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Mystery of the Sycamore

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<h2 id="c8">CHAPTER VIII CONFESSION</h2> Before Sam Appleby left the next morning, he confided to Keefe that he had little if any faith in the detective prowess of the two men investigating the case. “When I come back,” he said, “I may bring a real detective, and—I may not. I want to think this thing over first—and, though I may be a queer Dick, I’m not sure I want the slayer of my father found.” “I see,” and Keefe nodded his head understandingly. But Jeffrey Allen demurred. “You say that, Mr. Appleby, because you think one of the Wheeler family is the guilty party. But I know better. I know them so well——” “Not as well as I do,” interrupted Appleby, “and neither do you know all the points of the feud that has festered for so many years. If you’ll take my advice, Mr. Allen, you’ll delay action until my return, at least.” <div class="pb" id="Page_138">[138]</div> “The detectives won’t do that,” objected Jeffrey. “The detectives will run round in circles and get nowhere,” scoffed Appleby. “I shall be back as soon as possible, and I don’t mind telling you now that there will be no election campaign for me.” “What!” exclaimed Curtis Keefe. “You’re out of the running?” “Positively! I may take it up again some other year, but this campaign will not include my name.” “My gracious!” exclaimed Genevieve, who knew a great deal about current politics. “Who’ll take your place?” “A dark horse, likely,” returned Appleby, speaking in an absorbed, preoccupied manner, as if caring little who fell heir to his candidacy. “I don’t agree with you, Mr. Appleby,” spoke up Jeff Allen, “as to the inefficiency of the two men on this case. Seems to me they’re doing all they can, and I can’t help thinking they may get at the truth.” “All right, if they get at the truth, but it’s my opinion that the truth of this matter is not going to be so easily discovered, and those two bunglers may do a great deal of harm. Good-bye, Maida, keep up a good heart, my girl.” <div class="pb" id="Page_139">[139]</div> The group on the veranda said good-bye to Sam Appleby, and he turned back as he stepped into the car to say: “I’ll be back as soon as the funeral is over, and until then, be careful what you say—all of you.” He looked seriously at Maida, but his glance turned toward the den where Mr. Wheeler sat in solitude. “I heard him,” stormed Burdon, as the car drove away, and the detective came around the corner of the veranda. “I heard what he said about me and Hallen. Well, we’ll show him! Of course, the reason he talks like that——” “Don’t tell us the reason just now,” interrupted Keefe. “We men will have a little session of our own, without the ladies present. There’s no call for their participation in our talk.” “That’s right,” said Allen. “Maida, you and Miss Lane run away, and we’ll go to the den for a chat.” “No, not there,” objected Burdon. “Come over and sit under the big sycamore.” And so, beneath the historic tree, the three men sat down for a serious talk. Hallen soon joined them, but he said little. <div class="pb" id="Page_140">[140]</div> “I’m leaving myself, soon after noon,” said Keefe. “I’ll be back in a day or two, but there are matters of importance connected with Mr. Appleby’s estate that must be looked after.” “I should think there must be!” exclaimed Burdon. “I don’t see how you can leave to come back very soon.” Keefe reddened slightly, for the real reason for his intended return was centred in Maida Wheeler’s charm, to which he had incontinently succumbed. He knew Allen was her suitor, but his nature was such that he believed in his own powers of persuasion to induce the girl to transfer her affections to his more desirable self. But he only looked thoughtfully at Burdon and said: “There are matters here, also, that require attention in Mr. Appleby’s interests.” “Well,” Burdon went on, “as to the murder, there’s no doubt that it was the work of one of the three Wheelers. Nobody else had any reason to wish old Appleby out of the world.” “You forget me,” said Allen, in a tense voice. “My interests are one with the Wheelers. If they had such a motive as you ascribe to them—I had the same.” <div class="pb" id="Page_141">[141]</div> “Don’t waste time in such talk,” said Curt Keefe. “I saw you, Allen, at the fire during the whole time that covered the opportunity for the murder.” “Of course,” agreed Burdon, “I’ve looked into all that. And so, as I say, it must have been one member of the Wheeler family, for there’s no one else to suspect.” “Including Mrs. Wheeler,” quietly put in Hallen. “How absurd!” flared out Allen. “It’s bad enough to suspect the other two, but to think