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Vicky Van

<h2 id="id00774" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER VIII</h2> <h5 id="id00775">THE LETTER-BOX</h5> "It's a queer case," said Mr. Bradbury to me, when I reached the office that afternoon. "Of course, I know Randolph Schuyler was no saint, but I never supposed he was deep enough in any affair to have a woman kill him. And so near his own home, too! He might have had the decency to choose his lady acquaintances in more remote sections of the city." "That isn't the queerest part to me," I returned. "What I can't understand is, why that girl stabbed him. She didn't know him—" "Now, now, Calhoun, she must have known him. She didn't know any Somers, we'll say, but she must have known Schuyler. A murder has to have a motive. She had provided herself with that knife beforehand, you see, and she got him out to the dining-room purposely." "I can't think it," I said, and I sighed. "I know Vicky Van fairly well, and she wouldn't—" "You can't say what a woman would or wouldn't do. But it's not our business to look after the criminal part of it, we've got all we can handle, attending to the estate. And here's another thing. I wish you'd do all that's necessary up at the house. I always got along all right with Randolph Schuyler, but I can't stand those sisters of his. His wife I have never met. But those old Schuyler women get on my nerves. So you look after them. You're more of a ladies' man than I am, so you go there and talk pretty when they want legal advice." "I'm willing," I agreed. "I don't care such a lot for the sisters myself, but Mrs. Schuyler is a young thing, ignorant of her own rights, and those old maids boss her like fury. I'm going to see that she has her own way in some few things, at least. She inherits half the fortune, you know." "Yes, and the sisters a quarter each. That is, after some minor bequests and charitable donations are settled. Schuyler was a good sort—as men go." "Then men go pretty badly! He was a brute to his wife; I've been told he ruled her with a rod of iron, and what he didn't bother her about, the old sisters did." "That's neither here nor there. Don't you try to be a peacemaker in that family. I know those two old ladies, and they'd resent anything in the way of criticism of their treatment of their sister-in-law. And, if Schuyler didn't treat his wife handsomely, she's rid of him now, at any rate." "You're a cold-blooded thing, Bradbury," I informed him, "and I am going to do all I can for that young widow. She'll have a lot of unpleasant publicity at best, and if I can shield her from part of it, so much the better." "All right, Calhoun. Do what you like, but don't get in on the detective work. I know your weakness for that sort of thing, and I know if you begin, you'll never let up." Bradbury was right. I have a fondness for detective work—not the police part of it, but the inquiry into mystery, the deduction from clues and the sifting of evidence. I had no mind to miss the inquest, and I had a burning curiosity to know what had become of Vicky Van. This was not only curiosity, either. I had a high respect and a genuine liking for that little lady, and, as Mrs. Reeves had put it, I was only too willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Though I couldn't feel any real doubt that she had killed Schuyler. As Bradbury said, she didn't know a Mr. Somers, but she may have known the millionaire Schuyler. I had never seen anything of a seamy side to Vicky's character; but then, I didn't know her so very well, and the man was dead, and who else could have killed him? I went around to the caterer's on my way uptown that afternoon, and asked him as to the reliability of Luigi and the probable truth of his story. "That man," Fraschini told me, "is as honest as the day. I've had him longer than any of my other waiters, and he has never said or done anything to make me doubt his accuracy. I believe, Mr. Calhoun, that Luigi saw exactly what he said he saw." "Might he not have been mistaken in the identity of the woman?" "Not likely. I'll call him, and you can question him." This was what I wanted, to question the waiter alone, and I welcomed the opportunity. "I know it was Miss Van Allen," was the quiet response of the Italian to my inquiry. "I cannot be mistaken. I had seen her many times during the evening. I, therefore, recognized the gown she wore, of light yellow gauzy stuff and an over-dress of long gold bead fringes. I saw her stand above the fallen body, looking down at it with a horrified face. I saw stains of blood on her gown—" "Where?" I interrupted. "What part of her gown?" Luigi thought a moment. "On the lower flounces, as if her skirts had brushed against the—the victim, when she stooped over him." "Did she herself observe these stains?" "Yes; she looked at them, and looked frightened and then she ran to the hall." "And you saw no other person near?" "None." "And heard nobody?" "I heard only the voices from the parlor. There was much noise of laughter and talk there." No amount of