + +“That’s easy,” Sam said. + +“I am afraid,” she answered, “that it won’t be easy. And I have to +make another request that won’t be easy to fulfill, either. It is, +that no one will question me. I am sorry to have to ask that. I am +afraid that it seems as if I were trying to surround myself with a +glamour of mystery—pretending to false wisdoms and acumens——” + +“Not a bit of it,” Sam interrupted. “‘He travels the fastest who +travels alone.’” + +“I have always questioned that,” she said. “At any rate, I don’t +intend to travel all alone.” + +“You mean you are going to take a few days to size us up, and then get +some of us to help you?” Sam asked. + +“Question number one,” she said, and laughed, too. + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + +A Trap + +We had got into the sedan, by that time, and were riding along the +Victory Highway. I declare to goodness, a sound that was pretty much +like a ripple of giggles went tittering around. It did us good, every +last one of us. It was antiseptic, as laughs so often are. Just as I +was thinking how much more wholesome everything felt, since I had +shaken hands with Miss MacDonald, Danny, who was riding in the front +seat beside John, spoiled it all by emitting a shriek; it was not a +very loud one, but it was thick with horror and repulsion. + +John talked to her for a minute or two in a low voice, and then +explained, over his shoulder to us, that he had told her about “that +man” being on the ranch. + +“Uncle Sam,” Danny pleaded, “do I have to see him?” + +“Well, Danny,” Sam apologized, “I’m right down sorry about it; but, +you see, he is staying on the place. We’ll keep him out of your way as +much as we can.” + +“Why can’t he stay, if he has to stay at all, down at the outfit’s +quarters?” Danny asked. + +“We’ll see what Miss MacDonald says. I kind of thought, maybe, she’d +like to have him where she could keep an eye on him. I kind of wanted, +myself, to keep an eye on him.” + +Danny put her head on John’s shoulder and began to cry; weak, choking +little sobs that hurt like having to watch a sick baby. + +“Poor little thing,” Miss MacDonald said to me, her voice lowered and +rich with sympathy. + +I thought she would ask me what the trouble was, and who the man was +that was causing it. Instead, still speaking low, to me, she said, “So +often I get completely at odds with my profession. And then I hear +some woman crying like that, or something else as heartbreaking comes +to me, and I know that I am justified. Not because I shall discover +this criminal. That won’t help this little girl, greatly; but because +I am one of an army that is fighting crime.” + +I didn’t say it, but I felt like telling her that she seemed like a +whole army herself—an army with banners. + +I leaned forward and tried to sooth Danny; told her that we would all +do what we could to keep him away from her, and to make it easy for +her. + +“It can’t be made easy,” she answered. “You can’t keep him away from +me. I won’t see him, I tell you. I’ve been so homesick—and now to come +home to this. I can’t see him. I won’t——” + +Miss MacDonald, who the minute before, had seemed all pity for Danny, +began, suddenly, to talk right through and over her sobs, to Sam; to +talk in rather a loud voice about stock raising, paying no more +attention to Danny’s troubles than she paid to the humming of the +motor. + +I sat and sulked and nursed my disappointment. If I had been a +man—which praise the Lord I am not—it would have been a case of love +at first sight with me toward Lynn MacDonald. But now I told myself +bitterly that I had been a fool to expect real womanly sympathy and +kindness from a person in her profession. Ferreting out criminals +would make anyone as hard as nails. I was right, in a way. That was +not the last time I was to see her turn, suddenly, from a sympathetic +woman into a crime analyst. It was sort of a pity, though, that I had +to see that side of her so soon; so long before I could begin to +understand it. + +Not until Danny had quieted down, and had turned to us with stammered +apologies and attempted explanations, did Miss MacDonald ask, “Who is +this man?” + +“Dreadful as it must seem to you,” Danny answered, “he is my father. +But he has brought sorrow, and fear and trouble to my mother, and to +my sister, and to me, whenever he came near us. He is a wicked man.” + +“Wouldn’t it be possible,” Miss MacDonald turned to Sam, “to have +someone go ahead of us to the house, and ask him to keep to his own +room, this evening?” + +“Well——” Sam hesitated. “But Danny will have to meet him, sooner or +later.” + +“Better later, in this case, I should say. She will be rested +to-morrow. Possibly, too, it would be easier for her if their first +meeting could be in private. Shouldn’t you rather see him alone, just +at first, Miss Canneziano?” + +“Oh, no!” Danny exclaimed. “I hope I need never see him alone. +Please—don’t any of you ever leave me alone with him, not for a +minute, if you can help it.” + +For all the fuss she had made about it, I will say that Danny did very +well when we all went into the house and she saw Canneziano, standing +over by the east windows, smoking a cigarette. + +“What-ho, Dan,” he said, smiling his smooth, smirking smile at her. +“You are looking seedy. Bad times around here, lately.” + +She didn’t go near him. She edged closer to John; but she answered, +looking at him straight and lifting her chin in a pretty, dignified +way she had, “Very, very bad times indeed.” She and John walked +through the room to the stairway, and up the steps, and out of sight. + +Canneziano stood watching them, a dark, ugly look on his face. +“There’s filial affection for you,” he said. And then, with a half +laugh, as he lit another cigarette, and shook the flame from the +match, “The girl is a fool.” + + + +CHAPTER XL + +The Missing Box + +Miss MacDonald came down to breakfast in the morning, trim and white +as a new candle. She ate heartily, complimenting the food. She asked +after Danny, who had not come down for breakfast. She talked about how +splendidly the high altitude and the marvelous Nevada air made her +feel. She told us, who had lived here all our lives and didn’t know +it, that the air in Nevada was supposed to be the best in the entire +United States for growing things. And, all the time, she was either +not noticing, or pretending not to notice, how we were all hanging on +her every word, and watching her every movement. + +I guessed the others were doing as I was doing; watching for +penetrating glances, and listening for catches in her innocent +questions. But, at that, I blushed for them; particularly for John, +who sat and stared at her as if she were something he had to learn by +heart, before the meal was over. She caught him at it, several times; +but, though he would then have the grace to blush, and go glancing +about, he’d begin again, at the beginning, the minute she looked away. + +When we had finally finished breakfast, she asked Sam if she might +detain him. I stayed on, when the others had left the dining-room. She +said pointedly, though politely and to Sam, not to me, that she wanted +to speak to him alone. + +I took myself off. But the open window in the pass pantry was too big +a temptation; so I went in there, softly, and stood far back and to +the side. + +Her very first words took me right off my feet. “Mr. Stanley,” she +questioned, “do you trust your housekeeper?” + +“Mary?” Sam drawled. “Well, now, I don’t know as to trusting——” + +I don’t know how to express what my feelings were when I heard Sam say +that. Pulverized is a word that would edge it, I guess—as if I had +been caught in a sausage machine, and ground up into small pieces, +each one hurting on its own hook. + +“But,” Sam continued, “if Mary was going on a long journey, to +indefinite foreign parts, and felt the need of my right eye to take +along with her, I’d loan it to her for as long as she wanted it—no +questions asked. I can’t say that I’d go much further than that, +though.” + +I was whole again, and warm and glowing. Sam, the old ninny, getting +his dander up, and to a beautiful woman like that, just because she +had asked him a simple question. + +She laughed; a cheery, escaping sort of laugh, like something with +bright wings suddenly flying loose. + +“Come back into the dining-room, then, Mrs. Magin,” she called to me. +“You can hear better in here.” + +I came in, a mite shamefacedly. “It was my overweening curiosity,” I +explained. + +Sam murmured, “‘Satiable.’” + +“I like people with curiosity,” she said. “I understand them, too; +because, I suppose, I am one of the most curious persons in the world. +Another thing, I have never found a truly curious person who was a +wicked person. As much as any generalization can be made, all +criminals are egotists. Curiosity means interest in the affairs of +others. Of course, one has to be able to discriminate between innate +curiosity and the slyness of self protection—— But, forgive me, Mr. +Stanley, I am chattering away your time. Now then.” + +(Later we became accustomed to that brisk professional opening of +hers, that “Now then,” as a signal for getting right down to business, +but it was as surprising, heard for the first time, as biting your +tongue.) + +“Gabrielle Canneziano was last seen, alive, where and at about what +hour?” + +We told her. + +“Did she seem at ease, happy, untroubled?” + +Sam said, “I was playing chess. I didn’t notice.” + +“I did,” I said. “She was unhappy, troubled, and frightened.” + +“Frightened? Are you positive that you had that impression at the +time?” + +“Yes. I spoke to Mrs. Ricker about it, right then.” + +“Did she agree with you, then?” + +“She didn’t say.” + +“Did Gabrielle Canneziano speak to any one of you, as she walked +through the room?” + +I told her about Gaby’s gesture to Chad, and about him following her +to the porch and talking to her there. + +“Chadwick Caufield? The man who killed himself when the body was +found?” + +“Yes.” + +“Did he leave the porch with her?” + +“No. He came straight back into the house.” + +“What other members of the household were in the room at that time?” + +Sam told her. + +“That leaves her sister, and your son and daughter as the only members +of the household who were absent at the time. How long before Martha +Stanley returned to the house?” + +Sam said, “I was playing chess. But I know it wasn’t long.” + +“It wasn’t more than five or six minutes,” I said. + +“How long before Danielle Canneziano came downstairs?” + +I told her about Danny’s calling after Gaby. “It wasn’t much more than +ten minutes after she called, not fifteen minutes, I am sure, before +Danny came downstairs.” + +“Since you are a cook,” she said, “you probably have more than the +average ability in estimating time.” + +“Good cooks,” I told her, “don’t estimate. They know. When I’m boiling +three minute eggs, I use my watch, and always have.” + +“At least, then,” she said, “you know how difficult it is to deal +accurately with minutes. With every desire and reason to be honest, +five minutes, in the testimony of a witness, may be anything from two +minutes to seventeen; ten minutes, anything from five minutes to +twenty-three; twenty minutes, anything from nine minutes to +forty-five; forty-five minutes, anything from twenty-odd to an hour +and a half. Now then.” + +She went on with her questioning. We had finished breakfast at eight +thirty o’clock. At eleven thirty, I felt that she knew everything that +Sam and I knew about the case, and, probably, a deal more. + +She knew about the two girls searching for something. + +She knew about Gaby’s getting the code letter; about her peculiar +actions afterwards. She knew about the quarrel with Sam. + +She knew about John having gone to Rattail for medicine that Danny +said she had not sent for. + +She knew about him taking four hours, instead of two to make the trip; +about the reasons he had given for that; about him going straight +upstairs, the back way, and staying there for half an hour. In answer +to her questions, it was Sam and not I who told her about John’s +acting so bothered and troubled when he came down for supper. + +She knew about all of our actions between five and six o’clock. She +knew that Sam was unwilling to swear that Hubert had been in the barn +during that entire time. Sam insisted upon telling her about Danny’s +suspicions concerning himself: that he had left Chad, the +ventriloquist, in the barn to hood-wink Hubert, and had gone off +somewhere. + +She knew about me asking Chad to close the attic; about the locked +door; the key in my pocket. She knew that I had found the body, and +had stopped to clean away Sam’s pipe ashes. + +She had seen the note that Chad had left. She had compared it, through +her magnifying glass, with other specimens of his handwriting. She had +stated, positively, that the note had been written by the same hand +that had written the names and jokes under the pictures in his kodak +album. She had spent ten minutes, or more, looking at these pictures. +Then she had asked Sam to explain, in detail, why he had entirely +discounted Chad’s note of confession. + +Sam said, “The body was cold and stiff when we found it. That is +proof, isn’t it, that she had been dead more than an hour?” + +“If you are certain of that, it is positive proof that she had been +dead much longer than one hour.” + +“I am certain. Well, until seven o’clock that boy had not been out of +my sight for one minute, after Gaby walked through the room, alive, +for us all to see her, at four o’clock.” + +“Twice,” Miss MacDonald objected, “you have told me that you could not +answer a question because, at the time, you were absorbed in your +chess game. How, then, can you be certain that Chadwick Caufield was +not out of the living-room for a short time, say fifteen minutes, +between four and five o’clock?” + +“Because he was playing the piano all that time.” + +“You are certain that you would have noticed it, had he stopped +playing?” + +“Certain. He was spoiling my game, and driving me half crazy with his +noise. I kept hoping that he would stop. Kept forcing myself not to +ask him to stop.” + +“Why shouldn’t you ask him, if it was annoying you to that extent, in +your own home?” + +“Well, it was Chad’s home, too. He had as much right, I reckon, to +play his music as I had to play my chess game.” + +I liked the look Miss MacDonald sidled at me when Sam said that. + +“You, too, are sure,” she questioned me, “that Chadwick Caufield was +at the piano during that entire hour?” + +“I know it.” + +“What sort of music was he playing?” + +“He was improvising. It was happy, cheerful sort of crooning music—if +you know what I mean.” + +“Yes. He did not seem worried, depressed?” + +“Not a bit. He seemed happier than usual, I thought.” + +She went on with her questions. They brought us to Martha’s death. She +took what seemed like a long time asking us questions about Martha’s +health. Had she ever complained of dizziness? Shortness of breath? +Indigestion? And all sorts of other seemingly unimportant things. + +“Where,” she finally came back to the powders again, “was this +sleeping medicine purchased?” + +Sam told her in San Francisco, with a doctor’s prescription. + +“Have you still some of them left, in the original box?” + +“A few, I think.” + +“Good. Will you get it for me, Mr. Stanley?” + +“I’ll get it,” I said, and my opinion of her as a detective was +lowered, then and there. If she had not found out, by this time, that +it was useless to send a man to look for anything anywhere, but, most +particularly, in a bathroom medicine closet, she still had too much to +learn. + +I had seen the powder box, left out of place on the table, the morning +of the fifth of July, when I had gone into the hall bathroom. I had +picked it up, out of habit, and replaced it in the medicine closet. I +thought that I could put my hand right on it. + +I could not. When I opened the mirror door, the box was not to be +seen. I searched and searched. I might have spared myself the trouble. +From that day to this, the box, with the remaining powders in it, has +never been found. + + + +CHAPTER XLI + +Questions + +“I was afraid of that,” Miss MacDonald said, when I returned with my +information and nothing else to the dining-room. “Now then: Would it +be possible for you to remember who last took one of these powders, +and when, with no ill effects?” + +“Danny and Mary each took one the night of the fourth, when Martha +did,” Sam answered. “I’ve asked them about it, and both of them say +that they did not feel queer at all, afterwards. They were both wide +awake in the morning.” + +“My word!” said Miss MacDonald. + +“I think,” I offered, “that something was all wrong with Martha’s +heart before she took the powder. She acted sleepy, stupid, all +afternoon.” + +“From noon on, you mean?” + +“No—at least, I didn’t notice until later in the afternoon. Mrs. +Ricker said that she had a hard time keeping her awake between seven +and eight o’clock.” + +“I see. Mrs. Ricker did not take one of the sleeping powders that +night?” + +“She didn’t need one,” Sam explained. “She is naturally calm. She +didn’t go all to pieces like the other girls did.” + +“And yet, I have gathered that she was far from calm when her daughter +died?” + +“She went clear, raving crazy,” I said. + +“Yes. Now then——” + +“Hold on a minute,” Sam said. “I think that you think, from the +questions you have been asking, that the sleeping powder, like I gave +the other girls, would not have caused Martha’s death. Now I want to +know——” + +“I am sorry, Mr. Stanley,” she interrupted, “but I have explained that +I can not answer questions.” + +“Suppose I insist on a few common sense questions being answered, +right now?” + +“You can’t do that. You can hamper me in my progress. You can dismiss +me from the case, right now. But you aren’t going to do either, are +you?” + +“I won’t hamper you, if I can help it. I won’t dismiss you, as you +say, now, either. It wouldn’t be right, without giving you a chance, +after you came all the way up here, and you know it. That’s why you +should try to be reasonable.” + +“I am trying to be reasonable, Mr. Stanley.” Her smile at Sam, just +then, looked as if she might be trying to be something a mite more +charming than reasonable, besides. “Now then——” + +She was off again, leading us with her questions, through Mrs. +Ricker’s confession and her suspicions of Martha. + +“After Martha came into the house with the bracelet,” she asked, “was +she out of the room again within the hour; or even within the second +hour, between five and six?” + +“She was not out between four and five,” I said. “She might have been +any place, for all I know, between five and six. I was in the +kitchen.” + +“Did you have any particular reason for watching her between four and +five o’clock?” + +“No.” + +“Then, I am afraid that you can not be positive that she did not leave +the room.” + +“I am positive,” I insisted. “There weren’t any goings nor comings. We +all stayed right in the room. It was too hot to move around. I know +that Martha did not leave the room. She sat beside Chad on the piano +bench, for a while. She sat on the arm of Sam’s chair, watching the +chess game——” + +“Gosh!” Sam said. “I remember that, now. She was fooling with my hair. +I kept smelling the blacking on her shoes.” + +“You couldn’t have,” I said. “Because, Sam, she was wearing white +shoes.” + +“She used some preparation to clean her white shoes, I suppose?” Miss +MacDonald asked. + +“Some stuff called ‘White-o-clean.’ We all use it.” + +She asked for the bottle. When I brought it, she smelled of it, and +asked Sam to. “Is that the odor you noticed?” she questioned. + +“Nothing like it.” + +“Now then.” + +“Hold on,” Sam said. “I’ve got two things to tell you that you are +overlooking, and I know that they are both mighty important.” + +“What are they?” + +“The first one is this. Gaby had lived here close to two months. +Martha had never harmed her. Does it stand to reason that, on the very +day Gaby was afraid she was going to be killed, Martha would do it? +There’s too much coincidence in that, isn’t there?” + +“I think so,” she answered, breaking her rule for once, at least. +“Though we can not ever discount coincidence. In the first place, what +appears to be coincidence usually proves not to be coincidence at all, +in the end. In the second place, genuine coincidences are much more +frequent than is generally supposed, or admitted. But, Mr. Stanley, +unless the other thing you have to tell me is a fact, and not an +opinion, I am going to ask you not to tell it to me, at least not +until later.” + +“It is straight fact.” + +“Very well, then?” + +“I’d rather show you,” Sam said. “Then you wouldn’t have to take my +word for it. Will you come out to the rabbit hutch with me?” + +“But,” she questioned, “can that be necessary?” + +“You can judge for yourself. Martha was always trying experiments with +feeding her rabbits. I guess she thought that they might like grain. +Maybe they do. I don’t know. Anyway, she, or someone, had tugged a +half sack of grain up there. A lot of it had spilled out under the +berry bushes. It is all fresh sprouted, and growing fine. Is that +important, or not?” + +Her brows puckered. “I’m sorry—I don’t follow you.” + +“There wasn’t a spot out there, except under those bushes, where +Martha could have hidden the body. A body, even as small as Gaby’s, +would have smashed down and broken those fresh sprouts of grain.” + +“But—the body was never there.” + +“Mrs. Ricker said that she thought it was. We just told you.” + +Her mouth popped open with surprise. “But, Mr. Stanley, you couldn’t +have considered Mrs. Ricker’s opinion seriously? Is it possible that +you don’t know that Gabrielle Canneziano was murdered right there on +the stairs, where she fell, and where she was found?” + + + +CHAPTER XLII + +A Revelation + +“How in blazes could I know it?” Sam said. “What’s more, I don’t +believe it. I think that she was murdered outside, and carried in, +afterwards.” + +“My word! Weren’t you present when the body was moved?” + +“No. I—well, I didn’t care about being.” + +“The fingers of her right hand were clutching the stair tread with the +grasp of death. Nothing can disprove that. Dead fingers can not be +made to clutch.” + +“How do you know that?” Sam demanded. “About her fingers, I mean.” + +“To prove to you,” she said, after an instant’s hesitation, “that my +refusal to answer questions is not merely an attempt to appear wise +and mysterious, I am going to answer this question. + +“When I saw the body in the crematory in San Francisco——” + +“What!” + +“I always do that, when I can. Before I sent you my telegram, I had +gone to see the body.” + +“Did—does Danny know that?” + +“No. It might be better not to tell her. It is a necessary part of my +profession. The crematory people realize that; but, since people are +often very sensitive about it, they prefer that the relatives should +not know that they allow it. As I was saying, I saw, then, that the +fingers on the right hand had been broken. The undertaker had done +that, you understand, in order that they might look natural to fold. + +“When I had received your telegram engaging me to take the case, I +telephoned to the coroner and the undertaker in Telko. I asked them to +come to the train and talk with me for the twenty minutes that the +train stops in Telko. I took a drawing-room for the purpose; so that +we could talk undisturbed and unnoticed. That will be the reason for +the day’s drawing-room charge on my expense account, Mr. Stanley. I +don’t want you to think that I was unduly extravagant.” + +“Extravagant! Hell!” Sam exploded, forgetting himself. “What do I care +about a drawing-room? What I want to know is, what those fellows told +you, and why they didn’t tell me.” + +“They corroborated the opinion I had formed, from the fingers, about +the death clutch, among other things. I don’t know why they didn’t +tell you that. Probably, because they assumed that you already knew +it. What information I got from them, they gave with extreme +reluctance, due, I think, to their long-standing friendship with you, +and their desire not to incriminate any member of your household. I +got nothing from them—or, to put it more fairly, perhaps, they were +able to tell me nothing except the facts concerning the position of +the body. Those facts proved that she had been killed on the stairs, +by someone who had been coming downstairs behind her. How did it +happen that you did not know this?” + +“As soon as I realized what had occurred,” Sam explained, “I cleared +everybody right out and locked the door. I knew that it was necessary +for the coroner to examine the body before it had been disturbed.” + +“How very, very sensible,” Miss MacDonald said. But I did not quite +like the way she said it. + +“If you mean,” I spoke up, “how unfeeling, I want to say that, though +she had been living here for two months, she had not exactly endeared +herself to any of us.” + +“No? I had understood that Chadwick Caufield was deeply in love with +her; that Mr. Hand was more or less enamoured. There can be no doubt +that her sister loved her devotedly. That leaves Mr. Stanley, his son +and daughter, Mrs. Ricker and yourself, as the people to whom she had +not endeared herself.” + +Sam and I received that in silence. It was one of those odd things +that was true, but that did not sound so. + +I looked at my watch and said that it was time for me to be starting +to get dinner. She asked if she might help me. I thought that she was +trying only to be polite, and I was making my refusal just as polite, +when she interrupted me. + +“Please, Mrs. Magin,” she urged. “You mentioned at breakfast that you +had only one inefficient girl to help you, just now. I love housework, +of all sorts. And I want to get intimately acquainted with this house. +The best way to do that is to work in it, isn’t it? You know—you can’t +know a stove until you have cooked on it, nor a room until you have +cleaned it. Won’t you let me help you, as a special favor to me?” + +Sam winked at me. “She isn’t going to let you out of her sight, Mary.” + +Miss MacDonald tried to smile, but she made a failure of it. + +“But you don’t need to worry, Mary,” Sam went on, “because one thing, +now, is dead certain. If Gaby was murdered there on the steps, it is +impossible that any member of this household could have done it. It +was, anyway. But now it is sure. That clears us all.” + +Miss MacDonald flashed out, in one of her rarely shown tempers. “What +utter nonsense,” she said. + + + +CHAPTER XLIII + +A Shadow + +When it came to helping in the kitchen, that girl was more help in +five minutes than Belle, Sadie and Goldie, all three of them together, +had been in half a day. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t say where +is this, and how do you do that? She pitched in as if she had been +working in that kitchen with me for the past twenty years. How she +knew where I kept the potatoes, where the best paring knife lived, and +the particular kettle that was best for cooking the potatoes in, I +don’t know, and I never shall know. Most mystery stories, especially +of late, have an element of the supernatural in them. I tell you, that +girl’s knowledge of my ways, and the manner in which she took hold in +the kitchen, are as supernatural as anything ever brought to my +notice. The first thing I knew, she was peeling the potatoes, and +peeling them thin and clean. She didn’t ask how many would be enough. +When she got them peeled and washed, she put them on, in boiling +water, with no inquiry as to where I kept the salt. She did not talk +as she worked. I was glad of that; for, after three solid hours of +conversation, I needed, badly, a silent space. I wanted to think. +Those last words of hers, “utter nonsense,” in answer to Sam’s +statement, kept ringing in my ears. + +I tried to think whether there was any way a person could get upstairs +without coming through the house. We had no fire escapes. There were +no trees close enough to the house so that even Douglas Fairbanks +could swing to an upstairs window from one of them. There were no +vines growing on the house. Without about a twenty foot ladder, which +we didn’t have on the place, and which would be hard to go conveying +about, to say nothing of disposing of it afterwards, there was not any +possible way for anyone to get to the second floor of our house, +except by means of the back or the front stairway. + +Since Gaby had been killed on the attic stairway, and since all who +knew about that sort of thing agreed that she had been dead at least +two hours when we found her, she must have returned to the house +sometime between four and five o’clock, and have stolen upstairs with +none of us seeing or hearing her. Since she could do that, there was +no reason to suppose that someone else could not have done the same +thing; either coming in with her at the time, or coming before or +after she did. I had to conclude that another person certainly had +done just that; had entered the house and had gone upstairs during +that hour. Who? The person whom she had been fearing? Not one of us, +that seemed a certainty. And yet, Miss MacDonald had said, “nonsense.” + +I remembered, again, her strange, mad actions immediately after she +had received the code letter. I remembered how she had looked in the +hall that day, when I had told John that I thought I had seen the +ghost of Sin. In Gaby’s note to Danny she had written that she had +purposely kept her fears and her danger a secret from Danny. +Undoubtedly, the secret was written in the code letter. Had she told +Danny partly the truth about the contents of that letter, or had she +told her falsehoods from beginning to end? Or had Danny told us only a +part of the truth? Why did we all keep forgetting how Danny had tried +to call Gaby back, when Gaby had started on that fatal walk? + +I have said before, and I say again, I knew that Danielle Canneziano +had not murdered her sister. But I knew, too, that if she had some +reason, some better reason than I could conceive, for keeping quiet, +for not telling everything she knew, Danny was capable of so doing. I +remembered our talk in her room on the morning of the fifth of July. I +remembered how she had acted when her engagement ring had slipped from +her finger—and I tried to turn my thoughts into different channels. + +There was Chad’s suicide and his confession. It could be possible that +he had killed himself because he had loved Gaby. But that would not +account for his confession to the crime. It could mean but one thing—a +desire to shield someone. Would he have cared about shielding some +unknown scoundrel who had crept into the house and killed the girl +whom Chad loved? Had Chad, then, mistakenly suspected Martha, or Sam, +or John, and killed himself and left the note to aid one of them? Not +likely. Men do not kill themselves, leaving a written confession to a +crime of which they are innocent, because of some mere suspicion. + +I remembered my conversation with Hubert Hand in the hall that +morning. What was it that he had thought I had overheard in the cabin +and had bribed me not to tell? It was reasonable enough to suppose +that, at that time, he had hoped to keep his entire story, his prison +records, his reason for coming to the Desert Moon, his relations with +Mrs. Ricker and Martha, a secret; just as I had hoped to keep the fact +of finding Sam’s pipe ashes a secret. + +Sam’s pipe ashes, again. If someone had put them there, in an effort +to implicate Sam, it would have had to be someone who knew Sam’s ways. +My thoughts were off again. You can’t, I told myself, get shed of a +following shadow by running away from it. You have to turn and face +it, before you can go the other way. I faced it. + +John. He had left the ranch at two o’clock. He could easily have +gotten back by four, or shortly after. Suppose that he had left the +machine down the road, quite far down the road in the spot where the +tire tracks showed that the machine had been stopped and started +again, the spot where we thought he had changed a tire? He could have +climbed the fence, taken a short cut to the house, and gotten here in +half or three quarters of an hour. He could have met Gaby; could have +stolen into the house with her. He could have killed her, and stolen +out of the house again. A short cut across the fields, and a drive to +the house would get him here by six o’clock—the time he did get here. +If he could be wicked enough to murder, he could be wicked enough to +arrange clues to throw suspicions on his father and his sister. If he +were low enough to do that, he would be low enough to rob her of a +little money. In other words, grant that John is a blonde, and you can +go along and grant that he has blue eyes and tow hair. It was all of +it false, I told myself, from its wicked beginning to its wicked end; +false and unfair. But I had faced it. Now I could turn and go in +another direction. + +I had not realized how deeply I had been thinking, dawdling over my +work in consequence, until I saw that Miss MacDonald had taken up the +pork chops, and had them in the warming-oven, and was making gravy, as +smooth and tasty looking pan-gravy as I ever saw. + +“Good lands!” I said. “I’ve certainly come to one conclusion.” + +“It is a little early for conclusions, isn’t it?” she asked. + +“It is a lot too late for this one.” + +“Please——” she began; but, for once, I got the best of her. + +“My conclusion is,” I said, “that, by hook or crook, Sam Stanley has +got to get me some efficient help in this house. When I think of what +I’ve put up with, all these years in the way of help, and then see the +way you pitch in, it makes me mad all over.” + +“I wish,” she said, “that I might drop this case, right now, and stay +here for all time, and be your assistant and a thoroughly domestic +person, and forget that there were crimes and criminals in the world.” + +“Maybe,” I said, eagerly, but knowing of course that it was too good +to come true, “when you’ve finished with this case, you could do that. +You’d be one of our family, and Sam would pay—well, I guess anything +you’d care to ask.” + +“No,” she smiled, “it is tempting—now. But that desire of mine to give +up my profession is a phase that I always pass through at the +beginning of each difficult case. In a few days, when I begin to get +hold of something, and when things begin to take shape, all my love of +the work will return. It is only at first, when I seem to be in a maze +of mystery, like this, that I get so discouraged. I always do it, +right at first; and I always think that here is the case of which I am +going to make an absolute failure.” + +“Have you ever failed on a case?” I asked. + +“Indeed I have, on several. It is queer, though; in each case that has +been a failure, it has seemed that the solution was written plainly +from the start. It was—written all wrong. Judging from that, I should +be unusually successful in this case.” + +Poor girl, no wonder that she was discouraged. She has given me leave, +now that it is all over, to use any of her notes that I care to use in +the writing of this story. + +“Far be it from Lynn MacDonald,” she said, when I asked her about +using the notes, “to refuse advertisement of one of her banner cases. +My rivals will say that I succeeded in this because, as often happens, +my luck stood by me. But you and I, we understand about luck, don’t +we, Mary?” + +“If you aren’t afraid,” I said, “that your notes may give away some of +the secrets of that luck of yours, so that your rivals will be able to +lay their hands on some of the same brand?” + +She laughed. “I never write down a secret. That is a safe enough rule +for an honest person, who plans to remain honest. For a dishonest +person, or for one who contemplates any sort of evil, or admits the +possibility of such a course, the safe rule would be: ‘Never, under +any circumstances, put pen or pencil to paper.’” + +As Sam would say, “It is a poor rule that won’t work both ways.” + +The notes that Miss MacDonald had made, before this conversation of +ours, that day in the kitchen, and on the evening of that same day, +July eleventh, are as follows. + + + +CHAPTER XLIV + +The Notes + +July 7. Saw body in crematory late to-night. Cause of death, +strangulation. Probably work of expert. Look for Japanese on ranch. +Broken fingers on right hand. Beautiful, costly gown, lingerie, etc., +indicating wealth and good taste. + +July 8. Rose, who has shadowed twin sister reports nothing verging on +suspicion. She attended services at crematory. Evidence of genuine +grief. Returned to hotel. One telegram sent to Desert Moon Ranch. +Received no company. Mailed no letters. Did no shopping. + +I received telegram from Desert Moon Ranch engaging me on case. +Explicit directions concerning train probably due to inconvenience of +meeting trains in rural community, and not due to a desire to have me +on the same train with Miss C. However, note. + +Telephoned to coroner and undertaker, requesting them to give me +conference in Telko. Also, had coroner verify list of names, as +published in “Examiner” of all persons present on ranch at time of +murder. Note—absence of all ranch employees at the time. Note—extreme +reluctance of both coroner and undertaker to give information, or to +meet me in Telko. + +July 9. Spent day in shadowing Miss C. myself. R’s observations, as +usual, excellent. + +Rose’s research through back files of Nevada papers provided following +information. + +Samuel Stanley, ranch owner. Very wealthy. Exemplary character. High +standing throughout state of Nevada. Philanthropic. + +John Stanley, adopted son of S. Stanley. Distinguished himself on +University of Nevada football team, 1916, 1917. Enlisted in air +service for war, 1917. Mather’s Field when armistice was declared. + +Hubert Hand. Winner of chess tournament held in Reno, 1914, 1915. + +Mrs. Ollie Ricker. No report. + +Chadwick Caufield. No report, except mention as guest at Desert Moon +Ranch. + +Mary Magin. No report. + +Danielle Canneziano. No report, except mention of her arrival with +sister, Gabrielle, at ranch last May. + +Inspection of Miss C.’s room in hotel after she had turned in her key +revealed no clue. Unusually neat and orderly person. Wastebaskets +empty. Newspapers folded on table. Magazine, “Ladies Home Journal” on +table. No heavy perfume. Hotel soap unwrapped. Fastidious. Silver +dollar left on table for chambermaid. + +Rose reports: Miss C. went from hotel to Ferry Building in taxicab. +Crossed alone on ferry. Spoke to no one. Boarded train at eight thirty +o’clock and went at once to her berth. + +July 10. Afternoon. Breakfasted with Miss C. this morning. No +conversation. All the evidences of good breeding. + +Had conference with coroner and undertaker. Think that they strongly +suspect John Stanley because of their repeated efforts to keep me from +sharing the suspicion. + +Information gained from them: Girl murdered on attic stairway. +Position of body and marks on throat prove an attack from the rear. +Members of household declare that rigor was complete when body was +discovered at eight o’clock the night of the fourth of July. Amateur +testimony, however. If fact, death must have occurred at least three +hours before discovery of body. + +July 10. Night. + +Allowed sudden “hunch” to betray reason and common sense. Usual silly +mistake at beginning of case. Set a trap to catch hawk. Got caught +myself. Luckily, no harm done. + +Met members of household. First impressions, before hearing history of +case other than gained from newspapers, coroner and undertaker. + +Danielle Canneziano. Impressions previously noted sustained. Charming, +lovable character. Innocent. + +Samuel Stanley. Honest. Likable. Kindly. There is a slight chance that +he might be involved, unwittingly. He is not stupid; but, decidedly, +he is not clever. + +Mary Magin. Intelligent. Imaginative. Honest. Innocent. + +John Stanley. Too handsome, but unconceited. Bashful. Likable. +Judgment suspended. + +Hubert Hand. Egotistic. Clever. Judgment suspended. + +Ollie Ricker. Life has treated her badly. She has put on armor against +it. Stupid. Perhaps sly. Judgment suspended. + +Daniel Canneziano. Criminal type. Alibi proves him not guilty of the +murder, but he is probably involved. Why did he come here? + +July 11. Evening. + +Heard case history to-day from Mr. S. and Mrs. M. + +Tempted to destroy all first impressions as recorded. Remember, +however, the value of mistaken impressions is usually important. + +Multiplicity of clues most amazing in my entire experience. Would seem +to indicate that many of them are false clues. + + Most Important Clues. (Definite.) + + 1. John’s unnecessary errand. + A. Length of time gone. + 2. Unusual costume for short walk on the place. + A. Proof of her fear. + 3. Missing box containing sleeping powders. + 4. Caufield’s suicide and confessional note. (Probably most important + of all clues.) + 5. Victim’s note to Danielle Canneziano. + A. Proof of her fear. + 6. Death of Martha Stanley. + A. Missing box containing sleeping powders. + 7. Canneziano’s presence on the ranch. + + Clues of Less Importance. (Definite.) + + 1. Contents of beaded bag. + A. Empty purse. + B. Missing bill-fold. + C. Crumpled handkerchief. + D. Broken cigarette holder. + E. Note from Hubert Hand. + F. Cigarette case with two cigarettes missing. + G. Empty matchbox. + 2. Code letter. + A. Destroyed caps for typewriter. + 3. Pipe ashes on bag and carpet. + A. Not necessarily Mr. Stanley’s. + B. Probably fixed false clue. + 4. Tatting shuttle. (Doubtful.) + + Clues of Most Importance. (Indefinite.) + + 1. Entire story concerning the money from robbery being hidden on + Desert Moon Ranch. + 2. Victim’s peculiar actions after receiving code letter. + A. Quarrel with Mr. Stanley. + 3. Mrs. Ricker’s story. + A. Her reason for telling it. + B. Did she believe it? + 4. Mrs. Magin’s desire to remove pipe ashes. + 5. Miss C.’s reluctance to tell of them. Her final complete + confession of her suspicions concerning Mr. Stanley. + 6. Hubert Hand’s unnecessary confession concerning his past life. + + Clues of Least Importance. (Indefinite.) + + 1. C. Caufield’s powers of