of Mrs. Wheeler is ridiculous!” “Not at all,” said Burdon, “she had the same motive—she had opportunity——” “How do you know?” asked Keefe. “She ran down from her room at that very moment,” stated Burdon. “I have the testimony of one of the upstairs maids, and, also, I believe Miss Wheeler saw her mother in the den.” “Look here,” said Hallen, in his slow, drawling tones, “let’s reconstruct the situation. You two men were at the fire—that much is certain—so you can’t be suspected. But all three of the Wheelers had absolute opportunity, and they had motive. Now, as I look at it—one of those three was the criminal, and the other two saw the deed. Wherefore, the two onlookers will do all they can to shield the murderer.” <div class="pb" id="Page_142">[142]</div> Keefe stared at him. “You really believe that!” he said. “Sure I do! Nobody else had either motive or opportunity. I don’t for one minute believe in an outsider. Who could happen along at that particular moment, get away with the shooting, and then get away himself?” “Why, it could have been done,” mused Keefe, and Allen broke in eagerly: “Of course it could! There’s nothing to prove it impossible.” “You two say that, because you want it to be that way,” said Burdon, smiling at the two young men. “That’s all right—you’re both friends of the family, and can’t bear to suspect any one of them. But facts remain. Now, let’s see which of the three it most likely was.” “The old man,” declared Hallen, promptly. “Nonsense!” cried Allen. “Mr. Wheeler is incapable of a deed like that! Why, I’ve known him for years——” <div class="pb" id="Page_143">[143]</div> “Don’t talk about incapable of anything!” said Burdon. “Most murderers are people whom their friends consider ‘incapable of such a deed.’ A man who is generally adjudged ‘capable’ of it is not found in polite society.” “Where’s the weapon,” asked Keefe, abruptly, “if Mr. Wheeler did it?” “Where’s the weapon, whoever did it?” countered Burdon. “The weapon hasn’t been found, though I’ve hunted hard. But that helps to prove it one of the family, for they would know where to hide a revolver securely.” “If it was Mr. Wheeler, he’d have to hide it in the den,” said Allen. “He never goes over to the other side of the house, you know.” “It isn’t in the den,” Hallen spoke positively; “I hunted that myself.” “You seem sure of your statement,” said Keefe. “Couldn’t you have overlooked it?” “Positively not.” “No, he couldn’t,” concurred Burdon. “Hallen’s a wonderful hunter. If that revolver had been hidden in the den, he’d have found it. That’s why I think it was Mrs. Wheeler, and she took it back to her own rooms.” “Oh, not Mrs. Wheeler!” groaned Jeff Allen. “That dear, sweet woman couldn’t——” <div class="pb" id="Page_144">[144]</div> “Incapable of murder, I s’pose!” ironically said Burdon. “Let me tell you, sir, many a time a dear, sweet woman has done extraordinary things for the sake of her husband or children.” “But what motive would Mrs. Wheeler have?” “The same as the others. Appleby was a thorn in their flesh, an enemy of many years’ standing. And I’ve heard hints of another reason for the family’s hating him, besides that conditional pardon business. But no matter about that now. What I want is evidence against somebody—against one of three suspects. Until I get some definite evidence I can’t tell which of the three is most likely the one.” “Seems to me the fact that Mrs. Wheeler ran downstairs and back again is enough to indicate some pretty close questioning of her,” suggested Hallen. “Oh, please,” begged Allen, “she’s so upset and distracted——” “Of course she is. But that’s the reason we must ask her about it now. When she gets calmed down, and gets a fine yarn concocted, there’ll be small use asking her anything!” “I’d tackle the old man first,” said Hallen; “I think, on general principles, he’s the one to make inquiries of before you go to the ladies. Let’s go to him now.” <div class="pb" id="Page_145">[145]</div> “No;” proposed Burdon, “let’s send for him to come here. This is away from the house, and we can talk more freely.” “I’ll go for him,” offered Allen, seeing they were determined to carry out their plan. “Not much!” said Burdon. “You’re just aching to put a flea in his ear! You go for him, Hallen.” The detective went to the house, and returned with Daniel Wheeler at his side. The suspected man stood straight and held himself fearlessly. Not an old man, he was grayed with care and trouble, but this morning he seemed strong and alert as any of them. “Put your questions,” he said, briefly, as he seated himself on one of the many seats beneath the old sycamore. “First of all, who do you think killed Samuel Appleby?” This question was shot at him by Burdon, and all waited in