questioning could change or add to Luigi's story. It was quite evident that he was telling just what he saw, and had no interest in coloring it to make it appear different in any way. He admired Miss Van Allen, he said she was a pleasant lady and not hard to please if her orders were faithfully carried out. He expressed no personal interest in the question of her guilt or innocence, he simply told what he had seen. I didn't altogether like his stolid indifference, it seemed impossible there should be so little humanity in a fellow-being, but I knew he was a good and conscientious waiter, and I concluded he was nothing more. I went home, and, of course, was met by Aunt Lucy and Winnie with a perfect storm of questions. "After dinner," I begged. "Let me get a little rest and food, and then I'll tell you all I know." But after a few spoonfuls of soup, Winnie declared I was too nervous to eat and I might as well talk. "Well, I will," I said. "But, look here, you two. To begin with, I want you to understand that I'm involved in this matter in a business way, and I'm also interested in a personal way. And I don't want any silly talk about it's being unfortunate or regrettable that I should be. It's a business case, Aunt Lucy, as far as the settlement of Mr. Schuyler's estate is concerned, and it's a personal affair that I'm acquainted with Miss Van Allen; and I propose to make more or less effort to find some trace of that girl, and to see if there is any possible chance that she may not be the guilty one after all." "Good for you, Lord Chesterton!" cried Winnie. "I always knew you were the soul of chivalry, and now you're proving it! What are you going to do—to find out things, I mean?" "I don't know yet, Win. But if you want to help me, you can do a lot." "Indeed, she won't!" declared Aunt Lucy. "If you have to do these things as a matter of business, I can't object. But I won't have Winnie dragged into it." "No dragging, Aunt Lu, and nothing very desperate for Winnie to do. But, I'd be jolly glad if both of you would just glance out of the window occasionally and see if you see anything going on at the Van Allen house, that's all." "Oh, I'll do that!" Winnie cried. "Nobody can see me, I'll keep behind our curtains, and I can see that house perfectly well." "I don't mean all the time, child. But I do feel sure that Vicky Van will come back there, and if you glance out now and then, you might see her go in or out." "But it's dark," said Aunt Lucy, who was becoming interested, in spite of her scruples. "I don't mean to-night, or any night. But in the daytime. She's likely to come, if at all, in broad daylight, I think." "Aren't the police keeping guard on the house?" inquired my aunt. "Only the regular patrolman. He passes it every few hours, joggles the doorknob, and goes on. If Vicky is as clever as I think she is, she'll time that policeman, and sneak into the house between his rounds. It's only a chance, you know, but you might see her." And then I told them all I knew myself of the whole affair. And seeing that I was deeply into the turmoil of it all, and had grave responsibilities, Aunt Lucy withdrew all objections and sympathized with me. Also, she was impressed with my important business connections with the Schuyler family, and was frankly curious about that aristocratic household. I was asked over and over again as to their mode of living, the furniture and appointments of the house, and the attitudes of the widow and the sisters toward each other. It was late in the evening before I remembered some important papers Mr. Bradbury had given me to hand to Mrs. Schuyler, and as soon as I thought of them I telephoned to know if I might then bring them over. "Yes," came back Ruth Schuyler's soft voice. "I wish you would. I want to consult you about some other things also." The interview was less trying than that of the morning had been. Several matters of inheritance, insurance, and such things were discussed, and Mrs. Schuyler was more composed and calm. She looked better, too, though this was doubtless due, in part, to the fact that she wore a white house dress which was far more becoming than black to her colorless face and light hair. "I don't know," she said, at length, "whether what I want to say should be said to you or to the detective." "Tell me first," I said, "and I may be able to advise you. In any case, it will be confidential." "You are kind," she said, and her grateful eyes smiled appreciatively. "It's this. I'd rather not have that—that Miss Van Allen traced, if it can be prevented in any way. I have a special reason for this, which I think I will tell you. It is, that, on thinking it over I have become convinced that my husband must have known the young woman, and the acquaintance was not to his credit. For some reason, I think, she must have forbidden him the house, and that is why he went there under an assumed name. Mr. Lowney succeeded in getting Mr. Steele on the long distance telephone—" "Why, where is Steele?" "In Chicago. Mr. Lowney says that he had to go there on the midnight train, and that