ventriloquism. + A. Probably greatly over-rated by members of household. + 2. Playing of radio between two and four o’clock that + afternoon. + 3. Martha’s reference to a surprise in which she and + Chadwick Caufield were involved. + A. Possibly untrue. + 4. Mrs. Magin’s evident antagonism toward the victim. + 5. Mr. Stanley’s prompt action in locking the attic door + and his refusal to have the body touched until the + arrival of coroner. + 6. Reason for victim’s having given bracelet to Martha + Stanley at that time? + + Negatives. + + 1. No clues of any sort discoverable in victim’s room. + 2. No clues of any sort discoverable in attic. + 3. Lack of motives for crime by persons at present instinctively + suspicioned. + 4. No dogs on a ranch of this size. + +Now, as I read over these notes, my good opinion of myself rises until +it runs over the pan. I declare to goodness, the list of clues made +out by Lynn MacDonald, Crime Analyst, is not much better than the list +made out by Mary Magin, Cook and Housekeeper. She has done hers in +better form, and she has included a few things that I left out. But, +most of the included things were unknown to me at the time I made my +list. Many of the other included things did not amount to shucks. For +instance, we have no dogs on the ranch because the dogs in +northeastern Nevada have a habit of running out and associating with +rabid coyotes, contracting rabies, coming home and biting whoever is +conveniently to hand. For instance—but never mind. As I said before, +poor girl, no wonder she was discouraged. + + + +CHAPTER XLV + +Another Key + +As indicated by her notes for July eleventh, on that afternoon Miss +MacDonald had cleaned the attic, thoroughly, and had found nothing to +pay her for her trouble. Keeping me in the dark, as she had, I +supposed, when she said early the next morning that she wanted to +clean the living-room, that she had got at least a hat full of clues +from the attic. + +Land knows, the way I had been neglecting things, the living-room was +badly in need of a good cleaning. I wanted her to allow me to help +her, but she would not. It was luck that I happened to come in with +the floor wax just as she was looking at something that she had dug +out of the ashes in the fireplace. + +“What’s that?” I questioned. + +“I believe,” she answered, “that it is the missing key to the attic +door.” + +She got up, shook out her skirts, and went straight upstairs. I +trailed along. I stood by and watched her while she fitted the +blackened key into the lock. It turned both ways, as smoothly as you +please. + +Without bothering to say anything to me, she went up and down the +hall, trying the key in the locks of the other doors. It fitted none +of them. She went downstairs again, with me trailing after her, and +tried the key in all the locks downstairs. It fitted none of them, +either. + +“Do you know,” she asked, showing at last that she was conscious of my +presence, which I was beginning to doubt, “when you last had a fire in +that fireplace?” + +I thought a minute, and then told her on the night of the fourth of +July, during the storm. + +“Do you remember who kindled the fire?” + +“It had been fixed there, ready for the match, for weeks. Things have +gone to rack and ruin here lately; but I always used to see to it that +the fire was set in the fireplace, ready to light when needed.” + +“Do you happen to know who applied the match to the fire that night?” + +“Sam did.” + +“But surely, even though the rain had come up, a fire on the fourth of +July could not have been necessary?” + +“We don’t have fires here when they are necessary,” I told her. “We +have them when they are possible without absolute suffocation. Half a +pint of rain is plenty of excuse for Sam to light a fire at any time, +even if he has to open all the doors and the windows to cool off.” + +What I was saying was the honest truth; but I had a mean feeling that +she didn’t believe me. + +Right here, with apologies to Miss MacDonald and others of her +profession, I want to say that if they would just remember that nine +times out of ten a person who pretends to be telling the truth is +telling it, it would save them a lot of mistakes, and a lot of worry. +The man who spends his time biting his money to see whether or not it +is genuine doesn’t, usually, have much of it to bite; to say nothing +of the wear and tear on his own teeth, which would be considerable. + +I was standing by the living-room windows, trying to keep my temper +down with some such consoling thoughts as these, when I saw a car +drive up and the coroner and the undertaker getting out of it. + +I told Miss MacDonald the news, and asked her what in the world she +supposed they were coming here for, at this time in the morning. + +“I needed to see them again,” she answered. “Mr. Stanley telephoned to +them last evening.” + +“Well,” I said, “that means that I’ve got about half an hour to +disguise a family meal as a company dinner——” + +“Don’t bother,” she interrupted. “They won’t be here for +luncheon—dinner. I need to see them only about ten minutes.” + +I didn’t bother—answering. If she didn’t know any more about the ways +of people in this country than that, I didn’t see why I should take it +on myself to teach her. + +But she was right. She talked to them a few minutes; and, though I +insisted that they stay for dinner, off they went. It was an insult to +the Desert Moon Ranch. Everyone on the place, but Miss MacDonald, knew +it. Two weeks before, if a couple of friends had left the ranch at +eleven-thirty in the morning, with no reasonable excuse for so doing, +Sam would have blown up and burst with rage. That noon he was not even +decently indignantly interested. + +He had plenty of interest, though, concerning the finding of the attic +key. He had had it all settled, and was satisfied that, since it had +been proven that Gaby had been killed on the stairway, it had also +been proven that no member of the household could have been +implicated. Now this second key coming to light, the key that must +have been put over back of the wood before the fire was lighted that +night, and that must have been blackened in that one fire, because +there had been no fire in that fireplace since, dragged, to quote Sam, +not wishing to use such words on my own hook, “Every damn one of us +back into the damn mess again.” + +“Sam,” I said, and I guess my only excuse is that I was still angry at +having my honest word doubted, “do you know what I think? I think that +Miss MacDonald—though land knows she is a nice girl, and a living +wonder as help in the kitchen and around the house—is going to be a +flat fizzle from start to finish when it comes to discovering the +murderer.” + +“That’s kind of the way I got it sized up, too,” Sam said. “But if +she’s good help to you, she’s worth a lot more than her expenses.” + +“It isn’t the cost of her,” I said. “I’m afraid she is going to do a +lot of harm around here.” + +“Good-night, Mary!” he said. “If anyone can do any more harm around +here than has been done already—why, leave ’em do it.” + +“Not much with your ‘leave ’em do its,’” I said. “My idea is that +we’ve had about enough trouble. What I’m getting at is this, Sam: I +think that fool girl, at present, is suspecting you more than any +other one of us.” + +“That’s the way I had that sized up, too,” he said. “But let her go +ahead. If she can prove I’m guilty, I’m willing to hang for it.” + +“Don’t be a fool, Sam,” I snapped. “Did you ever happen to hear of +circumstantial evidence?” + +“You bet. But they can’t hang more than one innocent person on +circumstantial evidence, and there’s enough of that stuff around here +now to hang about five or six of us. I’ll take my chances with the +rest of you, Mary.” + +“Lands, Sam,” I was taken aback, “do you think she suspects me?” + +Something pretty close to the old twinkle came into Sam’s eyes. “Well, +Mary, Gaby was one extra to do for and she came late to meals and +pestered you quite a lot. Furthermore, though it hasn’t been made a +point of, you were all alone in the kitchen for the hour between five +and six o’clock. You might have slipped up and have done the deed +between the time you put the meat on and took the biscuits out.” + +I knew that he thought he was being funny; but I didn’t like it. “See +here, Sam,” I began, “Danny was going back and forth all the time——” + +“‘Now then,’” Sam interrupted, mocking Miss MacDonald. “Did Miss +Canneziano have any particular reason for watching you? No. I see. +Then, I am afraid, she can not be positive that you were not out of +the kitchen. Twenty minutes often seem like two hours and sixteen +minutes—— + +“I’ll tell you what, Mary,” Sam got suddenly serious. “I’m going to +wait a few more days, and then if this lady isn’t progressing a deal +faster than she is at present, I’m going to pay her off, full amount, +of course, and wire to ’Frisco for a plain, ordinary, he-man detective +to come up here and take hold of things. By the way,” he went on, +“does it seem to you that Danny and Canneziano are getting along all +right?” + +“I judge it isn’t a case of their getting along, much,” I said. “So +far as I know, she hasn’t spoken a word to him since she greeted him +the evening she came home.” + +“Well,” he hesitated, “well—I know a mite further than that. I’ll tell +you, sometime that isn’t dinner time—maybe.” + +He went into the dining-room, and I followed him. + +All during that dinner, and the same had been true of every meal since +the first breakfast I’ve mentioned, John hardly took his eyes off of +Miss MacDonald. I made a way to speak to him about it, alone, right +after dinner. + +“John,” I said, “for Mercy’s sakes, what do you want to sit and stare +at Miss MacDonald for, during meals, like she was the place where you +had lost something?” + +He blushed. “Gosh, Mary! I haven’t been doing that, have I?” + +“You certainly have. It doesn’t look nice, John. Why do you do it?” + +“I didn’t know that I did. But, on the square, did you ever see +anything as pretty—I mean, as clean and—well, kind of comforting +looking? She changes so, too; like a diamond, or a desert, or a +sunrise, or—something. Did you ever see anyone as interesting to look +at, Mary?” + +“Never mind asking me,” I said. “Just you go and ask Danny some of +those questions.” + +“Danny,” he answered, “is—well, Danny is Danny, of course. She’s +different.” + +“Better take to watching how different she is,” I advised, and left +him to think it over, and went into the living-room. + +Canneziano was loafing around in there. “Mary,” he said, “I’ll make a +dicker with you.” + + + +CHAPTER XLVI + +A Dicker + +“Not with me,” I said, and started up the stairs. + +Curiosity like mine is a curse. I’d gone about four steps up when it +caught me. “What’s your old dicker?” I said. + +“If you’ll persuade Sam to give me the ten thousand for producing the +murderer, I’ll split it with you.” + +I am tired of apologizing for myself. I will state, merely, that I +managed to say the one thing, under those circumstances, that I should +not have said. “Do you know who the murderer is?” Thereby proving that +I was possessed of about as much diplomacy as an alarm clock. + +“Certainly not,” he answered. He had not hesitated; he had looked +straight into my eyes. But I knew that he believed that he had lied. + +“See here,” I said. “I take it that one five thousand dollars is as +good to you as another. If you know who committed the murder, and will +produce him, I’ll give you the five thousand dollars myself.” + +“Don’t say that, Mary,” Danny stepped out from behind the long +curtains at the end of the south windows. + +Canneziano jumped like a spurred bronco. “Spying, eh, my lady?” + +She spoke directly to me. “Listen, Mary; don’t ever, for any reason, +enter into any sort of an agreement with this man. If he knows, or +thinks that he knows, who the murderer is, he can be forced to tell +without a bribe. If he had known for one day, one hour, and had +withheld the information, he is, in effect, an accomplice—there is a +legal term for it, but I have forgotten it. I am going out, now, to +find Uncle Sam, and to bring him here and tell him that this man says +that he knows who committed the murder. Mary, you telephone to the +sheriff in Telko——” + +“Just a moment, please,” Canneziano spoke smoothly and smilingly. “I +have said, definitely, that I do not know who killed the Gaby. And—I +do not know. I am bored, unspeakably bored. I should like to try my +hand at detecting this—er, villain. But,” he shrugged his narrow +shoulders, “with no impetus——” + +“The fact that she was your own daughter——” I began, hotly. + +“Don’t, Mary,” Danny interrupted, with a sigh. “There is no use. You +and he do not speak the same language.” + +“How is this?” Canneziano said, and went on speaking, very rapidly, in +some foreign language. + +Danny stood and stared at him without a mite of expression on her +face. He paused for breath. She said, “I have forgotten my Italian. I +do not understand you, and I am glad that I do not. Come, Mary, shall +we go upstairs?” + +In the upper hall she said that she wanted me to go with her to Miss +MacDonald, because she wanted to tell Miss MacDonald what had just +happened. + +We knocked on her door. She greeted us pleasantly enough, but there +was a pucker between her eyebrows. + +“You have asked us,” Danny began at once, “to tell you nothing about +the case. Does that mean that you do not wish to have us tell you of +day by day developments, which seem to have a direct bearing on the +case?” + +“As, for instance?” Miss MacDonald questioned. + +Danny told her about what had happened, from the time she had stepped +behind the curtains, until she and I had come upstairs together. + +Miss MacDonald’s first question was, “Why were you watching him?” + +“Because,” Danny answered, straight, “I think he came here with some +evil purpose. I should like to find out what that purpose is.” + +“Why were you so eager to prevent Mrs. Magin’s making a pact with +him?” + +“Miss MacDonald, a woman who has dealt with criminals, as you must +have, should not need to ask that question.” + +“But,” Miss MacDonald persisted, “you have not dealt with criminals.” + +“I have dealt with this man. I know that he is bad and crafty. For +five thousand dollars he would perjure himself over and over again. He +would produce witnesses who would perjure themselves. You know the +ways of criminals better than I do, Miss MacDonald. I know, as Uncle +Sam knows, that it is unsafe to deal with them.” + +“Has this man approached you with offers similar to this one, Miss +Canneziano?” + +“He has had no opportunity.” + +“You are sure of that?” + +Danny’s chin went up a trifle. “I don’t understand.” + +“I think that you do.” + +Danny turned to me. “Mary,” she said, “yesterday afternoon that man +came to my room when I was alone. He slipped in, closed my door, and +locked it. I ran into Gaby’s room, but I could not get out of it +because the doors were all locked. I went into Gaby’s bathroom and +locked myself in. I stayed there for half an hour, or longer, until he +left. Miss MacDonald evidently thinks that he and I were in +conversation during that time. I have no proof that we weren’t. Do you +believe me, Mary?” + +“I do, with all my heart,” I said. + +Miss MacDonald persisted. “You told no one about this?” + +“I did not dare to tell. If John thought that that man——” She stopped +short. + +“Yes?” questioned Miss MacDonald. + +“I mean that John would fight with him; would whip him within an inch +of his life.” + +“Why should you care?” + +Danny looked at me. + +“She’d care,” I said, answering the appeal in her big, hurt eyes, +“because she is a woman, Miss MacDonald. It may be hard for you to +understand; but women, who aren’t crime analysts, don’t want their men +fighting.” + +“Thank you, Mary,” Danny said, and walked hurriedly out of the room. + + + +CHAPTER XLVII + +An Aid + +“Mrs. Magin,” Miss MacDonald began, right off, the minute the door had +closed behind Danny, “I want to ask you to help me with this case.” + +“I couldn’t be any help to you,” I said. I guess I was rather tart +about it. + +“Why not?” + +“One reason is,” I said, “that anybody who doesn’t know any better +than to suspicion Danny, in this affair, would need a lot more help, +to get anywhere, than I could give them.” + +“My only suspicion concerning Miss Canneziano,” she answered, “is that +she knows more than she is willing to tell. I may be wrong about that. +Have you any other reason for refusing to help me?” + +“Only that you don’t believe a word I say. If you would consider that +I am, anyway, trying to be honest, and if you’d do the same with the +others, until you are sure that you have reason to do otherwise, I’d +consider it an honor to help you, and I’d thank you kindly.” + +“I am afraid that I don’t entirely understand.” + +“Crime and wickedness,” I told her, “aren’t the general rules of the +world. If they were, all the good people would have to be locked up, +for safety’s sake, while the criminals ran loose for lack of space to +confine them. Why, instead of doubting my simple word, this morning, +when I told you how Sam always lighted a fire, for any excuse, +couldn’t you have believed that I was telling the truth, and that +whoever put the key in there knew that Sam would light the fire, and +so throw suspicion on himself?” + +“That is possible,” she admitted. “But the key, there, leads me to +suppose that whoever put it there, to hide it, would be too stupid for +much subtle reasoning. Keys, you know, don’t burn.” + +“They don’t,” I agreed. “But we never take the ashes out of the +fireplace as you did this morning. We open the ash-dump and shoot them +down into a barrel in the basement. Every few months the ashes are +emptied in starvation field, eight miles or more away from here. Not a +bad way to get the key carried off the place, if that was what he +wanted. Not a bad way, either, to throw more suspicion on Sam, if the +key was found.” + +“Most criminals are stupid, though,” she clung to her point. “Try as +they may, they always make some stupid blunder.” + +“It seems to me,” I said, “that the ones who get caught are stupid; +they are the ones who have made the blunder, left the clue. But look +at the number of criminals who get clean away. Not long ago, I was +reading some statistics——” + +“You know what Mark Twain said about statistics? ‘There are three +kinds of liars: liars, damned liars, and statistics.’” + +I had to laugh. I think she said that to put me in a good humor, for +she went right on to say, “But you haven’t told me, yet, that you will +be my assistant in this case.” + +She couldn’t hoodwink me. “I told you that I’d be no use to you, as +long as you doubted every word I said.” + +“But,” she argued, “by your own admission you tried to shield Mr. +Stanley, immediately after the murder; stopping to clean away his—the +pipe ashes. If you tried, once, to shield him, wouldn’t you try again +to shield him, if you needed to?” + +“No,” I said, “I wouldn’t. I’ll tell you why. That night, and for +several days after, my mind was like a dirty cluttered kitchen. I +couldn’t get enough space cleared in it to start thinking, let alone +working at it. I have tidied up a place, since then, and I’ve done a +batch of thinking. I know, now, that Sam doesn’t need me, nor anyone, +to shield him. Any evidence found against him, will be good evidence, +in the end, against whoever fixed it to throw blame on him.” + +“I am inclined to agree with you,” she said. “Now then: Is there +anyone here who would benefit by his conviction?” + +“Am I,” I questioned, “your assistant, or am I not?” + +“Does it make a difference in your answer?” she questioned in return. + +“A deal of difference. Being your assistant honor would bind me, +wouldn’t it? If I know that you are believing that I’ll help, and tell +the truth, I’ll try to. If I think I am to be doubted, anyway, maybe +I’ll say what I’d like to say.” + +She sat and looked straight at me for at least half a minute. “I do +believe you,” she said, “and trust you. I have, since I first met you +at the station. I can’t help myself. You’re all right, Mrs. Magin, and +I know it. I’ll agree to your terms. Now then: As my assistant, is +there anyone on the place who would benefit in any way by Mr. +Stanley’s conviction?” + +“In a way,” I said, though it all but choked me, “John would. He is to +inherit everything Sam has. But John loves Sam. And John didn’t do +it.” + +“Miss Canneziano would also benefit, then, wouldn’t she, since she is +to marry young Mr. Stanley?” + +“It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “John has plenty of his own, right +now; and Sam would give them anything and everything they wanted +besides, as long as he lived.” + +“I had understood,” she said, “that Mr. Stanley objected to the +marriage.” + +“Not a bit of it. He has asked them to wait a year. That’s all.” + +“Is there,” she asked, next, “any person at present on the ranch whom +you would concede might, possibly, commit a murder?” + +“Canneziano.” + +“Yes, I know. And leaving him out of it?” + +“Well,” I had to hesitate, “I am not sure. Every instinct I have