silence for the answer. “I killed him myself,” was the straightforward reply. “That settles it,” said Hallen, “it was one of the women.” “What do you mean by that?” cried Wheeler, turning quickly toward the speaker. <div class="pb" id="Page_146">[146]</div> “I mean, that either your wife or daughter did the deed, and you are taking the crime on yourself to save her.” “No;” reasserted Dan Wheeler, “you’re wrong. I killed Appleby for good and sufficient reason. I’m not sorry, and I accept my fate.” “Wait a minute,” said Hallen, as Keefe was about to protest; “where was your daughter, Miss Maida, when you killed your man?” “I—I don’t know. I think she had gone to the fire—which had just broken out.” “You’re not sure——” “I am not.” “She had been with you, in the den?” “I don’t know.” “Well, I know. She had. She had been sitting in her favorite window-seat, in the large bay, and was there while you and Mr. Appleby were talking together. Also, she did not leave the room to go to the fire, for no one saw her anywhere near the burning garage.” “As to that, I can’t say,” went on Wheeler, slowly, “but she was not in the den, to my knowledge, at the time of the shooting.” <div class="pb" id="Page_147">[147]</div> “Very well, let that pass. Now, then, Mr. Wheeler, if you shot Mr. Appleby, what did you afterward do with your revolver?” “I—I don’t know.” The man’s face was convincing. His frank eyes testified to the truth of his words. “I assure you, I don’t know. I was so—so bewildered—that I must have dropped it—somewhere. I never thought of it again.” “But if you had merely dropped it, it must have been found. And it hasn’t been.” “Somebody else found it and secreted it,” suggested Hallen. “Probably Mr. Wheeler’s wife or daughter.” “Perhaps so,” assented Wheeler, calmly. “They might have thought to help me by secreting it. Have you asked them?” “Yes, and they deny all knowledge of it.” “So do I. But surely it will be found.” “It must be found. And, therefore, it is imperative that the rooms of the ladies as well as your own rooms, sir, be thoroughly searched.” “All right—go ahead and search!” Wheeler spoke sharply. “I’ve confessed the crime, now waste no time in useless chattering. Get the evidence, get the proofs, and let the law take its course.” <div class="pb" id="Page_148">[148]</div> “You will not leave the premises,” put in Hallen, and his tone was that of command rather than inquiry. “I most certainly shall not,” declared Wheeler. “But I do ask you, gentlemen, to trouble and annoy my wife and daughter as little as possible. Their grief is sufficient reason for their being let alone.” “H’m,” grunted Burdon. “Well, sir, I can promise not to trouble the ladies more than is necessary—but I can’t help feeling necessity will demand a great deal.” Mrs. Wheeler was next interviewed, and the confab took place in her own sitting-room. None of her family was allowed to be present, and the four men filed into the room with various expressions of face. The two detectives were stolid-looking, but eagerly determined to do their work, while Allen and Keefe were alertly interested in finding out some way to be of help to Mrs. Wheeler. She received the men quietly, even graciously, sensing what they had come for. “To start with, Mrs. Wheeler,” said Burdon, frankly but not unkindly, “who do you think killed Mr. Appleby?” “Oh—I don’t know—I don’t know,” she wailed, losing her calm and becoming greatly agitated. <div class="pb" id="Page_149">[149]</div> “Where were you when the shot was fired?” asked Hallen. “I don’t know—I didn’t hear it——” “Then you were up in your own room?” “I suppose so—I don’t know.” “You were up there when the fire broke out?” “Yes—I think I was——” “But you must know, Mrs. Wheeler—that is, you must know where you were when you first heard of the fire——” “Yes, yes; I was up in my bedroom.” “And who told you of the fire?” “My maid—Rachel.” “And then what did you do?” “I—I—I don’t remember.” “You ran downstairs, didn’t you?” “I don’t remember——” “Yes, you did!” Burdon took up the reins. “You ran downstairs, and just as you got down to the den you saw—you saw your husband shoot Mr. Appleby!” His harsh manner, as he intended, frightened the nervous woman, and reduced her to the verge of collapse. <div class="pb" id="Page_150">[150]</div> But after a gasping moment, she recovered herself, and cried out: “I did not! I shot Mr. Appleby myself. That’s why I’m so agitated.” “I knew it!” exclaimed Burdon. “Mr. Wheeler’s confession was merely to save his wife. Now, Mrs. Wheeler, I believe your story, and I want all the particulars. First, why did you kill him?” “Be—because he was my husband’s enemy—and I had stood it as long as I could.” “H’m. And what did you do with the weapon you used?” “I