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Clue

<div><h1>XVI</h1></div> SEARCHING FOR CLUES Believing that Marie’s information about Miss Morton was of deep interest, Rob started off at once to confer with Coroner Benson about it. As he walked along he discussed the affair with himself, and was shocked to realize that for the third time he was suspecting a woman of the murder. “But how can I help it?” he thought impatiently. “The house was full of women, and not a man in it except the servants, and no breath of suspicion has blown their way. And if a woman did do it, that unpleasant Morton woman is by far the most likely suspect. And if she was actuated by a desire to get her inheritance, why, there’s the motive, and she surely had opportunity. It’s a tangle, but we must find something soon to guide us. A murder like that can’t have been done without leaving some trace somewhere of the criminal.” And then Fessenden’s thoughts drifted away to Kitty French, and he was quite willing to turn the responsibility of his new information over to Mr. Benson. On his way to the coroner’s office he passed the Mapleton Inn. An impulse came to him to investigate Tom Willard’s statements, and he turned back and entered the small hotel. He thought it wiser to be frank in the matter than to attempt to obtain underhand information. Asking to speak with the proprietor alone, he said plainly: “I’m a detective from New York City, and my name is Fessenden. I’m interested in investigating the death of Miss Van Norman. I have no suspicions of any one in particular, but I’m trying to collect a few absolute facts by way of making a beginning. I wish you, therefore, to consider this conversation confidential.” Mr. Taylor, the landlord of the inn, was flattered at being a party to a confidential conversation with a real detective, and willingly promised secrecy in the matter. “Then,” went on Fessenden, “will you tell me all you know of the movements of Mr. Willard last evening?” Mr. Taylor looked a bit disappointed at this request, for he foresaw that his story would be but brief. However, he elaborated the recital and spun it out as long as he possibly could. But after all his circumlocution, Fessenden found that the facts were given precisely as Willard had stated them himself. The bellboy who had carried up the suitcase was called in, and his story also agreed. “Yessir,” said the boy; “I took up his bag, and he gimme a quarter, just like any nice gent would. ’N’en I come downstairs, and after while the gent’s bell rang, and I went up, and he wanted ice water. He was in his shirt sleeves then, jes’ gittin’ ready for bed. So I took up the water, and he said, ‘Thank you,’ real pleasant-like, and gimme a dime. He’s a awful nice man, he is. He had his shoes off that time, ’most ready for bed. And that’s all I know about it.” All this was nothing more nor less than Fessenden had expected. He had asked the questions merely for the satisfaction of having verbal corroboration of Tom’s own story. With thanks to Mr. Taylor, and a more material token of appreciation to the boy, he went away. On reaching the coroner’s office, he was told that Mr. Benson was not in. Fessenden was sorry, for he wanted to discuss the Morton episode with him. He thought of going to Lawyer Peabody’s, who would know all about Miss Van Norman’s will, but as he sauntered through one of the few streets the village possessed, he was rather pleased than otherwise to see Kitty French walking toward him. She greeted him with apparent satisfaction, and said chummily, “Let’s walk along together and talk it over.” Immediately coroner and lawyer faded from Rob’s mind, he willingly fell into step beside her, and they walked along the street which soon merged itself into a pleasant country road. Fessenden told Kitty of his conversation at the inn, but she agreed that it was unimportant. “Of course,” she said, “I suppose it was a good thing to have some one else say the same as Tom said, but as Tom wasn’t even in the house, I don’t see as he is in the mystery at all. But there’s no use of looking further for the criminal. It was Schuyler Carleton, just as sure as I stand here.” Kitty very surely stood there. They had paused beneath an old willow tree by the side of the road, and Kitty, leaning against a rail fence, looked like a very sweet and winsome Portia, determined to mete out justice. Though he was himself convinced that he was an unprejudiced seeker after truth, at that moment Robert Fessenden found himself very much swayed by the opinions of the pretty, impetuous girl who addressed him. “I believe I’m going to work all wrong,” he declared. “I can’t help feeling sure that Carleton didn’t do it, and so I’m trying to discover who did.” “Well, why is that wrong?” demanded Kitty wonderingly. “Why, I think a better way to do would be to assume, if only for sake of argument, as they say, or rather for sake of a starting-point—to assume that you are right and that Carleton