tells +me that neither Hubert Hand nor Mrs. Ricker—— No. It is an awful thing +to say; but, do you know, Gabrielle Canneziano herself was the only +other person who has ever been on this ranch whom I could even imagine +doing such a terrible thing.” + +“I wonder why you disliked her so much?” she said. + +“Because she didn’t have any of the decent, ordinary virtues,” I +answered. “She didn’t know anything about them. Not charity, nor +gratitude, nor kindness, nor honesty, nor modesty, nor—nor anything.” + +“Isn’t it strange that twin sisters, who looked as much alike as these +girls did, should be so entirely different as to character?” + +I had not seen her notes at that time. I did not know that she had +written “Innocent” after Danny’s name. I spoke up, pretty hotly. + +“Strange or not, it is true. In character those two girls were as +different as night and day. I never even thought that they looked +alike. Who told you that they did?” + +“I have seen their photographs,” she reminded me. “Chadwick Caufield’s +album is filled with them.” + +“Their photographs may look alike. They didn’t.” + +“But they _did_,” she insisted. + +“I tell you,” I said, “that they acted so differently, and talked so +differently, and dressed so differently, that there was not one bit of +likeness.” + +“A most unusual state of affairs for duplicate twins. These sunshine +and tempest relationships are seldom found, outside a Mary J. Holmes’ +novel. Miss Danielle Canneziano came here on a most doubtful errand; +an errand that amounted to robbery, nothing else——” + +“If you are accusing Danny——” I interrupted. + +“Oh, I am not!” There was a flash of temper in that. “Making all +allowances for mistakes in time, Miss Canneziano could not have +committed the murder herself. But, suppose that her past was not as +innocent and blameless as she would like to have you all think. +Suppose that a revelation of all she knows, or suspects, concerning +her sister’s death, would also bring to light things that she can not +afford to have brought to light concerning herself. It is at least +reasonable to think that she knows more than she is willing to tell.” + +“Maybe,” I had to admit. “But I doubt it.” + +“Why do you so dislike that admission?” + +“Because John loves her. John is a good boy. I’d hate to see his heart +broken.” + +“Will you forgive me for saying that young Mr. Stanley does not +impress me as a man who is very deeply in love?” + +“I know,” I agreed. “Just now he is a mite put out with Danny. He has +been, ever since she accused Sam.” + +“Considering the circumstances under which Miss Canneziano made that +accusation, young Mr. Stanley is acting most unjustly—if that is the +case.” + +“All men are unjust to the women they love,” I told her. “It seems to +be a part of it, like a rash with measles.” + +She smiled at that, and changed the subject. + +“I wonder whether you noticed,” she said, “that coming up from the +station I set a trap for Miss Canneziano. Just for an instant, I +fancied that there was more fear than grief in her attitude toward +meeting her father. I suggested, you remember, that she see him alone? +I wanted to see whether she desired a private interview with him. Her +prompt refusal made it evident that she had no secret to give to him, +and expected to get none from him. That is in her favor. Still—— + +“Before you go now, since you have agreed to help me, do you mind if I +direct a bit? I want you to keep one eye on Miss Canneziano. I want +you to keep the other eye on Mr. Canneziano, Mr. Hand, and Mrs. +Ricker. Will you do that?” + +“One whole eye for Danny,” I questioned, “and only a third of an eye +for each of the others?” + +“For the present,” she smiled. “Will you do that?” + +I said that I would. It was not until after dinner the next day, when +I was resting in my own room, feeling as virtuous as the three +monkeys, who see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil, pleased as +Punch over my failures of the past twenty-four hours, that I realized +that I just naturally could not carry through a job that went as much +against the grain as that job went. + +We are, I thought, allowed to know some things—just simple, honest +knowing. And I knew that keeping a suspicious eye on the girl who had +said “bless your heart” to me, on the evening of the second of July, +was as sensible as sitting up for Santa Claus. + +Someone knocked on my door. I answered the knock. Miss MacDonald, all +smiles, was standing there. + +“Let me come in,” she said; and, as soon as my door was closed behind +her, “A most fortunate thing has happened.” + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII + +New Clues + +“Someone,” she went on, “has been to my desk and has stolen the code +letter.” + +I could manage nothing but an echo. “Fortunate!” I said. + +“I had a careful copy of it, locked up, of course. I have been leaving +the letter in plain sight on my desk for bait. Don’t you see, Mary,” +she forgot her formality in her excitement, “this is the mistake I +have been hoping for. I have found a beginning—at last. It is bound to +be easy from now on. Oh, Joy!” + +She was almost doing dance steps. I wasn’t. I was thinking, hard, in +the tidy space in my mind; trying not to get it cluttered with her +excitement, trying to cook up some common sense. + +“The letter,” she went on, “could not have concerned anyone in this +house except Miss Canneziano, her father, and, possibly, not probably, +young Mr. Stanley.” + +“I guess,” I said, “that was likely what you were wanted to think.” + +Her gray eyes questioned me. + +“Supposing,” I answered, “that Mrs. Ricker, or Hubert Hand, or anyone +of us, wanted to get you clear off the track, suspecting especially +Danny, could one of us do better than to steal the code letter?” + +“My word!” she said. “And you, with a mind that works like that, +spending your life doing cooking.” + +“Doing cooking,” I told her, “is how my mind comes to work like that. +If anyone ever told you that it didn’t take brains to cook, he was +making a big mistake.” + +“But such quick, sure thinking,” she said, “is marvelous.” + +She laughed. “Listen to me doing a Dr. Watson for your Holmes,” she +said. “Golly, but I’m lucky to have you at hand, though.” + +I love to be flattered. I sat and preened myself. + +“All the same,” she went on, “it does prove one thing. That the +murderer, or his close accomplice, is right here on the place, now.” + +“Chad’s confession proved that. The key in the fireplace proved it, +too.” + +“Dear me, no. Not conclusively. Now, let me see.” She took a folded +paper from the front of her dress. “Here is my copy of the letter. It +does look a mess, doesn’t it?” + +I looked at the paper and read, as before: + +“Paexzazlytp! f-y nyx ogrgrsgo, rn fgao atf jan j-asn, ahzgo zkg c-. +ahhalo, vkgt nyx clplzgf rg lt zkg kypulzae, zkaz nyx. . . .” + +It surely looked a mess. + +“The fact that it was written on the typewriter,” she said, “makes me +suspect that the typewriter may unwrite it for us.” + +I told her then what I had not thought to tell her before; about my +having heard the typewriter going, slowly, in Gaby’s room right after +she had received the letter. + +“Fine!” she said. “She had burned the caps for the keys, too—all but +the curly ‘Q’ that rolled away. May I use the same typewriter that she +used?” + +We went together into Gaby’s room. + +“I should have thought you’d want to clean this room, first of all,” I +said. + +“Mr. Stanley unlocked it for me that first night. I spent five or six +very busy hours in here, and I slept here that night, too.” + +“Upon my soul! Doesn’t that go to show? I’d have taken oath in any +court that you spent the night in your own room.” + +“That is exactly it,” she said. “Honest people are so sure that they +know things, which they don’t know at all, and that they have seen +things, which they haven’t seen.” + +I have wished, since, that I had said something else instead of +saying, “Well, I might think I knew something which I didn’t know; but +I’d never make a mistake about what I had seen or had not seen.” + +“Perhaps not——” she said. + +“Did you find anything in here that night?” I questioned. + +“Nothing. The burned papers were completely burned, as they usually +are. Of course, the complete absence of clues should be made into a +valuable clue—but I haven’t quite worked it out. For instance, though, +you insist that she was a vain, conceited person?” + +“If ever there was one.” + +“Vain women usually have photographs of themselves about. I found not +one in here.” + +“She used to have one, in a silver frame,” I said. I looked around and +saw the frame lying face down on the mantel. I picked it up. An old +faded picture of Sam and Margarita in their wedding togs confronted +me. I had seen it plenty of times before, but in the old album +downstairs. + +When I had shown it to Miss MacDonald, and had told her about it, she +took it and carried it to the window. + +“The glass has been washed, carefully,” she said, “since the picture +was put in here.” + +She pressed on the purple velvet back and took the picture from the +frame. Across the bottom of the picture, where the wide silver frame +had hidden it, written in Gaby’s bold handwriting, were these words. + +“My one deadly enemy.” + +“My word!” said Miss MacDonald. + +“Are you certain,” she questioned, next, “that the girl’s mother is +not living?” + +“Don’t ask me to be certain of anything,” I said, and looked for a +chair to sit down in. + +She came and put one of her capable hands on my shoulders. “You +shouldn’t let this trouble you,” she said. “It is more than likely +that Gabrielle Canneziano had nothing to do with it. I must verify the +handwriting.” + +In the next instant she certainly gave me a fine turn. Her eyes went +big and round, her cheeks blazed with blushes, and she clapped her +hands to them and stood staring at me as if I were the original human +horror. “I——” she gasped out, “I—have made a mistake.” + +I felt like rising and giving her a good shaking. “Lands!” I snapped. +“Who hasn’t?” + +“I would discharge one of my assistants like that,” she snapped her +fingers, “for such a mistake. Crime analyst! Confounded ass! Conceited +amateur! Oh!” She went running out of the room, leaving me sitting +there to do what I liked with that talk of hers. + +She was back in two minutes. She had Gaby’s last note to Danny in her +hands. “I have been assuming,” she said, and her cheeks flamed up +again, “that Gabrielle Canneziano wrote this note. I have had a +pleasant little assumption. Now I will get some facts. I must find a +sample of her handwriting——” + +She began to search through Gaby’s desk. I helped her. Gaby had made a +thorough job of her burning. There was not a scratch of her writing to +be found. + +“Danny will have something,” I said. “I’ll see whether she is in her +room.” + +Danny was in her room, sitting at her own desk, writing out checks and +addressing envelopes. I told her I had come to ask her for a sample of +Gaby’s handwriting. + +“I am sorry, Mary,” she said, as she finished addressing an envelope, +sealed it, and looked for a stamp in the stamp-box, “but I haven’t +anything, except, of course, the last note she wrote to me, and Miss +MacDonald is keeping that.” + +“Please, dear,” I urged, “won’t you search through your desk and your +papers? It is really very important.” + +“But I have looked, Mary. Mrs. Ricker had the same idea, yesterday. +She thought that Gaby might not have written that last note. I am +certain that she did; but I searched and searched to satisfy Mrs. +Ricker. I destroyed Gaby’s letters to me, when we came to the United +States. She has had no reason for writing anything to me since then. +Hubert Hand had several notes from her; but he says he has not kept +them.” + +She addressed another envelope, and added it to the pile beside her. +“It isn’t,” she said, noticing my reluctance to leave, “that I am not +interested, Mary. It is only that I know that I haven’t a scrap of her +writing.” + +I turned to go. I had reached the door when she called to me and asked +me to take her letters downstairs for the mailbag, when I went +downstairs. + +I returned to Miss MacDonald with my information. + +“Dear me!” she said. “Mrs. Ricker indeed? If only they would work with +me, Mary, instead of by themselves, or—against me. At any rate,” she +put aside the photograph, a ruler-like thing, and her magnifying +glass, “the note to Danielle Canneziano, and the writing on the +photograph were done by the same person. What are the letters you have +there, in your hand, Mrs. Magin?” + +I told her they were some that Danny had asked me to take downstairs. +She held out her hand for them. I had to allow her to have them. But +first I read the addresses. They were the names of mail-order stores +in Portland, Oregon, and in San Francisco, California. + +Miss MacDonald looked at them closely. Then she took up a flat paper +knife, from Gaby’s desk, and deliberately opened the envelope by +lifting the flap. + +“She surely does not seal her letters carefully,” she said, and took +out a check, nothing else, from the envelope. + +“It is dated to-day, the thirteenth of July,” she said. + +“Of course it is,” I answered, tartly, not liking any of this. “She +was writing them just now, while I was in there.” + +“Did you see her writing them?” she asked. + +“I certainly did.” + +She sighed and moved her head with an impatient gesture, rather like +John’s worried gestures. “Then that is that,” she said, and returned +the check to the envelope, sealed the envelope, and gave it, with the +others, back to me. + +“Now for the code letter,” she said, and sat down in front of the +typewriter. I left her there, and went to look for Sam. + + + +CHAPTER XLIX + +New Suspicions + +I found him in the living-room, playing solitaire. Mrs. Ricker was in +the chair by the window, tatting. + +“Lands, Sam,” I said, sitting down across the table from him, “when +did you take to sitting around and wasting good time like this?” + +“I am helping Miss MacDonald,” he said. “Making it easy for her to +watch me and convincing her that I’m more or less of a nut, at the +same time. Two birds with one stone——” + +“She isn’t watching you,” Mrs. Ricker spoke up. “She is watching +Hubert and me.” + +Queer that with all the years I had known Mrs. Ricker as a dumb +person, now that she had begun to talk, her talking seemed only +natural. + +“I reckon,” Sam said, “that she is watching all of us pretty closely.” + +“No,” Mrs. Ricker insisted, “she is watching Hubert and me. Chiefly +me. I can’t stand it much longer. I am losing my mind. If I don’t +leave here, before long, I shall be quite insane.” + +I can’t say that Sam’s ears actually pricked up when she said that, +but they gave that impression. + +“I didn’t know that you were thinking about leaving here, Mrs. +Ricker,” he said. + +“I am thinking about it; because, if I don’t leave here, soon, I shall +have to be taken—to an insane asylum.” + +“Now, now, Mrs. Ricker,” Sam urged, “don’t be feeling like that. It is +just a case of watch and let watch around here, now——” + +“It certainly is not a case of live and let live,” she said. “I tell +you, I can’t stand it!” She jumped up from her chair, and went rushing +out of the room through the front door. On the porch she dropped into +a chair, and hid her face in her hands. + +As I looked at her, sitting there, I remembered that it was she who +had found the body. Her story had sounded straight enough; but, before +she had told it, she had had plenty of time to make it a straight one. +Perhaps she had had help in making it a straight one. . . . + +Hubert Hand. He had, by his own admission, served a term in prison for +forgery. He had had notes from Gaby, and had destroyed them. Was it +possible that he might have written the farewell note to Gaby, and the +inscription on the photograph? Sam could not swear that Hubert Hand +had been in the barn the entire hour between five and six o’clock. +That meant, then, that no one knew, positively, where he had been +between five and six o’clock. I remembered how eager he had been, at +first, to prove that John was the guilty person; how readily he had +accepted the theory of Martha’s guilt. That theory had been Mrs. +Ricker’s. Mrs. Ricker loved Hubert Hand. She had loved Martha, too; +but Martha was dead. + +Would it have been possible for Hubert Hand to have slipped into the +house, through the front door, during that hour between five and six, +without Danny’s having seen him? Possible—that was all. Danny had cut +the bread, in the kitchen. She had emptied jelly from its glass to a +dish; had cut the butter. Each task a matter of minutes; but coming +through the front door and getting upstairs would be a matter of +minutes, also. Mrs. Ricker, of course, would have seen Hubert Hand +pass through the room; but Mrs. Ricker could keep a secret. + +Again, what had he thought that I had overheard that day in the cabin? + +What motive could he have had for killing Gaby? Suppose that Gaby had +lied to Danny about the entire contents of the code letter, and that, +after all, the money had been hidden on the place. That would be an +explanation for Canneziano’s coming to the ranch. But suppose that +Hubert Hand had found it, or had known that Gaby had found it—— + +“Come home, Mary,” Sam’s voice, speaking extra low, cut in on my +reverie. “I want to know what you think about this. + +“I set Canneziano to mending the south clover fence this morning. I +told him I was going to north clover. On my way there, I passed the +house. I happened to remember how slick Miss MacDonald had cleaned the +attic. It seemed a shame not to use it; so I went up, taking my field +glasses with me, for luck. I’d watched about five minutes, out of the +window, when I saw Canneziano leave the fence and make up toward the +cabin. I came down, jumped on Bobbie Burns, and circled around the +hill, back of the cabin. Just as I got my glasses trained, I saw +Danny, walking to beat time, coming away from the cabin. I don’t know +whether she had been in it or not. I didn’t see her come out of it. I +rode straight down. Before I had quite reached the cabin, Canneziano +came out of it. He was carrying a fishing rod, and he went right down +to the stream with it. What I’m wondering is, had he and Danny met at +the cabin, and had a talk?” + +“I know exactly what Mrs. Ricker means,” I said, “about losing her +mind on this place. It has come to the pass that no one can do any +simple thing without being spied on and suspected. Danny always takes +her walks in the direction of the cabin. We all do. It is the +prettiest, coolest walk on the place.” + +“Does she always walk so fast, trying to keep cool?” + +“Probably not,” I said, “unless she has seen Canneziano, and is +walking fast, trying to get away from him.” + +Sam rubbed the back of his head. “By Joe! I hadn’t thought of that.” + +“Think about it now, for a minute,” I advised. “When you get through, +try to think whether you know of any place where we could get hold of +a scrap or two of Gaby’s handwriting. We have the last note she wrote +to Danny, but we want something more.” + +“You’ve come to the right place, for once,” he said, and took a long +envelope out of his pocket. + +“I guess I never happened to mention to you, did I, that I fixed up a +small checking account for the girls in the Telko Bank? It was just a +matter of my own convenience—saved me the pesky trouble of buying +money orders at the postoffice. Their bank statements and canceled +checks came in a few days ago. I was going to look them over, soon as +I could get around to it. Here they are. Do you want me to take them +up to Miss MacDonald?” + +“I’ll take them,” I offered, “and save you the trip.” I longed to see +how much of Sam’s money the girls had spent in one month, and what +they had spent it for. + +I don’t know yet whether it was cunning, contrariness, or courtesy +that propelled Sam up those stairs, with the envelope tight in his +hand, and without having allowed me as much as a peek at its contents. + + + +CHAPTER L + +Shovels + +I went into the kitchen and put through a fairly good batch of baking, +considering that I’d got a late start at it. I had intended only to +stir up a sunshine cake for supper; but when a thunder shower came, +washing everything cool and sweet, I opened the kitchen wide to it, +and made an angel cake out of the whites of the eggs, and baked a big +pan of ginger bread. Zinnia did the washing up; so I was all through +and frosting the cakes, when Miss MacDonald telephoned down to the +kitchen and asked me to go for a walk with her. + +Between times, I’d roasted three chickens and got a salad in the +icebox. I wouldn’t need to turn a hand to supper for an hour; so I +told her that I’d like nothing better than a breath of the clean, +sage-seasoned air, and that I’d be ready in ten minutes. I gave Zinnia +a few directions, and went upstairs to change my shoes. + +As I came down the front stairs, into the living-room, I saw Mrs. +Ricker coming up the steps to the porch. She was toting a big old +shovel; carrying it out in front of her, and carefully, right side up, +like it was a