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Vicky Van

<h2 id="id00320" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER IV</h2> <h5 id="id00321">SOMERS' REAL NAME</h5> Detective Lowney, who had come with the coroner, had said little but had listened to all. Occasionally he would dart from the room, and return a few moments later, scribbling in his notebook. He was an alert little man, with beady black eyes and a stubby black mustache. "I want a few words with that caterer's man," he said, suddenly, "and then they'd better clear away this supper business and go home." We all turned to look at the table. It stood in the end of the dining-room that was back of the living-room. The sideboard was at the opposite end, back of the hall, and it was directly in front of the sideboard that Somers' body lay. Lowney turned on more light, and a thrill went through us at the incongruity of that gay table and the tragedy so near it. As always at Vicky Van's parties, the appointments were dainty and elaborate. Flowers decorated the table; lace, silver, and glass were of finest quality; and in the centre was the contrivance known as a "Jack Horner Pie." "That was to be the surprise," said Mrs. Reeves. "I knew about it. The pie is full of lovely trinkets and little jokes on the guests." "I thought those things were for children's parties," observed Fenn, looking with interest at the gorgeous confection. "They're really for birthdays," said Mrs. Reeves, "and to-day is Vicky's birthday. That was part of her surprise. She didn't want it known, lest the guests should bring gifts. She's like a child, Vicky is, just as happy over a birthday party as a little girl would be." "What does Miss Van Allen look like?" asked the detective. "She's pretty," replied Mrs. Reeves, "awfully pretty, but not a raving beauty. Black hair, and bright, fresh coloring—" "How was she dressed? Giddy clothes?" "In an evening gown," returned Mrs. Reeves, who resented the detective's off-hand manner. "A beautiful French gown, of tulle and gold trimmings." "Low-necked, and all that? Jewels?" "Yes," I said, as Mrs. Reeves disdained to answer. "Full evening costume, and a necklace and earrings of amber set in gold." "Well, what I'm getting at is," said Lowney, "a woman dressed like that couldn't go very far in the streets without being noticed. We'll surely be able to trace Miss Van Allen. Where would she be likely to go?" "I don't know," said Mrs. Reeves. "She wouldn't go to my home, I live 'way down in Washington Square." "Nor to mine," chirped Ariadne, "it's over on the west side." "I don't believe she left the house," declared the coroner. "Tell us again, Luigi," asked Lowney, "just where did the lady seem to go, when you saw her leave this room?" "I can't say, sir. I was looking through a small opening, as I pushed the door ajar, and I was so amazed at what I saw, that I was sort of paralyzed and didn't dare open the door further." "Go back to the pantry," commanded Fenn, "and look in, just as you did." The waiter retreated to the post he had held, and setting the door a few inches ajar, proved that he could see body by the sideboard, but could not command a view of the hall. "Now, I'll represent Miss Van Allen," and Lowney stood over the body of Somers. "Is this the place?" "A little farther to the right, sir," and Luigi's earnestness and good faith were unmistakable. "Yes, sir, just there." "Now, I walk out into the hall. Is this the way she went?" "Yes, sir, the same." Lowney went from the dining-room to the hall, and it was clear that his further progress could not be seen by the peeping waiter. "You see, Fenn," the detective went on, "from here, in the back of this long hall, Miss Van Allen could have left the house by two ways. She could have gone out at the front door, passing the parlor, or, she could have gone down these basement stairs, which are just under the stairs to the second story. Then she could have gone out by the front area door, which would give her access to the street. She could have caught up a cloak as she went." "Or," said Fenn, musingly, "she could have run upstairs. The staircase is so far back in the hall, that the guests in the parlor would not have seen her. This is a very deep house, you see." It was true. The stairs began so far back in the long hall, that Vicky could easily have slipped upstairs after leaving the dining-room, without being seen by any of us in the living-room, unless we were in its doorway, looking out. Was anybody? So many guests had left, that this point could not be revealed. "I didn't see her," declared Mrs. Reeves, "and I don't believe she was in the dining-room at all. I don't care what that waiter says!" "Oh, yes, Madame," reiterated Luigi. "It was Miss Van Allen. I know her well. Often she comes to Fraschini's, and always I take her orders. She came even this afternoon, to make sure the great cake—the Jack Horner, was all right. And she approved it, ah, she clapped her hands at sight of it. We all do our best for Miss Van Allen, she is a lovely lady." "Miss Van Allen is one of your regular customers?" "One of our best. Very often we serve her, and always she orders our finest wares." "You provide everything?" "Everything. Candles, flowers, decorations—all" "And she pays her bills?" "Most