threw it out of the window.” “And it dropped on the lawn?” “Not dropped; I threw it far out—as far as I could.” “Oh, I see. Out of which window?” “Why—why, the one in the den—the bay window.” “But your daughter—Miss Maida—was sitting in the bay window.” “No, she was not,” Mrs. Wheeler spoke emphatically now. “She was not in the room at all. She had gone to the fire.” “Oh, is that so? And then—what happened next?” “Why—nothing. I—I ran upstairs again.” <div class="pb" id="Page_151">[151]</div> “Appalled at what you had done?” “Not appalled—so much as—as——” “Unnerved?” “Yes; unnerved. I fell on my bed, and Rachel looked after me.” “Ah, yes; we will interview Rachel, and so save you further harrowing details. Come on, men, let’s strike while these irons are hot.” The four filed from the room, and Burdon spoke in a low tone, but excitedly: “Come quickly! There goes Miss Maida across the lawn. We will take her next. The maid, Rachel, can wait.” Inwardly rebelling, but urged on by the others, Jeff Allen went along, and as Burdon stopped Maida, on her quick walk across the lawn, Jeff put his arm through that of the girl, and said: “Do as they tell you, dear. It’s best to have this matter settled at once.” Again the party grouped themselves under the old sycamore, and this time Maida was the target for their queries. “Tell me all you know of the case,” she said, peremptorily; “then I’ll tell you what I know.” <div class="pb" id="Page_152">[152]</div> “We know that the murder was committed by one of you three Wheelers,” said Burdon, brutally. “Now, both your parents have confessed to being the criminal——” “What?” Maida cried, her face white and her eyes big and frightened. “Yes, ma’am, just that! Now, what have you to say? Are you going to confess also?” “Of course I am! For I am the real criminal! Can’t you see that my father and mother are both trying to shield me? I did it, because of that awful man’s hold on my father! Take my confession, and do with me what you will!” “Here’s a state of things!” cried Burdon, truly surprised at this new development. “The girl is telling the truth,” exclaimed Curtis Keefe, not because he really thought so but his quick mind told him that it would be easier to get a young girl acquitted than an older person, and he saw the plausibility of the detectives’ theory that it must have been one of the three Wheelers. “All right,” Burdon went on, “then, Miss Wheeler, enlighten us as to details. Where’s the weapon?” “I don’t have to tell you anything except that I did it. Do I, Jeffrey? Do I, Mr. Keefe?” She looked at these two for help. <div class="pb" id="Page_153">[153]</div> “No, Miss Wheeler,” Keefe assured her, “you needn’t say a word without legal advice.” “But, Maida,” Jeffrey groaned, “you didn’t do it—you know! You couldn’t have!” “Yes, I did, Jeff.” Maida’s eyes were glittering, and her voice was steady. “Of course I did. I’d do anything to save father from any more persecution by that man! And there was to be more! Oh, don’t let me talk! I mustn’t!” “No, you mustn’t,” agreed Keefe. “Now, Burdon, you’ve got three confessions! What are you going to do with them?” “Going to find out which is the true one,” answered Burdon, with a dogged expression. “I knew all the time it was one of the three, and I’m not surprised that the other two are willing to perjure themselves to save the criminal.” “Also, there may have been collusion,” suggested Hallen. “Of course,” the other agreed. “But we’ll find out. The whole thing rests among the three. They must not be allowed to escape——” “I’ve no intention of running away!” said Maida, proudly. <div class="pb" id="Page_154">[154]</div> “No one will run away,” opined Hallen, sagaciously. “The criminal will stand by the other two, and the other two will stand by him.” “Or her, as the case may be,” supplemented Burdon. “Her,” Maida assured him. “In the first place, my mother was upstairs in her own room, and my father was not in the den at the time. I was there alone.” “Oh, yes, your father was in the den,” cried Jeffrey, imploringly. “No,” said Maida, not catching his meaning. But Hallen caught it. “Where was Mr. Wheeler?” he asked. “I—I don’t know,” Maida said. “Well, if he wasn’t in the den, and if he wasn’t upstairs, maybe he was in the big living-room, looking out at the fire.” “Yes—yes, I think he was!” Maida agreed. “Then,” Hallen went on, “then, Mr. Wheeler broke his parole—and is due for punishment.” “Oh, no,” Maida moaned, seeing where her statements had led. “I—I guess he was in the den—after all.” “And I guess you’re making up as you go along,” opined Mr. Hallen. <div class="pb" id="Page_155">[155]</div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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