pancake turner and she had a pancake on it. I stopped in +my tracks. There are some connections that the mind refuses: President +Coolidge with a six-gun, for instance, or Chief Justice Taft with a +saxophone, or Mrs. Ricker with a heavy, dirty old shovel. + +She stopped to turn sidewise and open the screen door with her foot, +and then she came straight along into the living-room, poking the +thing toward Miss MacDonald. + +“I want you to look at this,” she said. + +Miss MacDonald, all crisp in white linen, backed away a mite; but she +looked, as directed. + +I came hurrying to look too. I don’t know what I expected to +see—nothing less than a dead scorpion; but, certainly, something more +than I did see: an old iron shovel with dirt on it. + +“Well?” Miss MacDonald questioned. + +“I was going to Martha’s grave when the shower came up. I stopped in +the cabin. This shovel, and another one, were inside the door there. +Look at that earth—it is fresh earth. Now I tell you, two people have +been digging around this place; and they were at it not longer ago +than yesterday, more likely this morning.” + +“My word!” said Miss MacDonald. It seemed to me there was more +annoyance in her voice than there was interest or astonishment. + +“Somebody,” I pronounced, “still believes that there is money hidden +around here.” + +Mrs. Ricker nodded her satisfaction. + +“But surely,” Miss MacDonald said, “around a farm, a ranch, that is, +around a place of this sort there must be a great deal of digging +going on. Gardens—vegetables, you know. That is—one thing and +another.” She fumbled it, like that. + +“We don’t make garden here in July,” I told her. “The vegetable +gardens and greenhouses are about three miles away from where Mrs. +Ricker found the shovels.” + +“To be sure.” She puckered her brows. “But—Mr. Stanley spoke of +fishing. Don’t the men dig worms for bait?” + +“Anyone,” I told her, “who did bait fishing on the Desert Moon, would +be about as popular as an S.P.C.A. convention at a round-up. Likely +you’ll learn our ways, in time. Bait fishing isn’t one of them.” + +While I had been getting this off my mind, Danny had come downstairs. +I guess we must have looked funny, the three of us, standing there and +staring at the shovel, which Mrs. Ricker was still holding as if it +were a pancake turner. + +“But—what is it?” Danny inquired. + +“It is a shovel,” said Mrs. Ricker. + +“Yes, I know. But what about it?” + +“It has fresh earth on it,” Mrs. Ricker explained. “It means that +someone is still hunting for something on this ranch.” + +“I—don’t understand,” Danny faltered. + +“You do, if anyone does,” Mrs. Ricker said, trying to make it sound +off-handish; but it did not. + +To my surprise, Miss MacDonald answered, “I think that you are +mistaken, Mrs. Ricker. Miss Canneziano knows, I fancy, no more about +the shovel than you do.” + +Mrs. Ricker’s face flushed. She carried the thing out and threw it +into the yard with a gesture of furious anger. When Miss MacDonald and +I passed her on the porch, she turned her head away and did not look +at us. + +“If we hurry,” I said, “we’ll have time to walk to the cabin and see +the other shovel.” + +“Bother the other shovel! We don’t want to hurry. Can’t we get down to +the stream, somewhere close here, and find a place where we can be +alone to talk?” + +“Right down this path,” I answered, and started down it. She followed +me. For fifty yards or more neither of us said a word. I was too put +about to feel like talking. + +Why should she have told me to “bother the shovel”? Why had she acted +so peculiarly about the shovels, anyway; choosing to assume that they +were unimportant? If, as I supposed she was thinking, Mrs. Ricker had +gone to the trouble to fix up those two shovels, and to carry one of +them in, to hoodwink us, that was important. I was sure in my own mind +that Ollie Ricker had not done that. If she had not, and if two people +were digging around the place, they were digging for something, +weren’t they? For what? For exactly what I had said—for money. Worms! + +I must have made a sound that was suggestive of my disgusted +annoyance, for Miss MacDonald stepped up to walk beside me on the +narrow path. + +“I am sorry,” she said, “that I have seemed so exasperatingly stupid: +but I know that those shovels are of no importance.” + +“I don’t see how you could know that,” I said. + +“I am sorry again: but I have promised not to tell you how I know it.” + +“Not to tell me!” + +“I meant, of course, that I had promised not to tell anyone. My +promise was made to Mr. Stanley. Since this has come up, I am sure +that he will allow me to break it and tell you later what it is that I +can’t tell you now.” + +“Sam!” I said. I was mad all over. I had thought that, anyway, Sam was +open and above board with me. + +“You’ll understand all about it, later,” she said. “Please don’t be +vexed. I have some really good news. First, the handwriting on the +checks, the photograph, and the note all tally accurately. That must +mean, that Gabrielle Canneziano wrote all of them. Next, I have worked +out the key to the code letter——” + +“Lands alive!” I said, my astonishment and admiration getting the best +of my bad humor. “In this short time? Talk about wonders——” + +“Not a bit of it. The code is so simple that I am surprised that +people, who have wits enough to use a code at all, would use it. + +“The keys on typewriters, with a standard keyboard, are arranged, you +know, for the touch system of writing: a, s, d, f, g, so on. All that +this code amounts to, is taking the letters straight as they come +along: a, b, c, d; and so on. From the center line of letters, they +skip to the upper line, making the ‘q’ be a ‘j’ and from the upper +line down to the lower line, making the ‘z’ a ‘t.’ They use only the +letters on the keyboard, and the punctuation marks as they would +rightly be used. Generally they put a hyphen after the letter to be +capitalized, though occasionally they use the capital letter. It is so +childish that I fancy it is only a friendship code, and that it is not +used for matters of any real importance.” + +“Then this letter is of no importance?” I asked. + +“Not to the writer. Of vast importance to us, I believe. It explains +why the original letter was stolen, among other things. Here is one of +the copies that I made of it.” + + + +CHAPTER LI + +Danielle’s Secret + +We had come to the stream, and to the shade of the aspen trees. I sat +down on one of the rocks, above the first fishing hole, and unfolded +the papers she had given to me, and read: + +“Salutations! Do you remember, my dear and gay Gaby, after the V. +affair, when you visited me in the hospital, that you said, with your +imitated Mona Lisa smile, ‘Sorry, old dear, I made a trifling mistake, +did I not?’ The incident has probably passed from your memory. It has +not passed from mine, because I did not believe then, and I do not +believe now, that you intended to fire that shot at V. instead of at +me. You proved your innocence, however, like the expert you are; so, +‘let the dead past—’ et cetera. Particularly since I did not die, but +have lived to make, also, a trifling mistake. + +“I find that I was in error concerning the train robbery. After due +reflection, I have remembered that, reading of the details in the +Denver papers, your respected father and I merely regretted that we +had not had the forethought, and the cleverness, to have pulled the +affair ourselves. Since this is the case, we could not have hidden the +money, as I seem to recall telling you that we did, on the Desert Moon +Ranch. It was a pretty dream of ours—that was all. + +“Shall I explain? Do you remember the sweet cocotte with the colored +sash at Cannes? Very young, very exquisite, and almost very innocent? +She watched us, from her table, out of the violet corners of her long, +long eyes. When we left the place, you and I, my gloves were missing +and I returned for them. You were duped, my dear, were you not? + +“She is not as lovely, not as gay as you were at eighteen. But you are +no longer eighteen. And you have grown exacting, and a bit vicious +(recalling, again, the V. affair), and a bit selfish, too. (I knew +that you collected the final five hundred pounds from Baron T.) + +“These, and all things considered, I seem to myself to have acted +rather nobly, rather compassionately. I spared you the heartache of +witnessing your supplantation. Ours was a tender leave taking, was it +not? I paid the expenses of a long and costly journey for you and the +gentle Danielle. (Gad, Gaby, I’d have paid twice as much to be rid of +you for half the time!) I sent you to fond relatives. I provided you +with an interesting and romantic occupation—treasure hunting. I gave +the righteous Danielle the opportunity for which she was pining; the +opportunity to try her hand at turning you into ‘an honest woman.’ + +“Tell her, by the way, that her lover, or as she virtuously insisted, +her husband is still with me, and that he is behaving himself +admirably. I suspect that my Lili is a bit over fond of him; but I +have warned her that one who has had the chaste affections of the +little nun would be unlikely to succumb to her ardencies. + +“Lili now inquires to whom am I writing. She is eighteen; she has seen +you; so I dare tell her, to you, in a far country with an amusing +name—Nevada. + +“She mispronounces it, deliciously. She blows it, and you, charmingly +away from the tips of her tiny pink fingers. She kisses my ears. She +tells me that she owns me. So, I suppose, I should not sign myself, as +of old, Yours, with an ever increasing devotion, Bimbi.” + +“Good lands alive!” I said. My stomach hurt me, and my head ached. + +“I am sorry for young Mr. Stanley,” Miss MacDonald said. “But, you +see, I was right in thinking that Miss Canneziano’s life might hold a +secret.” + +“No! No!” Danny stood there in front of us, holding to an aspen tree +for support. + +“I wondered whether you were coming out from behind the tree,” Miss +MacDonald said. + +“I saw you looking at me. You are cruel. You are very cruel.” + +For a minute all I could be was sorry for Danny. I got up and went to +her and put an arm around her. + +She tucked her head down on my breast. She was so small that I could +look right over it, at Miss MacDonald, sitting there, undisturbed and +triumphant. She was in the right, and was a good girl; so it was queer +that the sight of her made my heart go straight out to the wrong, bad, +little Danny, with her brown head underneath my chin. + +“Danny, honey,” I said, “are you planning a divorce, after you’ve had +your six months in Nevada? Was he cruel to you? Unfaithful?” + +“No, no,” she said. “Nothing like that, nothing at all. I can explain +every word of it. But will anyone believe me?” + +“You just try it,” I urged. “I’m all set for believing you, right here +and now. Come over here, and rest, and tell us all about it.” + +I led her across to the rock where I had been sitting, and made a +place for her beside me. + + + +CHAPTER LII + +An Explanation + +She began, right straight forward and sensible: “I knew that was in +the letter, and I longed to destroy it, on that account, but I was +afraid. I knew that its disappearance would throw all sorts of +suspicions on me. But this morning, when I saw the thing, right there +on her desk, the temptation was too great. I never thought of her +having made a copy of it. This afternoon, when I heard her at the +typewriter—I knew. I’ve been in torment ever since. I have prayed and +prayed that she might fail to work out the code. When I came +downstairs, just now, I knew that she had not failed. I thought she +would tell you about it; so I followed. I thought, perhaps, if I’d +tell you both the truth, and plead with you to believe me—— But now I +am ashamed to offer it. + +“You won’t believe me. John won’t believe me—— But, it was only a +doll: one of those funny, long-legged, floppy things, with an adorable +face. I saw him in Paris, and loved him, and bought him for mine. I +called him Christopher Clover, and said that he was my husband—because +I had always said that I would never marry. Lewis—he was so horrid +about everything—used to tease me about my lover, until I got so tired +of it, and so ashamed, that I put him away on a closet shelf. + +“After we were all packed, and the trunks were locked, that last day, +I found him there on the shelf. Gaby wanted me to carry him on my +arm—that was done quite a bit over there. She thought it was _chic_; +but I thought it looked silly. I was going to leave him in the +apartment; but Lewis asked me to let him have him. I did. That is all. +But—will you let me see the copy of the letter? Gaby read it to me +only once.” + +I gave it to her. + +“See,” she said, eagerly, “he calls me righteous. See how he speaks of +the doll and his—Lili. He wouldn’t have spoken like that about a man, +nor said that he was behaving himself. See, too, he calls me a nun. If +you’ll be fair—it seems to me you can easily believe me.” + +“Honey child,” I said, and spoke the truth. “I do believe you. It is +sensible and reasonable. I believe every word you’ve told us.” + +“And you?” she appealed to Miss MacDonald. + +“Your explanation is reasonable. You have told the truth about +everything else in the letter. Certainly, I shall give you the benefit +of the doubt.” + +“You won’t tell John?” Danny pleaded. + +“Of course not. Nor anyone else, just now. Shall we go back to the +house?” + +Danny and I sat still. + +“I’ll run along, then,” she said, and went away without us. + +“Danny,” I began at once, “you take my advice. You get to John as +quickly as you can and tell him the truth about this. He loves you. +He’ll want to believe you. Men always believe whatever they want to +believe. Don’t you worry another mite about it.” + +“Have you noticed,” she questioned, slowly, “that John has been +different—very different, ever since——” + +“We’ve all been different, dear,” I told her. + +“Yes, I know. But—John has been more different. Mary, tell me, am I +silly? Have you noticed that John seems to be very much interested in +this Miss MacDonald? He looks at her all the time. And he jumps about, +waiting on her, rather as Chad used to do with Gaby. Of course, he +feels that I have changed, too. And I have. I can’t keep from showing +how unhappy I am, and how worried. I suppose I constantly disappoint +him. And yet. . . .” + +“Danny,” I said, “it is just this. Men don’t wear well in times of +trouble. They can’t help it. It is the way they are mixed. So we women +put up with it. We have to, if we put up with men at all. Everything +is going to come out all right. But I want you to tell John, yourself, +about your doll and not wait for someone else to do it.” + +“I’ll try to,” she agreed. “But we are so rarely alone together any +more.” + +On our way back to the house, Sam and John overtook us. I got Sam to +walk along fast with me, and left them lagging behind us. + +“I’m a mite worried,” Sam said, “about those two young folks. I don’t +quite make them out, here lately. I suggested to John, a while ago, +that considering Danny’s trouble, and all, it might be just as well +for them to have an early wedding. Told him to talk it over with +Danny, and that any date they set would be all right with me. + +“I was all braced against being carried off and drowned in a torrent +of gratitude. No, siree. That young whelp evaded it. Said that he’d +see; and that she’d say that right after so much trouble might not be +a suitable time for a wedding. I’d give a pretty to know what he has +on his mind. I can’t think that the boy is just rotten fickle. And +yet—he has been shining up to Miss MacDonald, here of late. Have you +noticed it, Mary?” + +“Noticed, nothing!” was the best that I could do. + + + +CHAPTER LIII + +Another Murder + +Canneziano did not come down for breakfast the following morning. I +thought that a little strange, for meals were the one thing he had +been real polite to ever since he had been on the Desert Moon. + +As soon as breakfast was over, Miss MacDonald spoke to Sam and asked +him, as she had asked him that first morning, if she might detain him. +“You, also, Mrs. Magin,” she smiled at me. + +“I wonder,” she said, as soon as we three were alone together, “if Mr. +Canneziano could have given us the slip, last night?” + +“Not likely, with ten of the boys all drawing wages for watching the +place, and him in particular, is it?” Sam questioned. + +“Not at all likely. Still. . . . Will you go and see whether or not he +is in his room, now, Mr. Stanley?” + +Sam went. When he came back he had to drawl a lot more than usual to +keep his voice steady. “His door is locked. He doesn’t answer when I +pound on it.” + +Miss MacDonald said, “I have an excellent pass key. Let’s go up and +try it.” + +Curiosity dragged me along with her and Sam, though every bone in my +body protested. + +Miss MacDonald’s key unlocked the door. The three of us went into the +room. + +The blinds were tightly drawn. The electric fan was whirring and +buzzing away in the gray gloom. + +Miss MacDonald crossed the room, quickly, and snapped up the blinds. +There was one long, hard, dusty shaft of yellow sunlight. Sam walked +through it to the bed where Canneziano was lying, huddled up under the +covers. I looked the other way. + +I heard the rattle of Sam’s pipe as it fell on the floor. I heard the +rustle of Miss MacDonald’s quick movement. I heard a queer, throaty +note that she uttered. Something dragged my hot, aching eyes open. I +looked toward the bed. I saw Canneziano’s swollen, discolored face. I +saw the deep yellow throat, with great brutal bruises at its base. The +shaft of sunlight moved up and down, up and down, carving through the +swaying blackness like a long sharp knife. + +I felt Sam’s strong hands on my shoulders, pressing me down into a +chair. I heard myself saying, shrilly, over and over, “What are we +going to do? What are we going to do?” + +It was Miss MacDonald’s voice, cold and clear as spring water that +brought me to my senses. “We are going to find the murderer on the +Desert Moon Ranch.” + +Sam said, “You’re damn right we are. And we are going to have half a +dozen he-men detectives on this place by to-morrow night.” + +“Very well,” Miss MacDonald answered. “Will you telephone, at once, +for the coroner, Mr. Stanley?” + +“Hell!” Sam said. + +I had my face covered; but there was a hollowness in that oath of +Sam’s that told me, plainer than any looking at him could have told +me, that he was frightened; scared to the marrow of his bones. + +It took Miss MacDonald, though, to understand the reason for his fear. + +“Yes, Mr. Stanley,” she said, “these men, when they come this time, in +spite of their friendship for you, are not going to be as easily +satisfied as they were last time. They were able to blink at one +murder. They can’t keep on blinking. They dare not—even in Nevada.” + +“Who wants them to blink?” Sam bluffed. + +“You do. We all do, for the present.” + +Sam did not answer that. He stood, and looked stupid. + +“Won’t you listen to reason,” she urged, “before you go downstairs to +telegraph for other detectives? In talking to you this way, I am +putting all of my pride behind me, and I am violating my own code of +professional ethics; so I want to say, first, that if you will allow +me to remain on this case, I’ll take not one cent in payment. Wait—— +Let me have my say out, and then you may have yours. My motives are +not entirely unselfish—motives seldom are. For one thing, I have never +been dismissed from a case. It is a humiliation I would pay any price +to avoid. I have other reasons—but no matter. That is my side of it. + +“Your side of it is this. If, when the coroner and the others arrive +to-day, you confess that no progress has been made, they will +undoubtedly step in and take matters into their own bungling hands. I +think that they would make an arrest. That would be fatal, now. For I +am positive that they would arrest an innocent person, and that the +guilty person would then have an excellent opportunity for escape. + +“I have a certain reputation, Mr. Stanley, and these men—particularly +the sheriff—respect it. If you will keep me on this case, I will tell +them that I am making definite progress. That I believe I shall be +able to turn the criminal over to the state within a comparatively +short time——” + +“Would that be the truth?” Sam demanded. + +She hesitated. “If you mean, is that what I believe now—my answer is +yes. I may be wrong. I have, at least, a very definite suspicion. I +have no proofs.” + +“You wouldn’t,” Sam questioned, “give these men that assurance if you +knew that I was going to get some men detectives up here to work with +you?” + +“I couldn’t,” she said. “I can speak only for myself. I do not, can +not work with detectives not of my own choosing. I would give any one +you brought here my notes—the definite results of my investigations so +far. I would have no right, now, to give him anything else.” + +“In other words,” Sam said, “you don’t care a whoop about having the +murderer discovered unless you can do the discovering yourself, and +get the credit for