promptly." "By cheque?" "Yes, sir." "And there are no servants here but the maid Julie?" "I have often seen others. But I fancy they do not live in the house. Madame Julie superintends and directs us always. Miss Van Allen leaves much to her. She is most capable." "When did you see this woman, this Julie, last?" "A short time before—before that happened." Luigi looked toward the body. "She was in and out of the pantries all the evening. She admitted the guests, she acted as ladies' maid, and she arranged the favors in the pie. It was, I should say, ten minutes or so since she was last in the pantry, when I peeped in at the door." "Where was Julie then?" "I don't know. I did not see her. Perhaps upstairs, or maybe in the front of the hall, waiting to bring me word to serve supper." "Tell me something distinctive about this maid's appearance. Was she good-looking?" "Yes, a good-looking woman. But nothing especial about her. She had many gold fillings in her teeth—" "That's something," and Lowney noted it with satisfaction. "Go on." But Luigi seemed to know nothing else that differentiated Julie from her sisters in service, and Lowney changed his questions. "How could Miss Van Allen get that knife of yours?" he asked. "I don't know, sir. It was, I suppose, in the pantry, with our other knives." "What is its use?" "It is a boning knife, but doubtless one of our men used it in cutting celery for salad, or some such purpose." "Ask them." Inquiry showed that a man, named Palma, had used the knife for making a salad, and had left it in the butler's pantry an hour or so before the crime was committed. Any one could have taken the knife without its being missed, as the salad had been completed and put aside. "In that case, Miss Van Allen must have secured the knife some little time before it was used, as Luigi was in the pantry just previously," observed Fenn. "That shows premeditation. It wasn't done with a weapon picked up at the moment." "Then it couldn't have been done by Miss Van Allen!" exclaimed Mrs. Reeves triumphantly, "for Vicky had no reason to premeditate killing a man she had never seen before." "Vicky didn't do it," wailed Ariadne. "I know she didn't." "She must be found," said Lowney. "But she will be found. If she's innocent, she will return herself. If guilty, we must find her. And we will. A householder cannot drop out of existence unnoticed by any one. Does she own this house?" "I think so," said Mrs. Reeves. "I'm not positive, but it's my impression that she does. Vicky Van never boasts or talks of her money or of herself. But I know she gives a good deal in charity, and is always ready to subscribe to philanthropic causes. I tell you she is not the criminal, and I don't believe she ever left this house in the middle of the night in evening dress! That child is scared to death, and is hiding—in the attic or somewhere." "Suppose, Mrs. Reeves," said the coroner, "you go with Mr. Lowney, and look over the house again. Search the bedrooms and store-rooms." "I will," and Mrs. Reeves seemed to welcome an opportunity to help. She was a good-hearted woman, and a staunch friend of Vicky Van. I was glad she was on hand to stand up for the girl, for I confess things looked, to me, pretty dubious. "Come along, too, Mr. Calhoun," said Mrs. Reeves. "There's no telling what we may find. Perhaps there's further—tragedy." I knew what was in her mind. That if Vicky had done the thing, she might have, in an agony of remorse, taken her own life. Thrilled with this new fear, I followed Lowney and Mrs. Reeves. We went downstairs first. We examined all the basement rooms and the small, city back yard. There was no sign of Vicky Van or of Julie, and next we came back to the first floor, hunted that, and then on upstairs. The music room was soon searched, and I fell back as the others went into Vicky's bedroom. "Come on, Mr. Calhoun," said Lowney, "we must make a thorough job of it this time." The bedroom was, it seemed to me, like a fairy dream. Furniture of white enameled wicker, with pink satin cushions. Everywhere the most exquisite appointments of silver, crystal and embroidered fabrics, and a bed fit for a princess. It seemed profanation for the little detective to poke and pry around in wardrobes and cupboards, though I knew it must be done. He was not only looking for Vicky, but noting anything that might bear on her disappearance. But there was no clue. Everything was in order, and all just as a well-bred, refined woman would have her belongings. The bedroom was over the dining-room, and back of this, over the pantry extension, was Vicky Van's dressing-room. This was a bijou boudoir, and dressing-table, chiffonier, robe-chests, and jewel-caskets were all in keeping with the personality of their owner. The walls were panelled in pale rose color, and a few fine pictures were in absolute harmony. A long mirror was in a Florentine gilt frame, and a chaise longue, by a reading table, bespoke hours of ease. Ruthlessly, Lowney pried into everything, ran his arm among the gowns hanging in the wardrobe, and looked into the carved chests. Again no clue. The perfect order everywhere, showed, perhaps, preparation for guests, but nothing indicated flight or hiding. The dressing-table boxes held some bits of jewelry but nothing