is the evil-doer, though I swear I don’t believe it.” Kitty laughed outright. “You’re a nice detective!” she said. “Are you assuming that Schuyler is the villain, merely to be polite to me?” “I am not, indeed! I feel very politely inclined toward you, I’ll admit, but in this matter I’m very much in earnest. And I believe, by assuming that Carleton is the man, and then looking for proof of it, we may run across clues that will lead us to the real villain.” Kitty looked at him admiringly, and for Kitty French to look at any young man admiringly was apt to be a bit disturbing to the young man’s peace of mind. It proved so in this case, and though Fessenden whispered to his own heart that he would attend first to the vindication of his friend Carleton, his own heart whispered back that after that, Miss French must be considered. “And so,” said Rob, as they turned back homeward, “I’m going to work upon this line. I’m going to look for clues; real, material, tangible clues, such as criminals invariably leave behind them.” “Do!” cried Kitty. “And I’ll help you. I know we can find something.” “You see,” went on Fessenden, his enthusiasm kindling from hers, “the actual stage of the tragedy is so restricted. Whatever we find must be in the Van Norman house.” “Yes, and probably in the library.” “Or the hall,” he supplemented. “What kind of a thing do you expect to find?” “I don’t know, I’m sure. In the Sherlock Holmes stories it’s usually cigar ashes or something like that. Oh, pshaw! I don’t suppose we’ll find anything.” “I think in detective stories everything is found out by footprints. I never saw anything like the obliging way in which people make footprints for detectives.” “And how absurd it is!” commented Rob. “I don’t believe footprints are ever made clearly enough to deduce the rest of the man from.” “Well, you see, in detective stories, there’s always that ‘light snow which had fallen late the night before.’” “Yes,” said Fessenden, laughing at her cleverness, “and there’s always some minor character who chances to time that snow exactly, and who knows when it began and when it stopped.” “Yes, and then the principal characters carefully plant their footprints, going and returning—over-lapping, you know—and so Mr. Smarty-Cat Detective deduces the whole story.” “But we’ve no footprints to help us.” “No, we couldn’t have, in the house.” “But if it was Schuyler——” “Well, even if,—he couldn’t make footprints without that convenient ‘light snow’ and there isn’t any.” “And besides, Schuyler didn’t do it.” “No, I know he didn’t. But you’re going to assume that, you know, in order to detect the real criminal.” “Yes, I know I said so; but I don’t believe that game will work, after all.” “I don’t believe you’re much of a detective, any way,” said Kitty, so frankly that Fessenden agreed. “I don’t believe I am,” he said honestly. “With the time, place, and number of people so limited, it ought to be easy to solve this mystery at once.” “I think it’s just those very conditions that make it so hard,” said Kitty, sighing. And so completely under her spell was Fessenden by this time that he emphatically agreed with her. When they reached the Van Norman house they found it had assumed the hollow, breathless air that invades a house where death is present. All traces of decoration had been removed from the drawing-room, and it, like the library, had been restored to its usual immaculate order. The scent of flowers, however, was all through the atmosphere, and a feeling of oppression hovered about like a heavy cloud. Involuntarily Kitty slipped her hand in Rob’s as they entered. Fessenden, too, felt the gloom of the place, but he had made up his mind to do some practical work, and detaining Harris, who had opened the door for them, he said at once, “I want you to open the blinds for a time in all the rooms downstairs. Miss French and I are about to make a search, and, unless necessary, let no one interrupt us.” “Very good, sir,” said the impassive Harris, who was becoming accustomed to sudden and unexpected orders. They had chosen their time well for the search, and were not interrupted. Most of the members of the household were in their own rooms; and there happened to be no callers who entered the house. Molly Gardner had gone away early that morning. She had declared that if she stayed longer she should be downright ill, and, after vainly trying to persuade Kitty to go with her, had returned alone to New York. Tom Willard and Lawyer Peabody were in Madeleine’s sitting-room, going over the papers in her desk, in a general attempt to learn anything of her affairs that might be important to know. They had desired Miss Dupuy’s presence and assistance, but that young woman refused to go to them, saying she was still too indisposed, and remained, under care of Marie, in her own room. Fessenden suggested that Kitty should make search in the library while he did the same in the drawing-room; and that afterward they should change