it?” + +“Sam Stanley!” I said. + +Her cheeks flamed. “Please get your other detectives here as soon as +possible, if you wish them to consult with me before I leave for San +Francisco.” + +John’s voice came calling down the hall. “Dad? Are you up here?” + +“Wait!” Miss MacDonald commanded. “Tell him to wait a moment.” + +Sam opened the door a crack. “I’ll be with you in a minute, son.” He +closed the door, and stood looking questions at Miss MacDonald. + +She walked quickly across the room, and stopped close to Sam, facing +him. “I’m sorry I lost my temper, just now. I’m not going, unless you +force me to go. Please don’t. Please give me my chance. Do you realize +what it means to be tried for a murder, even if one is acquitted? I am +not asking this for myself. I wouldn’t stoop to beg for anything for +myself as I am begging for this, now. I am sure you mean to be a fair +man. Be fair to me, and to all of the innocent people here on your +ranch. I don’t say that other detectives might not be able to discover +the murderer. I do say that I am certain they would do irreparable +harm before they succeeded. . . .” + +“If you stayed,” Sam had the cheek to question, “and worked along with +them—that was my idea—couldn’t you prevent their doing any harm?” + +“I could try to. I will try to, if you insist. But I am doubtful of my +success. Consciously, or unconsciously they work against me, because I +am a woman. You don’t know them as I do. You don’t know their methods, +as I do. If you feel that you must have others here, working on the +case, allow me to send, at my own expense, for my own assistants; the +girls whom I have trained——” + +“We don’t need any more girls around here,” Sam said. “It is pretty +certain that we do need someone to protect the lives of all of us on +this place——” + +“When you telephone for the coroner,” she said, “won’t you telephone +for a locksmith to come out with him, and bring strong bolts for all +the doors——” + +“You admit, then, that we are all in danger?” + +“Nothing of the sort. You are all perfectly safe—at present. I do +believe that before long, my own life may be in danger. I want no one +to think that I suspect that. I need the protection of the bolts. It +must seem that I think that everyone needs the protection.” + +“You believe,” Sam questioned, “that your own life is in danger. And +yet——” + +“Please re-consider, Mr. Stanley. Please allow me to have the case +alone, at any rate for a little while longer.” + +“Game!” Sam had muttered it to himself, but I had heard it. I knew +that she had won, for the present, at any rate. + +“You honestly think,” he questioned, “that you can manage this single +handed, and keep us all safe, and produce this murderer—pretty +shortly?” + +“I do, Mr. Stanley.” + +“And you honestly think that other detectives coming here now might +make a peck of trouble, arrest the wrong person, and mess things up +generally?” + +“I have never been more certain of anything. I think the fact that you +dismissed me, now, and sent for others, would be damning evidence +against innocence, to the men from Telko. + +“Let me meet them, in my professional capacity, to-day, Mr. Stanley. +Let me meet them, not as a failure, but as a person confident of +success. I know that I can manage them, and send them away satisfied. +Mary, can’t you say something? Won’t you help me to persuade Mr. +Stanley?” + +“You don’t need any help,” I told her. “He’s persuaded.” + +“Is that true, Mr. Stanley? May I have the case alone, for a little +while longer?” She was all breathless with eagerness. + +“Drat it all, yes,” Sam said. “I’m damned if I know what I ought to +do. But you are dead game. I—— Well, shake on it, Miss MacDonald. +You’ll do the best you can for us, I know that.” + +The hand she held out to him was trembling, and her voice as she +thanked him trembled. But still I was amazed when, right after Sam had +gone out of the room, she said to me, “Mary, I believe on my soul that +I have just had an experience that is too strong for me,” and hid her +face in the crook of her arm and began to cry. + + + +CHAPTER LIV + +Delay + +I myself heard the sheriff say to Sam, late in the afternoon of the +day we had found Canneziano, strangled in his bed, “I tell you what, +Sam, this is a pretty dirty business—all of it. If you had anyone but +Lynn MacDonald on the case, I reckon it would be up to us boys to step +in and take a hand. But she has sure given us some pretty good +dope—and we’re waiting. She’s got the rep. There’s that Dolingfetter +movie murder. She put that through when all the police force and all +the dicks in the country had failed for a year. And the Van Muiter +case—and a dozen others. I know you’re square, Sam. All us guys around +here know it. But I’m damn glad you’ve got Lynn MacDonald on the job +to prove it to the country.” + +As I say, I heard that conversation with my own ears. And yet, in the +week that followed, I had times of thinking that, anyway, Sam had +likely made a mistake in keeping Miss MacDonald on, alone. + +I couldn’t begin to describe the horror of that week. It is, I +suppose, what books call a paradox to say that the worst thing about +the week was that nothing, just nothing, happened. To all outward +appearances the Desert Moon Ranch was as peaceful as an empty grave: +hollow peace, false peace, and all of us conniving at the falsity made +it worse. + +One day, for instance, when we were all at dinner, Zinnia dropped the +teakettle in the kitchen. We women all screamed. Sam whipped his +six-gun from his back pocket. John rushed to the kitchen. He came +back, wiping the sweat from his forehead. + +“Zinnia dropped the teakettle. It didn’t hurt her.” + +We all looked foolish, and began to be very busy, passing things, and +pretending that our actions had all been the ordinary, conservative +actions of people who had heard anything heavy dropped. + +Sam locked up the house early every evening. Then, trying to make it +casual, one and another of us would go sauntering around to make sure +that he hadn’t overlooked a door, or a window. People were constantly +jumping, and starting, and looking behind them at nothing. None of us +women ever went far from the house, except Mrs. Ricker to visit +Martha’s grave. For one thing, Sam had increased the guard around the +place, and I never felt sure, when I ran down to the dairy, that one +of the cowpunchers wouldn’t think I was trying to escape and take a +shot at me. For another thing, though both murders had been done in +the house, there was a feeling of safety about four walls that I +couldn’t get in the open air. + +As I have said, Mrs. Ricker went every day to visit Martha’s grave. +She went alone. I would not have gone with her, not for any price. I +was afraid of her. I was afraid of Hubert Hand. By Wednesday of that +week I was afraid of everyone in the house except Miss MacDonald and +Sam. Friday found me doubtful of Sam. + +Losing my mind? Of course I was, or it was losing itself in the black +shadow of crime, by which the Desert Moon had been eclipsed. A mind +can’t go straight, in darkness, any more than a body can. None of our +minds went straight, those days. I am sure that the mind of each one +of us on the place—always excepting Miss MacDonald’s—did as mine did. +It went groping in the dark; it bumped into obstacles of doubt; it +tripped over fear and fell into senseless stupidities; it lost its +way, and wandered into wild suspicions. I tell you, there were times, +during those frightful days, when I found myself seriously considering +whether or not I had committed the two murders. + +On Thursday evening, of that week, Mrs. Ricker said to me, with no +concern at all in her manner, “I wish I knew just how that lethal +chamber that they use for executions in this state, felt. Whether it +hurts to be executed that way, and how long it takes to die in it, and +all about it. + +“Because,” she went on, still unconcernedly, “if it didn’t hurt too +much, I’d much rather confess to the murders, and get it over, than to +keep on living like this. I am going insane. I think that I can’t +stand another week like this one. Every hour, now, is worse than a +quick, painless death. Too, I’m afraid of what I might do, if I go +clear mad, with all these horrors in my mind. Though, perhaps, I have +already gone mad. Do I seem to you to be insane, right now, Mary?” + +I told her no. But it was a flat lie. At that moment I was certain +that everyone on the place was more or less insane, especially Miss +MacDonald. I think yet that I was right about the others. I know, now, +that I was wrong about Miss MacDonald; but she had certainly given me +plenty of reasons for thinking either that she had lost her senses +entirely, or else that she had never had any to lose. + +Apparently, after Sam had agreed to keep her on the case, she had at +once given up all interest in it. She had a short talk with me, and +told me that she would no longer need my help, and expressly +instructed me to stop watching Danny and the others. + +“As far as it is humanly possible,” she said, “I want you to go about +the business of living as if nothing at all unpleasant, even, had +happened. I don’t want this to be an appearance. I want it to be a +fact.” + +Then, as if she knew I couldn’t follow those fool instructions, and as +if she were bound to have them followed at any cost, she began to +follow them herself. She got sort of childish about it. + +On Tuesday evening she produced a bunch of paper and some pencils. +When we had all thought that something important was going to happen, +she suggested that we play that old, silly game of “Consequences.” And +when we one and all had other things to do, she was none too pleasant +about it. Said that she was tired of reading, every evening, and that +the radio made her nervous. She fussed about, until Danny, feeling as +she did, got John and Hubert Hand to make up the four to play Bridge. + +All week I could see Sam watching her and growing more and more +impatient. On Thursday he said to me that she was too busy flirting +with John to have time for anything else. That was not fair. She +didn’t flirt with John—she wasn’t the sort who would flirt with +anyone. But she surely did begin to notice him, and his attentions to +her. It was not that she treated him too well, in any way. It was, +only, that she did not treat him quite according to our standards for +the way unengaged girls should treat engaged or married men. Not once +did she encourage him to neglect Danny; but, after John had neglected +her, Miss MacDonald seemed to be, usually, right on the spot, ready, +waiting and willing, to be pleasant and friendly to him. + +I tried to make excuses for John. Poor little Danny wasn’t, I had to +admit, much like the girl he had fallen in love with. She had lost +practically all of her prettiness, and she looked, all the time, too +white and wan and generally dragged out to seem quite wholesome. Like +the rest of us, the strain of fear and suspicion was too much for her; +but she was frailer than any of us, so the strain told harder on her. + +She had explained to John about the reference to her and to her doll +in the code letter. He had taken it all right, and had been, as she +said to me, “sweet” about it, and about never doubting her word at +all. Still, I sort of thought that a grain of suspicion might still be +bothering him. And I knew that he had not been quite able to forgive +her, not for telling of her suspicions concerning Sam, but for +suspecting Sam in the first place. + +Yes, I could make some excuses for John. But the process of trying not +to blame him, personally, resulted in my opinions of men in general +being forced down several degrees. As I may have suggested, that took +them just about to where the thermometer stops registering. + +On Friday morning, when Sam came zigzagging into my kitchen, ordered +Zinnia out of it, his voice all thick and husky, and fell down into a +chair, I did not doubt for a minute that he was dead drunk. I knew +that he had not touched a drop of liquor for forty years; but what men +could do, men might do, and worse. + +“Mary,” he said, “we’ve got the report from the ’Frisco chemists.” + + + +CHAPTER LV + +The Third Murder + +Miss MacDonald had thought it necessary to have Martha’s body exhumed +and sent to San Francisco. That is what the coroner and the undertaker +had been about on their second trip to the ranch. Sam had not wanted +any of us to know about it, particularly he had not wanted Mrs. Ricker +to know. That had suited Miss MacDonald better, too; so they had had +the men do the work while we were all at dinner that day. They had +been careful to fix the grave so that it would not show that it had +been disturbed; and then, being men, they had left their shovels right +there in the cabin for the first person to find. As you know, the +first person had been Mrs. Ricker. + +We had been waiting ever since for the chemist’s report. Sam’s looks +and actions, now, kept the question from my lips. I thought that the +report must have contained some new horror. In a way, it had; but +Sam’s first words were reassuring. + +“It is too good to be true,” he said, and repeated, dazedly, “too good +to be true. Miss MacDonald had her assistants trace the prescription +from Doctor Roe. The powders were harmless. I didn’t cause my girl’s +death. The report proves—Miss MacDonald says—— The report proves——” + +“Take it easy, Sam. What does the report prove?” + +“Somebody gave her a deadly poison. The chemists found two traces. One +they can’t analyze. That’s why they’ve kept us waiting so long for the +report. They are still working on it, hoping for results. The other +was nitrobenzene. Miss MacDonald says that, in small doses, induces +coma and takes as long as twenty-four hours to act. But it is apt not +to be deadly by itself. It was combined with this other drug—the one +that must have made death certain.” + +Miss MacDonald came hurrying into the kitchen. She was holding the +monkey charm bracelet in her hand. + +“See here,” she said, “this bangle thing opens. I think we can be +certain that the poison she took, or was given, came out of it. There +is a trace of the odor. Smell it.” + +She handed it to me. It smelled a little like shoe polish, with sort +of a faint almond flavoring, underneath. I gave it to Sam, who had +been reaching out his hand for it. He smelled it, and then knotted it +up in his fist. + +Remembering, I can’t think of anything that he said which would do to +quote. The gist of it was, that if Gaby had given Martha the poison, +he was not sorry that Gaby had been killed, because justice had been +done. He went on to say that, if she had not given it to Martha +purposely, but only carelessly, forgetting its deadliness, he reckoned +that things had turned out for the best, as far as Gaby was concerned, +anyway. Not satisfied with that, he expressed, violently, his regrets +that vengeance had been taken out of his hands. + +“It isn’t vengeance you want, Mr. Stanley,” Miss MacDonald reminded +him, pretty sternly, “but justice. That is within our reach. I am +practically certain that the person who poisoned Martha, who strangled +Miss Canneziano and her father, is right here on this place——” + +“Hold on,” Sam interrupted. “Considering that this person is a +poisoner and a strangler, and that he is around loose and careless, +and that we may all be murdered in our beds, or out of ’em, or +poisoned at our meals, it seems to me the next move is to telephone to +the sheriff, and have him out here in a hurry, with some men——” + +“Nothing of the sort,” Miss MacDonald snapped at him. “I have told you +before, and I tell you again, that as matters stand now I am the only +person on the ranch who is in the least danger. I did not say that I +was certain. I said that I was practically certain. I can’t be certain +until I have some proof, some evidence. At present, I have not one +scrap of either——” + +“Then you can’t know who the guilty person is.” + +“Exactly what I have just said. My work from now on is to get that +proof. If you would help me, instead of——” + +Sam interrupted, his whole body straining forward with his eagerness. +“Tell us who he is, and where he is, and we’ll help you, right +enough.” + +“I can’t tell you. Not unless you want to have still another murder on +the Desert Moon Ranch. But you can help me. First, by keeping the +discovery of the poison a secret. Second, by allowing everyone else on +the place to suppose that I am still in a state of entire bafflement +concerning the crime. Third, and most important, perhaps, by having +patience with me.” + +“Ye’a,” Sam said, “and while we are sitting around, having patience, +this bird will walk off to some green hill far away. I think the boys +are doing their best to guard the place, but this bird’s a slicker. +What’s to keep him from, say, dressing in my clothes some night, and +riding merrily away on Bobbie Burns or Wishbone? All he’d have to do +is to give the boys a high-sign and they’d let him ride to hell, if +they thought he was me. Another thing—I can’t trust all my punchers. +Some of them are greasers, some half-breeds. Money, and not much of +it, talks pretty loud to some of those boys.” + +“At present, the person I suspect has no intention of leaving the +place.” + +“When you don’t know anything else, how can you know that?” + +“I didn’t say that I didn’t know anything else.” + +“Do you know, and will you tell me, why you can’t put this fellow +where the dogs won’t bite him, while you are collecting the proof, +evidence, and so on that you think you need?” + +“For one reason, because I am not a police detective. Sometimes it is +necessary to use their methods of arresting each suspect and getting +the evidence afterward—third degrees, so on. That method, by the way, +accounts for the number of criminals who are able to make complete +escapes. It is a stupid, bungling method—and a brutal one. I detest +it. I have used it only twice in the seven years that I have been in +this work. I used it then because it was necessary. I will not use it +now, because it is not necessary. This case will come to the grand +jury complete, with indisputable proofs. If I had known—suspected I +mean, before Mr. Canneziano was killed, what I now suspect——” She +stopped short, evidently afraid of saying too much. + +“Ye’a,” Sam argued, “but nothing has happened since then. What I can’t +get, is how you think you are ever going to find the proof—the +evidence.” + +“Well——” she began. “Because,” she finished, quite tartly, and walked +out of the room. + +“‘Because,’” Sam mimicked, almost before she was out of hearing +distance. “It was a black day for me, and for the Desert Moon, when I +put this thing up to a ‘because’ woman.” + +I more than half agreed with him, but I was not going to let him know +it. “Did you notice,” I questioned, chiefly to turn his mind from the +subject of “because” women, “that she kept saying that she thought the +person she suspected was on the place? I mean—she didn’t say that he +was living in the house.” + +“House! Hell! Of course she didn’t say house. Why should she say +house? Haven’t we been over and over it? Aren’t we fair frazzled out, +every last one of us, from climbing up those front and back stairs, +with our minds, all day long and half the night? Counting minutes, +counting seconds; going to the barn and back, over and over. Nobody +who lives in this house could have done it. That is settled. That is +fact. Not unless some one of us was able to be in two places at the +same time between four and five o’clock that day.” + +Something clicked in my mind. I declare to goodness, I felt the click, +plain as a twinge of toothache. It scared me. I put both my hands over +the place in the front of my head. I felt as dazed, and as shaken, as +if I had been sleep-walking, and had bumped into a door, in the dark, +and wakened to find myself in a strange, brightly lighted room. + +“No sir-ee,” Sam went on, too busy with his own ideas, I suppose, to +notice my actions, which must have been peculiar, “if the murderer is +still on the place, he is skulking around here in hiding. It is that +strangler fellow, all right. I’ll bet my last dollar on it. For some +reason, he is trying to clean out the Canneziano family—all of them. +I’ll bet he told Martha to give the poison to Danny, not knowing what +a child Martha was—or, maybe, knowing it. Martha, supposing the poison +was candy, or something nice, ate it up herself. I tell you what, I’m +going to do some proof hunting, now, on my own hook. If I find some +stranger hiding out on this place, that will be good enough proof for +Sam Stanley, and for any jury in Nevada. + +“Of course, Mary, it hasn’t been so hard on you—not having to feel the +responsibility the way I have. But I’ve come to the end of my rope. +I’m going to use my own head, now. I’ve got to get an expert here, for +one thing, to watch and guard over Danny. . . . Say, what’s the matter +with you, Mary? You look so funny. Do you feel sick, or something?” + +“‘Something,’” I said, “but, at that, I suppose it isn’t near as bad +as feeling responsibility.” + +If I’d stayed there listening