of really great value. An escritoire was full of letters and papers, and this, Lowney locked, and put the key in his pocket. "If it's all right," he said, "there's no harm done. And if the lady doesn't show up, we must examine the stuff." On we went to the third floor of the house. The rooms here were unused, save one that was evidently Julie's. The furnishings, though simple, were attractive, and showed a thoughtful mistress and an appreciative maid. Everything was in order. Several uniforms of black and of gray were in the cupboard, and several white aprons and one white dress. There were books, and a work-basket and such things as betokened the life of a sedate, busy woman. We left no room, no cupboard unopened. No hall or loft unsearched. We looked in, under and behind every piece of furniture, and came, at last, to the unescapable conclusion that wherever Vicky Van might be, she was not in her own house. Downstairs we went, and found Coroner Fenn and Inspector Mason in the hall. They had let Doctor Remson go home, also Garrison and Miss Gale. The waiters, too, had been sent off. "You people can go, if you like," Fenn said, to Mrs. Reeves and myself. "I'll take your addresses, and you can expect to be called on as witnesses. If we ever get anything to witness! I never saw such a case! No criminal to arrest, and nobody knows the victim! He must be from out of town. We'll nail Mr. Steele to-morrow, and begin to get somewhere. Also we'll look up Miss Van Allen's credits and business acquaintances. A woman can't have lived two years in a house like this, and not have somebody know her antecedents and relatives. I suppose Mr. Steele brought his friend here, and then, when this thing happened he was scared and lit out." "Maybe Steele did the killing," suggested Lowney. "No," disagreed Fenn. "I believe that Dago waiter's yarn. I cross-questioned him a lot before I let him go, and I'm sure he's telling what he saw. I'll see Fraschini's head man to-morrow—or, I suppose it's to-morrow now—hello, who's that?" Another policeman came in at the street door. "What's up?" he said, looking about in amazement. "You here, Mr. Fenn? Lowney? What's doing?" It was Patrolman Ferrall, the officer on the beat. "Where you been?" asked the coroner. "Don't you know what has happened?" "No; ever since midnight I been handling a crowd at a fire a couple blocks away. This is Miss Van Allen's house." "Sure it is, and a friend of hers named Somers has been bumped off." "What? Killed?" "That's it. What do you know of Miss Van Allen?" "Nothing, except that she lives here. Quiet young lady. Nothin' to be said about her. Who's the man?" "Don't know, except named Somers. R. Somers." "Never heard of him. Where's Miss Van Allen?" "Skipped." "What! That little thoroughbred can't be mixed up in a shootin'!" "He isn't shot. Stabbed. With a kitchen knife." "Let's see him." The coroner and Ferrall went toward the dining room, and, on an irresistible impulse of curiosity, I followed. "Him!" exclaimed Ferrall, as he caught sight of the dead man's features. "That ain't no Somers. That's Randolph Schuyler." "What!" "Sure it is. Schuyler, the millionaire. Lives on Fifth Avenue, not far down from here. Who killed him?" "But look here. Are you sure this is Randolph Schuyler?" "Sure? Of course I'm sure. His house is on my beat. I see him often, goin' in or comin' out." "Well, then we have got a big case on our hands! Mason!" The inspector could scarcely believe Ferrall's statement, but realized that the policeman must know. "Whew!" he said, trying to think of a dozen things at once. "Then Steele knew him, and introduced him as Somers on purpose. No wonder the clubs didn't know of R. Somers! R. S. on his handkerchiefs and all that. He used a false name 'cause he didn't want it known that Randolph Schuyler came to see Miss Van Allen! Oh, here's a mess! Where's that girl? Why did she kill him?" "She didn't!" Mrs. Reeves began to cry. "She didn't know it was Mr. Schuyler. She doesn't know Mr. Schuyler. I'm sure she doesn't, because we were making lists for bazar patrons and she said she would ask only people she knew, and we tried to find somebody who knew Randolph Schuyler, to ask him, but we didn't know anybody who was acquainted with him at all. Oh, it can't be the rich Schuyler! Why would he come here?" "We must get hold of Mr. Steele as soon as possible," said Fenn, excitedly. "Breen, call up his home address again, and if he isn't there, go there and stick till he comes. Now, for some one to identify this body. Call up the Schuyler house—no, better go around there. Where is it, Ferrall?" "Go straight out to the Avenue, and turn down. It's No.—only part of a block down. Who's going?" "You go, Lowney," said Fenn. "Mason, will you go?" "Yes, of course. Come on, Lowney." The coroner gave Mrs. Reeves and myself permission to go home, and I was glad to go. But Mrs. Reeves declared her intention of staying the night, what was left of it, in Miss Van Allen's house. "It's too late for me to go down alone," she said, in her sensible way. "And, too, I'd rather be here, in case—in case Miss Van Allen comes home. I'm her friend, and I know she'd like me to stay." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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