places. Kitty shivered a little as she went into the room that had been the scene of the tragedy, but she was really anxious to assist Fessenden, and also she wanted to do anything, however insignificant, that would help in the least toward avenging poor Maddy’s death. And yet it was seemingly a hopeless task. Though she carefully and systematically scrutinized walls, rugs and furniture, not a clue could she find. She was on her hands and knees under a table when Tom Willard came into the room. “What are you doing?” he said, unable to repress a smile as Kitty, with her curly hair a bit dishevelled, came scrambling out. “Hunting for clues,” she said briefly. “There are no clues,” said Tom gravely. “It’s the most inexplicable affair all ’round.” “Then you have no suspicion of any one?” “My dear Miss French,” said Tom, looking at her kindly, as one might at a child, but speaking decidedly; “don’t let the amusement of amateur detective work lead you into making unnecessary trouble for people. If detective work is to be done, leave it to experienced and professional hands. A girl hunting for broken sleeve-links or shreds of clothing is foolishly theatrical.” Willard’s grave but gentle voice made Kitty think that she and Fessenden were acting childishly, but after Tom, who had come on an errand, had left the room, Kitty confided to herself that she would rather act foolishly at Rob Fessenden’s bidding than to follow the wise advice of any other man. This was saying a good deal, but as she said it only to herself, she felt sure her confidence would not be betrayed. Not half an hour had elapsed when Kitty appeared at the drawing-room door with a discontented face, and said, “There’s positively nothing in the library that doesn’t belong there. It has been thoroughly swept, and though there may have been many clues, they’ve all been swept and dusted away.” “Same here,” said Fessenden dejectedly. “However, let’s change rooms, so we can both feel sure.” Then Kitty searched the drawing-room, and Rob the library, and they both scrutinized every inch of the hall. “I didn’t find so much as a thread,” said Kitty, as they sat down on a great carved seat in the hall to compare notes. “I didn’t either,” said Rob, “with one insignificant exception; in the drawing-room I found this, but it doesn’t mean anything.” As he spoke he drew from his pocket a tiny globule of a silver color. “What is it?” asked Kitty, taking it with her finger-tips from the palm of his hand. “It’s a cachou.” “And what in the world is a cachou? What is it for?” “Why, it’s a little confection filled with a sort of spice. Some men use them after smoking, to eradicate the odor of tobacco.” “Eat them, do you mean? Are they good to eat?” and impulsive Kitty was about to pop the tiny thing into her mouth, when Rob caught her hand. “Don’t!” he cried. “That’s my only clue, after all this search, and it may be of importance.” He rescued the cachou from Kitty’s fingers, and then, slipping it into his pocket, he continued to hold the hand from which he had taken it. And then, somehow, detective work seemed for a moment to lose its intense interest, and Rob and Kitty talked of other things. Suddenly Kitty said: “Tom Willard thinks we’re foolish to hunt for clues.” “I think he’s right,” said Fessenden, smiling, “since we didn’t find anything.” “Oh, he didn’t exactly say you were foolish, but he said I was. He said it was silly for a girl to hunt around under tables and chairs.” “He had no right to say so. It isn’t silly for you to do anything you want to do. But I know what Willard meant. He thinks, as lots of people do, that there’s no sense in expecting to find material evidences of crime—or, rather, of the criminal. And I suppose he’s right. Whoever murdered Miss Van Norman certainly left no tangible traces. But I’m glad we hunted for them, for now I feel certain there were none left; otherwise, I should always have thought there might have been.” “How much more sensible you are than Mr. Willard,” said Kitty, with an admiring glance that went straight to the young man’s heart, and stayed there. “And, too, you always make use of ‘clues’ if you do find them. Look how cleverly you deduced about the soft and hard lead pencils.” “Oh, that was nothing,” said Fessenden modestly, though her praise was ecstasy to his soul. “Indeed it was something! It was great work. And I truly believe you’ll make as great a deduction from that little thing you found this morning. What do you call it?” “A cachou.” “Yes, a cachou. The whole discovery of the murderer may hinge on that tiny clue we found.” “It may, but I can hardly hope so.” “I hope so,—for I do want to prove to Tom Willard that our search for clues wasn’t silly, after all.” And Fessenden’s foolish heart was so joyed at Kitty’s use of “we” and “our” that he cared not a rap for Willard’s opinion of his detective methods. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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