to him for one more minute I’d have +burst. I left him, and went running, like the crazy thing I was, up +the back stairs to my own room. + + + +CHAPTER LVI + +A Whisper + +I stayed in my room for half an hour, thinking with all my might that +I was thinking. At the end of that time, discovering that I had not +turned out one single rational thought, I gave it up and went to find +John. + +I forgot all about the men who were guarding the ranch. I went +straight down to the outfit’s quarters. I hadn’t been on the back of a +horse for more than ten years. I got a lazy puncher to stop doing +nothing long enough to saddle an old nag for me, and boost me up on +her, and off I went. + +Jogging along through the clean, clear air, I at last began really to +do some thinking. I came to my senses in consequence. It was high +time. I turned the nag around and rode back to the outfit’s quarters. +I slid off of her, and left her there, and went walking to the house. + +It was fortunate that I had given up my wild goose chase. There on the +porch sat John, talking to Miss MacDonald. When I got close enough to +them to see how he looked, I felt as if my heart would break for him. +He looked, in spite of his tan, like death. + +When I had reached the foot of the steps, both of them, without saying +an aye, yes, nor no to me, got up and went into the house. + +My legs were shaking under me. I had to go slowly up the steps. +Neither John nor Miss MacDonald was in the living-room when I got +there. I went on into the kitchen. + +Miss MacDonald was putting on her big apron. Zinnia was clattering the +silver in the dining-room. + +“John knows, doesn’t he?” I questioned. + +“Knows?” + +“I think that I know what you——” + +“Don’t!” she shot out at me, and I wouldn’t have jumped any higher if +she had shot a gun instead of a word. + +“Don’t,” she calmed down and came over to me and spoke in a whisper, +“say anything in here. Not anything.” + +“I’ve got to,” I said. “I’m human. You listen to me.” I whispered it, +right into her ear. + +I hadn’t half finished what I had to say before she moved away from +me; but she nodded her head, with those quick, short little nods that +always mean confidential agreement. + +For almost an hour I had been thinking that I knew it. That nodding of +hers made me realize that I had only feared it; that I had believed +that she could deny and disprove it. + +I had planned biscuits for dinner. I went and got out the bread-board, +and opened the floor bin, but I couldn’t do it. + +“I’m sorry,” I said, and to my disgust I began to cry. “I guess you’ll +have to make out to do alone, for a while. I—I’m not feeling well. +I’ll have to go and lie down——” + +Still blubbering and blind with tears I went upstairs, and bumped into +Sam, standing outside John’s door. I dried my eyes and saw that he was +holding his six-gun, ready for shooting, in his hand. + + + +CHAPTER LVII + +Grief + +“What is the matter with you?” I demanded. “What are you doing with +that gun?” + +“John is in there packing his valise. He says he is going to leave the +place. I say he is not.” + +“Going to say it with the six-gun, if necessary, ugh?” I asked. + +“If necessary, Mary, by God, he put it up to me, straight. He came to +me, and said that he had to get off the place for a while. Had to. I +baited him along. Asked him where he wanted to go. He didn’t even try +to hide his feelings. Didn’t bother to make up an excuse. Said it was +all the same to him where he went: ’Frisco, Reno, Salt Lake, anywhere, +just so that he could get away. When I reckoned he’d stay right here, +he up with the idea of going down to live with the outfit. He’s a +fool; so he thinks that I am. Thinks I don’t know he could get a good +horse, the first night——” + +“If John thinks you’re a fool,” I said, “he’s paying you too much +respect. I can’t think of anything much worse, or more dangerous than +a fool, but whatever it is, you are it. It turns me all over to look +at you. Give me that gun.” + +I reached out and took it. His fingers didn’t stick to it very long. I +judged that he was not quite as eager to shoot John on sight as he had +been pretending to be. + +“Now get yourself away from here,” I said. “Get on downstairs, if you +know the way, and eat your dinner. I’ll look after John.” + +“If you help that boy to escape——” + +“Escape your foot!” I slipped into John’s room, shut the door in Sam’s +face, and pushed the new bolt into its slot. + +John’s things were all strewn about; his valise was standing open on a +chair, but he had stopped trying to pack it. He was lying face down on +the bed. + +I went and sat on the bed beside him and put an arm around his +shoulders. + +“Mary?” he questioned. + +“Yes. There, there now, John dear. Try to brace up——” + +“You don’t know!” + +“Yes, I do know, dear. I know just what you know.” + +“My God,” he groaned. “It is certain, then? I still had a little hope. +I—I can’t keep on with life, not after this. When I think of these +last weeks—— I—I’m filthy, I tell you.” + +“John, dear,” I tried to comfort. “You didn’t know—you couldn’t. You +aren’t to blame. You are young——” + +I knew that I had no comfort for agony such as his, but I could not +bear to leave him; so I stayed, hoping, as I suppose foolish women +have always hoped, that just plain, quiet loving him might help a +little. + +After a minute or two, he said, “Mary—if you don’t mind, I—I’ve got to +fight this out alone.” + +I went to my own room. I put a cold water compress on my eyes, and +pulled down the window-shades and lay on my bed. I was mortal tired +from sorrow, and the hurt in my heart for John was sharp as a +neuralgia pain, but my mind went working right along, independent of +my feelings; straight on, like a phonograph, if somebody had started +it, might keep right on grinding out a tune while the ship that it was +on was sinking. + +When Miss MacDonald came up, bringing me some dinner, which I couldn’t +touch, I said to her: “It seems true, but I know that it can’t be. It +is too impossible. I mean—too far fetched.” + +“Not a bit of it,” she said. “The only impossible thing about it is +the length of time it has taken us to discover it. Of course—forgive +me, Mrs. Magin, I was almost on the trail once, I had at least started +in the right direction, and then you threw me completely off.” + +“I! How?” + +She smiled at me. “By seeing something which you did not see. But you +are not in the least to blame for that. The fault is all mine.” + +She went and shut my transom. She looked through my clothes-closet. +She looked under my bed, saying, as she did so, “The proverbial +practise of old maids, you know.” She came and sat close beside me, +“Now then . . .” she said. + + + +CHAPTER LVIII + +The Puzzle + +“Listen. Bit by bit it works into the whole, like a picture +puzzle—each segment slipping right into place. There is just one hole +in it all, and I think your Danny’s kindness and unselfishness will +supply that necessary bit.” + +She began then—to use her own way of saying it—to put together the +pieces of the puzzle. She was right. Bit by bit it fitted together. +Almost at once she came to the place that she had called a hole. + +“There is no hole there,” I told her. “Under those circumstances, +Danny would have been just sweet, and unselfish, and foolish enough to +have done that very thing. She did it. That was why she was worried +and unhappy, all that day.” + +“I’m sure of it. Now then . . .” She went on: Danny’s calling after +Gaby that day—easy to understand now, of course, and leading straight +to Chad’s suicide and confessional note. Gaby’s fear; Martha’s murder; +Sam’s ashes on the bag; Gaby’s note to Danny; each one fitting right +into place, until spread in front of me was one of the most hideous +pictures that any human being has ever been forced to look at. + +“Only,” I gasped, “there can’t be such wickedness in the world! I +mean—not such long wickedness.” + +“In all my experience,” she said, “I have never investigated another +murder case where the thing was so cruelly, vilely premeditated; so +wickedly, cunningly carried out. If this is true, it will be, also, +the first time that I have found a really brilliant mind belonging to +a fiend.” + +“If it is true!” I echoed. “But it is proven. You have just proven it +all to me.” + +She shook her head. “We have a seemingly perfect fabric made up, +wholly, of circumstantial evidence. As yet, we have nothing else. Now +I have a question to ask you. It will seem to you that I should have +asked you this at least a week ago. I did not, because I was certain +that, unless I shared all of my suspicions with you, your answer would +be exactly the answer that you gave me before. Now, thinking as you +think, I want a very careful answer to this question.” + +When she had asked it, I refused my first impulse to answer it, at +once, and sat thinking carefully for several minutes. The answer that +I was forced to give, then, made me sick with shame. + +“No,” I said, “I didn’t. I thought, honestly, that I did. But now I +know that I didn’t. That—that,” I knew I was chattering it, “puts +Canneziano’s murder right at my door——” + +“Nonsense,” she folded one of my trembling hands into her steady, +capable hands. “We can’t go poking about like that, into the machinery +of fate, and stay sane. The blame in this case is entirely for me. +But, if I had not allowed myself to be misled then, but had worked +straight on, something equally tragic might have happened. We don’t +know. What we do know is, that no more time must be wasted. + +“I have spent this past week in trying to obtain the necessary proof. +I have failed. Now, I am going to ask you to help me. Will you?” + +“I will, and gladly. But you’ll have to tell me what you want me to +do. I haven’t the faintest idea.” + +She told me. + +“Lands alive!” I said. “That ought to be easy.” + +I could see that she was annoyed. “I haven’t found it so,” she said. +“I have made three attempts, as many as I dared make, this week, and +have failed. Do you realize that it must come simply, and naturally? +You must realize that——” + +“See here,” I interrupted, “why not do as Sam wants you to do? Why not +arrest the criminal now, and force the proof, afterwards? This sort of +evidence could be gotten then, as well as now, and a lot safer, too, +it seems to me.” + +“Mrs. Magin,” she said, “until we have evidence of guilt we have no +criminal to arrest. Incredible as it seems, we might still be wrong +concerning every bit of this. I once made a horrible mistake. It was +on my third case—that is, after I began to work for myself. I don’t +talk about it. I can’t think about it. But I made myself a promise +then, a promise that I have never broken, and which I never will +break. Except in extreme necessity, proof, positive, and perfect, must +come before any accusation or arrest in a case of mine. Twice, as I +have said, I have had men arrested because of circumstantial evidence. +Each time the evidence was far stronger than anything we have in this +case. The first time, the man would have undoubtedly escaped if he had +not been put in confinement. The second time was on my third case, +which I have mentioned. If you force me to make this the third time——” + +“I can’t force you to do anything,” I reminded her, hoping to cool her +down a bit. + +“Yes, you can. If you go at this so clumsily that you give the thing +away, and so endanger your own life, I shall have to force matters. I +must, of course, risk a reputation—I’m not speaking of my own, you +understand—in preference to risking a life—again I am not speaking of +my own. But, if we are wrong in this, and remember _we may +be_—circumstantial evidence is the trickiest thing in the world—it +would be bitterly cruel and wrong. It would be even worse than the +other mistake of mine. Will you remember that, when you make your +first attempt?” + +“Yes, I’ll remember. When do you want me to make the first attempt?” + +“As soon as possible. This afternoon, if you can do it.” + +“But—how shall I do it?” + +“I am going to leave that to you, and to your natural wit. You can do +it much more spontaneously if you are not attempting to follow set +directions. But do, do be careful. Don’t make a mistake.” + +With that she left me. I am ashamed to say that excitement had made me +forget my sorrow. I sat there saying my prayers, planning, and shaking +in my shoes, for a good half hour before I could get up enough courage +to go downstairs. In all probability, the next hour would bring me +face to face with the murderous fiend; and not by the blink of an eye, +not by the ghost of a shiver, must I betray my horrible knowledge. + + + +CHAPTER LIX + +The Fatal Mistake + +When I finally did get myself downstairs, I found Sam, seemingly alone +in the living-room, playing solitaire. I judged, from the look he gave +me, and from the way he had his shoulders hunched, that he was still +in a right ugly humor. + +“Where’s everybody?” I asked. + +“Out committing murders, somewhere, likely.” + +“That’s a nice way to talk, isn’t it?” + +He mumbled something. + +“What?” I said. “I can’t hear you when you mutter like that.” + +“I didn’t talk much louder when I told Miss MacDonald about John’s +trying to make a getaway. She heard me all right. That’s all the good +it did. Do you know how much I trust that woman?” + +“No, I don’t know. I don’t care, either.” + +Sam got out that silly, shrill voice he has for talking when he is +trying to mock a woman, any woman, and in using it he spoke up, real +loudly. “‘Well, Mr. Stanley, why not allow your son to go down and +live with the ranch hands, in their houses, for a time, since he is so +eager to do so?’” + +“Well, what about that?” + +“Ahk!” Sam barked. “She is head over heels in love with him, that’s a +part of what is the matter with her.” + +I said, “I wish I thought so.” + +“Why do you wish that, Mary?” It was Danny’s voice. Her white face, +with the big, sorrowful eyes, peeked around the high back of a chair +near the fireplace. + +I was too taken aback to answer her. + +“How long have you been sitting there, eavesdropping, young lady?” Sam +asked. + +“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” she answered, quietly. “I am sorry. I +was reading, and didn’t hear anything until you began to mimic Miss +MacDonald. I heard all of that. Why does John wish to go down and live +with the outfit?” + +“John and Sam had a little trouble to-day,” I told her. + +Sam, with his usual helpfulness in embarrassing situations, pushed +back his chair and went walking fast out of the room. + +“Mary,” she questioned, “why aren’t you my friend any more?” + +“Lands, child,” I said, “if you mean that because I was wishing Miss +MacDonald was in love with John, it was only because I’ve always +reckoned that the more women in love with a man the better for him. +John loves you. What do you care how many women love him?” + +“John doesn’t love me any more. I suppose that was what he and uncle +were quarreling about? John wants to get away from me, is that it? And +Uncle Sam is so good, and so loyal, that he won’t allow it?” + +“Nothing like that,” I scoffed. “It was——” I left that sentence +unfinished, and went into the kitchen. + +She followed me. I went straight to the stove and picked up the lid +lifter, which, as usual, when I’m not there to watch, someone had left +sticking up in a stove-lid to get red hot, instead of hanging it on +the hook where it belonged. I dropped it with a howl; and, wrapping my +hand in my apron, told her to run and get the linseed oil and +limewater, up in the hall bathroom, for me. + +I am not saying that I was not to blame. I do say that, if that fool +child Zinnia had not jumped around shouting, “Sody! Sody! Wet sody’s +the best for burns——” and that, if Mrs. Ricker hadn’t heard her +screeching, and come in, too, and begun asking questions, I certainly +would not have overlooked the fact that, before she went to minister +to my needs, Danny had picked up that lid-lifter, from where I had +dropped it on the floor, and had hung it on its hook. + +She made a quick trip upstairs and down again, with the bandages, and +the lotion. She offered, sweet and sympathetic, to do up my hand for +me. I had noticed, by that time, that my hand was not smarting much, +but I was too excited to account for it reasonably. I asked Mrs. +Ricker to attend to the bandages. I had another job for Danny. + +“I just came out here,” I said, “to make my weekly list to send to +Telko for supplies. I can’t write with this wadded up hand. Will you +make the list for me, Danny? Zinnia, please hand her the pad and +pencil from the shelf.” + +Zinnia brought it. Danny sat down by the table and picked up the +pencil. My heart thumped in my throat. + +“One crate of Fallon melons,” I said. + +Danny pushed the pad and pencil across the table to Mrs. Ricker. +“Perhaps you’d as soon make the list for Mary? I have something to +attend to upstairs.” + +“Go on, now you’ve started it, Danny,” I said. “You write such a neat, +pretty hand.” + +“I presume my writing can be read,” Mrs. Ricker replied, as she picked +up the pencil. “A crate of Fallon melons, did you say?” She wrote it +down. I heard Danny running up the back stairway. + +I felt flat as rolled dough from my disappointment. In the next minute +I had something more than disappointment to bother me. + +“I don’t see,” Zinnia said, “how you made out to burn yourself on that +stove, Mrs. Magin. Miss Canneziano was out here, just a while ago, +wanting to make some tea. The fire was dead out. She boiled the water +on the electric plate.” + +I ran to the stove. It was as cold as winter time. + + + +CHAPTER LX + +The End + +I suppose it takes more than a minute for one’s wits, particularly if +they happen to be thick wits, to drain entirely away. + +Before mine had completely left me, I had attempted to telephone to +Sam, down in the outfit’s quarters, and had failed to get a reply to +my call. I had told Mrs. Ricker and Zinnia, trying with all my might +to hide my fear, to run out and find Sam, or Miss MacDonald, or Hubert +Hand, or John—I had forgotten that John was upstairs in his room—and +to bring one or all of them to the house as quickly as possible. To +this day I don’t know why they went, without a question; but they +went, running. It was the slam of the screen door behind them, I +think, bringing with it as it did the realization of my aloneness and +the memory of Miss MacDonald’s warning, that turned me clear over to +terror. + +I shall not describe what I did, nor what I thought, during the time +that I was alone there, downstairs, before help arrived. The +humorously inclined might think such a description amusing. To me +there is nothing amusing in the spectacle of an old woman being +gripped and wrung by fright. I longed to run from the house; but I +felt that I must stay there to explain the situation to the others +when they came, if they ever did come, and to do my poor best, since I +had made the fatal mistake, to prevent catastrophe. By clock time, it +was only thirty-six silent minutes that I had to wait before Miss +MacDonald came, alone and unhurried, up the front steps and into the +living-room. + +Still holding Sam’s thirty-thirty rifle in my hands—I had known that I +could never use it to shoot at any living thing, but I had hoped that +it might make me look dangerous—I turned to meet her. + +“Don’t point that thing at me,” she commanded. “Put it down. What are +you doing with it? What is the trouble here?” + +Before I could answer her, Sam, Mrs. Ricker and Zinnia came clattering +through the kitchen. + +Mrs. Ricker was wringing her hands and saying over and over, in a +voice all broken and mutilated with horror, “I have gone insane, I +have gone insane. I have gone insane.” + +Sam said, “Gabrielle Canneziano just now waved at us from her window.” + +Miss MacDonald turned and ran like a wild thing up the stairs. Just as +she disappeared from our sight the sound of a pistol’s shot cracked +through the place. + +I followed the others. I ran up the steps. I stumbled down the hall, +behind them, and into Gabrielle Canneziano’s room. + +I saw Gabrielle Canneziano, her cheeks painted, her lips reddened, +long earrings dangling from her ears, lying on the couch. Over her +breast was a widening spot of color, staining the fringes of the soft +white silk dressing-gown that she was wearing. On the floor was a +smoking revolver. + +John came. He said, “She told me what she was going to do. I allowed +her to do it. I did not want Nevada to have to execute a woman.” + + + +CHAPTER LXI + +Epilogue + +Sam says, bitterly, that the only thing I need to explain is the one +thing that can ever be explained: how one girl, by changing her +clothes and by washing her face, could turn a houseful of supposedly +sensible people into a packet of blithering, bat-blind fools for a +generous period of time. I can explain that, I think; but I am going +to leave it until later, and go clear back to the second of July, the +day that Gabrielle received the code letter. + +In her talk with John (John says it was in no sense a confession, that +it was nothing but a taunt for us all, a final, regretless, high fling +of defiance) there in his room, during the twenty minutes or so that +she talked to him, before she shot herself, some things, which might +still not be clear to us, were made plain. Also, many of Miss +MacDonald’s previously formed opinions were directly or indirectly +verified. Miss MacDonald had said, you remember, that the murder had +been wickedly premeditated. + +“When I read that letter,” Gabrielle said to John, “and found myself +penniless and planless on a Nevada ranch, I at once made up my mind to +kill Danielle, the little fool, and take her place.” + +How she persuaded Danny to accept the idea of the masquerade, and to +change clothes with her, on the fourth of July, we do not positively +know. That is the “hole” that Miss MacDonald mentioned in her puzzle. +To my mind, there is little doubt that she gained her way very easily, +by using her own unhappiness and disappointment as tools with which to +remove Danny’s scruples and prod her pity. I am sure, remembering +Danny’s troubled manner at the time, that she consented unwillingly, +that she thoroughly disliked the idea, and that she was afraid of its +consequences. + +When the two girls went upstairs together, on the afternoon of the +fourth of July, they must have gone to effect the transformation. +Perhaps, then, for a brief minute or two, the thing did seem amusing +to Danny; for I know that I heard the girls laughing together, as I +have mentioned, when I was on my errand upstairs. + +We do not know, when the disguise had been completed, by what pretext +Gabrielle lured Danny into the attic. Their trunks were in the attic. +There could be a dozen simple reasons why Danny might consent to go up +there with her. Coming downstairs again, Gabrielle caught her by the +throat, and strangled her, instantly, by means of the deadly jiu-jitsu +hold, which she had learned from her “Strangler” lover. It is a hold +that requires little strength—though Gabrielle’s trained fingers were +strong enough—but much scientific skill. + +She took the earrings from Danny’s ears—or, perhaps, Danny had not yet +put them on—went to her own room, arranged her make-up, got into the +wrap, which completely covered Danny’s clothes that she was wearing, +pulled the hat down over her eyes to conceal the change in +hairdressing, and walked through the living-room, for us all to see +her, at four o’clock. + +When Chad went to the porch with her (this John found out by insistent +questioning) she told him that Danny had left the house, earlier, by +the back way. That she and Danny had arranged a joke on the rest of +us, to enliven the dull afternoon, and asked him to help with it by +calling, in Danny’s voice to her, when he came back into the house. +Chad did it. That was why, since he was standing down by the front +doors, the voice supposed to come from the upper hall had a strained +and an unnatural sound. Gabrielle had reckoned that Chad, in spite of +her request, would be too stupid to discover the facts. Probably she +thought that, at any rate, she would be able to impose silence upon +him. It was one of her many mistakes. We think that he must have known +for the remainder of the afternoon that Gabrielle was masquerading as +Danny. His happy mood was caused by the fact that Gabrielle had given +him a confidence and had allowed him to perform a small service for +her. When he saw what had happened, and when he realized that the girl +whom he had worshipped was a murderer, he killed himself. Strange, +that in spite of everything, he still loved her enough to leave the +confessional note to shield her. The men think that he left the note +to shield the rest of us, rather than to shield her. I do not believe +it. + +She had planned to go straight around the house and re-enter it +through the back door. Martha’s being by the rabbit hutch was +something she had not counted on. It was necessary to distract +Martha’s attention, and to get her to come at once into the house. She +gave her the monkey bracelet. As she did so, probably because of the +act of kindness, Martha made one of her frequent mistakes and called +Gabrielle “Danny.” Gabrielle told John (concerning Martha, John also +questioned her insistently) that she then showed Martha the poison in +the charm, and told her that it was a love potion that would make Chad +love her, “like a lady,” if she would swallow it, and never tell +anyone anything about it. That, of course, was Martha’s secret +concerning the happy surprise that had to do with herself and Chad. + +Martha out of the way, Gaby must have run quickly around to the back +of the house and up the back stairway. To toss the hat and wrap back +on the body, replace the earrings, scatter the pipe ashes over the +beaded bag (I declare to goodness, I can more easily think of her +lying there in her white silk dressing-gown, than I can think of her, +brushing those pipe ashes up, from somewhere, in order to save them +for that purpose), and drop the tatting shuttle there, required not +more than one or two minutes of time. Another two or three minutes to +wash her face thoroughly and to douse on some of Danny’s perfume, and +she was coming downstairs again, with the headache that necessitated +the drawing of the curtains—to make her safety a bit safer, just at +first. + +She told John that those few minutes when she had to walk through the +room, make the trip around the house, and get upstairs again, were the +only moments of fright that she had had, from the first to the last. +Once safely established in the rôle of Danny, she said, she knew that +she had nothing to fear. + +I think, however, that there were other times when she was afraid. I +am certain that real fear was there in her room, that day, when the +engagement ring dropped from her finger. Though I believe that her +fear, then, was caused wholly from superstition, and not from any +dread that the slight difference between her hands and Danny’s hands +might be noticed. + +I am sure that her fear for John, on the fourth of July, was real +enough. She knew that each minute he was away, longer than the time +necessary for the trip, was a minute lost from the perfect alibi she +had so mistakenly tried to arrange for him by sending him away from +the ranch. She had not known that Danny’s fingers had closed on the +stair’s tread. When John came in the back way she was afraid that it +would be remembered later—as it was—and that someone would suspect—as +Hubert Hand did suspect—that John had carried the body in at that +time. + +She had counted on her note to Danny, and on the fact that, as Danny, +she was downstairs within ten or twelve minutes after the time we had +seen Gaby walking down the path and had heard Danny’s voice calling +after her, to prove her own innocence. They, and the gentleness of +Danny’s disposition, did this to perfection. + +Her original plan had been to prove that Sam was the murderer. With +Sam out of the way, and with John in possession of his fortune, she +had thought, I suppose, that she would have no trouble in persuading +John to leave the Desert Moon. But she was afraid of the idea. Knowing +John’s devotion to Sam, she could not reckon, with any sureness, how +disgrace and sorrow might affect John. It was too big a risk to take, +unreservedly. So, though she picked the quarrel with Sam, strewed the +pipe ashes on the bag, put the key in the fireplace, wrote on the +photograph, she left loopholes in the shapes of the many other false +clues. It is only my own notion that, if she had not thought the +definite accusation of Sam, which she made during the session on the +fifth of July, was necessary to protect John, she would have backed +out, by that time, and not have made it. + +It is again only my notion that the request, which she put in her note +to Danny, to have Danny take her body to San Francisco for cremation, +was made because she thought that it would be desirable for her to be +able to leave the ranch at once—perhaps for several weeks. Mrs. +Ricker’s expressed suspicion probably made her realize the wisdom of +returning as rapidly as possible to the Desert Moon. + +Gabrielle Canneziano was a born criminal. Almost all of her life had +been spent among criminals. She knew their ways, and she knew the ways +of honest people toward them. Consequently, she was too clever to drop +her disguise, even for a minute, in San Francisco. When, on the +afternoon of the fourth of July, she had come downstairs as Danny, she +had come resolved from that time forth to be Danny, in thought and in +deed, up to the level best of her ability. That she never doubted her +ability to turn from black to white within the space of an hour, is a +splendid example of Miss MacDonald’s contention concerning the egotism +of criminals. + +Miss MacDonald says that her first real clue was the one I gave to her +when I said that no one, except Gaby herself, who would do such a +wicked thing, had ever been on the ranch. If she had been on the +ranch, she might have committed the murder. She had all three of the +primary motives for murder: love, revenge, and greed. The unique +feature in this case—Miss MacDonald says that each case has its unique +feature—was that the murdered girl had been a duplicate twin. + +The hazy, incomplete notion, Miss MacDonald says, had just come into +her mind; she had not begun to accept it, she was only allowing it, +dimly, to take form, when I returned to the room that day with my hand +full of letters written by Danny. Handwriting, as surely as +fingerprints, Miss MacDonald says, proves identity. + +She asked me, straight, whether I had seen Danny writing the checks +and addressing the envelopes. I answered, straight and positively, +that I had. (And not twenty minutes before that Miss MacDonald had +warned me that people often thought that they saw things they did not +see.) + +I had not. I had seen the person whom I supposed was Danny writing +checks and addressing envelopes. I had turned my back on her, and had +walked to the door, when she called after me and gave me the envelopes +containing the checks. + +Danny herself had written those checks and had addressed those +envelopes on the third of July. Owing to all the furore that had been +going on in the house that day, she had left her desk before she had +torn the checks from her check-book, and had never gone back to it to +finish her task. It is possible that Gabrielle had deliberately +arranged that, also; but I think not. At any rate, she had had the +checks in her possession, and had waited for a date that had a three, +or an eight in it, to produce them. Circumstances and I played well +into her hands that day; she had only to insert a one in front of the +three to make me her fool. + +Miss MacDonald, as you have seen, blames herself and not me for the +mistake. She says that she should have known better than to believe +me; or, to quote her exactly, she should have “doubted your accuracy +of observation.” But, not until the morning that we found Daniel +Canneziano murdered did it occur to her to doubt it. + +She says that it was not clairvoyance, not intuition, not even common +sense, that it was nothing but a memory that took her, that morning, +straight back to the idea that Gabrielle Canneziano could be the +guilty person. Oddly, the conviction had come to her before we found +Canneziano’s body. + +Sitting across the table from Gabrielle, posing as Danny, that morning +at breakfast, she had thought, idly, of the breakfast that she and +Danny had had together in the dining-car. She had taken her chair, +that morning, just as Danny had handed the order slip for her +breakfast to the waiter. Too vaguely to be certain that it was really +a memory, she seemed to see that slip of paper covered with writing. +Just then, with the aroma of coffee in her nostrils, and with her iced +grapefruit and rolls in front of her, she remembered that it was the +same breakfast both she and Danny had had that morning. Would such a +small order cover an order slip with handwriting? Not, it was certain, +with the neat handwriting that had made out those checks and addressed +those envelopes. Right then she resolved to lose no more time; to get, +as soon as possible, a sample of the handwriting of the girl who was +sitting across the table from her. + +Canneziano’s murder, discovered in the next half hour, strengthened +her vague suspicions into as much of a certainty as she ever allowed +herself before she had positive evidence. + +As I have written, she spent the following week in efforts to get that +evidence; at last, fearing that she was suspected, she detailed the +task to me. + +You have seen how I failed. How Gabrielle at once saw through my trick +of attempting to disable my right hand by burning it; and how, +realizing that she was trapped, she had run upstairs, first to satisfy +her longing to be herself again, even for a few brief minutes, then to +taunt John, and, finally, to take her own life. + +For I think, in spite of her denials to John, that she killed herself +because she knew that she was trapped, though her vanity and her +audacity held to the end. + +“I knew I should have no trouble in making you believe that silly doll +story,” she said. “It was the truth, I knew, too, that the dick would +read the code letter. She was so slow about it, that I had to steal it +to make her do it. It was time, you see, for the gentle Danielle’s +story to be verified. I knew that the dick had a copy of it—she’d been +baiting me with the thing. I have kept a step or two ahead of her +lumbering pace, all the time. + +“Don’t fancy that I had overlooked the matter of the handwriting. I’m +not a fool. I thought of it before I killed the girl. There were a +dozen ways I could have gotten around it—could yet get around it. If +necessary, I could even have disabled my own right hand. I had rather +planned, at first, to do that. But, later, I found that I loved my +pretty little white hand better than I had supposed. Just as I have +discovered that I loved the gay Gaby better than I had supposed—so +well, indeed, that I have decided that death as Gaby is infinitely +preferable to life as the shiny nosed Danielle. I have seen this +coming. I have not cared. + +“I got rid of that cur, Canneziano, not because I was afraid of him, +but because he tried to double cross me. I had promised to do much for +him, after you and I were married; and he would have sold me out for a +few thousand dollars. He came here, hoping that Danny might pay him a +pretty sum for his silence about my past. He knew his muttons. She +would have been fool enough to have done it; poor slain sister stuff; +more to be pitied than blamed—all that, you know. He should have +played with me, instead of against me. I had a few old scores to +settle with him. Most of my rage about the money was because I had +thought it would be such good fun to get the best of him. And I did—so +that is all right. I hid in his room early that evening. It was +frightfully amusing to watch him locking his door and his windows to +make his sleep a safe one. It was. I did the job so neatly that he +never woke at all. + +“For that matter, it has all been amusing. You have all been such +utter fools. But I am tired of it now. Oh, very tired. Particularly, I +am tired of my cruel plan to destroy the gay Gaby by burying her +alive. I am going now to do it in a swifter, kinder way.” + +Sam insists that her success, even for so short a time, is an +indictment against all of us; that it shows that none of us was +capable of looking deeper than clothes and face paint. I do not agree +with him. Gabrielle was a professional actress. She had lived with +Danny long enough to learn all her ways, her mannerisms, her habits in +conversation. She did not dupe Chad, who loved her, and who was an +expert in voices. She did not dupe Canneziano, who had known both of +the girls all their lives. + +The murder itself, by stupefying us all with horror, with fear, with +suspicions, did much to help her. But without that dulling of our +perceptions, I think that the imposture would have been successful. At +the time of the murder, the two girls had been on the ranch with us +less than two months. Strangers never get much deeper than surfaces in +so short a time. There was nothing remarkable, it seems to me, about +her being able, quite easily, to deceive all of us, with the single, +glaring exception of John. + +John is one of a large class of people who could all be filed under +the recipe for simple acceptors. It is a necessary class; a class that +acts as an oil to the hinges of the world, making it move smoothly: +the gentle, thoroughly honest class that by quietly believing what it +is told to believe, keeps us out of revolutions, and rebellions, and +the like. I am not saying that the doubters and the rebels are not +necessary (as Sam would say, “It takes that sort to make all sorts”), +but Heaven help us if they predominated. + +When John came home from Rattail, on the fourth of July, he was faced +with the apparent fact that Danny, in the course of a few hours, had +changed essentially. That was what had bothered him so; what had made +him jerk his head, and blink his eyes, and complain of a touch of sun. +John had never recognized, much less admitted to himself, that there +was the slightest similarity between the two girls. Consequently, in +spite of a change, Danny must be Danny; she looked like Danny, she +talked like Danny, and we all said that she was Danny. John believed. + +Very shortly after that, John was faced with another apparent fact. +Gaby had been murdered. He could see that, with his own eyes, as we +all could see it. + +He at once set the fact of Danny’s change against the fact of Gaby’s +murder—and there he stuck fast; too loyal to go further; too dismayed +to retreat. He did not believe that Danny had killed Gabrielle. He had +known Danny too well to harbor such a belief. He was forced to believe +that she knew who had done it. Consequently, her accusation of Sam +could be nothing but a wicked accusation. Only—Danny could not be +wicked. + +The mystery was a torture which Danny’s presence intensified +unbearably; so he avoided her; and, unable to blame her for anything, +blamed himself and hated himself for his suspicions and for his +failing loyalty. I’ll venture, though it can be only a venture, that +the realization of his interest in Miss MacDonald, and his inability +to be rid of it, was another cause for John’s befuddlement. + +That interest, of course, has all disappeared for the present. Though +he despised himself for it, John might have been untrue to a changed, +living Danny; might, in the end, have jilted her meanly. John is male. +But to a Danny who is no longer living, John, now, must always be +true. John is young. I reckon he has fine honest plans for being +faithful to her memory for the remainder of his life. Miss MacDonald +is also young, and lovely, and heart whole. She has promised to come +and visit us for a month next June. + +Just now, with our thermometers at fifty below zero, and our +chilblains burning, and the coyotes piercing the nights with their +lank, long, frozen screeches, and the cold old owls always grieving +forth their mournful “chuck-a-loo, whoo, whoo, whoo’s” June looks +mighty far away. + +But, five fingers and a thumb, and she will be here, smelling of +sunshine and tasting like smiles; painting our deserts with rainbow +colors for as far as the eyes can see; spreading sunsets that catch +you right up into their midsts; offering dawns that share their youth +with you and that make you believe all over again in things which you +had long ago stopped believing. Now I don’t know shucks about romance; +but I have a notion that June, in our northeastern Nevada, stirs up +whole batches of the stuff. I am counting on her to serve it, fresh +and sweet, this year. + +It isn’t June, though, and it isn’t romance that I am trusting for the +final chore: it is something more lasting than either, something +sturdier, something for which I can not find a name. But I know that +it is induced by a mixture of long years of right living, and clean +thinking, and sanity, and courage; so I am expecting it to clear away +the shadows from the Desert Moon and leave it, riding high as it used +to ride, high and proud, a brave, shining thing in our valley. + + + The End + + + +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE + +This transcription follows the text of 1928 edition published by +Grosset & Dunlap. However, the following errors have been corrected +from the original text: + + * “advertisments” was changed to “advertisements” (Chapter VI). + * “the the same” was changed to “the same” (Chapter VII). + * “conforting” was changed to “comforting” (Chapter XVII). + * “Gay” was changed to “Gaby” (Chapter LI). + * Two occurrences of mismatched quotation marks were repaired. + * The alphabetical list indices (in Chapter XLIV) was repaired to + not skip over “G”. + +Additionally, the printed version of the coded letter excerpts (in +Chapters XXV and XLVIII) contained three typographical errors; these +have been corrected. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75436 *** |