is why he left the lady's house—Miss Van Allen's house, so suddenly." "Really? Well, I am surprised. But, go on, what else did Steele say?" "He said that Mr. Schuyler was with him at the club, and that he, Mr. Steele, said he was going to Miss Van Allen's party and Mr. Schuyler begged him to take him along, and introduce him as Mr. Somers. It seems he had asked Mr. Steele before to do this, but this time he was more insistent. So Mr. Steele did it. Of course, Mr. Calhoun, I asked Mr. Lowney minutely about all this, because I want to know just what circumstances led up to my husband's going to that house." "Of course, Mrs. Schuyler, you have every right to know. And did Steele say that was Mr. Schuyler's first visit there or merely his first visit as Mr. Somers?" "Mr. Steele thought Mr. Schuyler had never been to the house before at all. But may he not have been mistaken? May not Mr. Schuyler have known the lady previously—oh, it is such a moil! But, in any case, Mr. Calhoun, it seems to me that further probing and searching will only pile up opprobrium on the name of Schuyler, and—I can't stand it. I am so unused to notoriety or publicity I can't face all the unpleasantness that must follow! Do help me to avoid it, won't you?" "I certainly will, if I can. But I fear you ask the impossible, Mrs. Schuyler. The law will not be stopped in its course by personal inclinations." "No, I suppose not. What is it, Tibbetts?" The last question was addressed to her maid, who appeared at the doorway. The sad-faced woman looked at her mistress with a mingled air of deference and commiseration. "The telephone, ma'am," she said. "I said you were busily engaged, but it is some young woman who begs to speak to you a moment." Mrs. Schuyler excused herself and left the room, and Tibbetts, smoothing down her trim white apron, followed. "Another would-be secretary," my hostess said, as she returned. "I don't know how a report that I wanted one travelled so quickly, but I've had three offered since noon." "Do the Schuyler ladies still object?" "No; at least, they are willing. But I don't want any except a capable one. Not so much experienced, as quick-witted and intelligent. You may as well know, Mr. Calhoun, since you are to look after my affairs, that my late husband was of strictly plain habits. He was almost frugal in his ideas of how little womankind should be indulged in any luxuries or unnecessary comforts. This did not incommode his sisters for they were of the same mind. But I desired certain things which he saw fit to deny me. I make no complaint, I bear his memory no ill will, but I feel that now I may have some of these things. I am my own mistress, and while I have no wish to cast any reflection on Mr. Schuyler's management of his own house, yet, it is now my house, and I must have the privilege of ordering it as I choose." It had come already, then. Ruth Schuyler and her Puritanical sisters-in-law had met the issue, and Ruth had stood up for her rights. I felt that I knew the woman well enough to know she would not have taken this stand so soon after her husband's death except that some discussion or disagreement had made it necessary for her to assert herself. I bowed in acquiescence, and said, "I am sure, Mrs. Schuyler, there can be no objection to your doing exactly as you please. This house is entirely your own, half Mr. Schuyler's fortune is yours, and you are responsible to nobody for your actions. If not intrusive, I will offer to look you up a suitable secretary. I have a young woman in mind, whom I think you would like." "I am not easy to please," she said, smiling a little; "I have a very definite idea of what I want. Who is your friend?" "Not a friend, exactly. An acquaintance of my sister's, who is eligible for the post, if she suits you. Shall I send her round to see you to-morrow?" "Yes, please. Your mention of her is enough recommendation. I want, Mr. Calhoun, to do more or less charitable work this winter. That was another of Mr. Schuyler's whims, to attend to all charities himself, and to object to my giving anything personally. As I shall be quiet and unoccupied this winter, I plan to do some systematic work in a benevolent way. I know this sounds strange to you, that I should be planning these things so soon. But the truth is, I do plan them, purposely, because I don't want to think about the present horror. I need something to keep my mind from thinking of the awful tragedy or I shall go mad. It seemed to me not wrong to think about some work that should benefit others; and to do this, will give me an outlet for my energies and be helpful to the poor and suffering." Ruth Schuyler looked almost beautiful as her face glowed with enthusiasm on her subject. I realized how the nervous, highstrung woman must be torn with agony at the revelations of her husband's defects and the uncertainty of his honor and morality, and all in addition to the terrible experiences she was undergoing and must yet encounter. I went home filled with a desire to help her in every way I could, and though I went to my room at once, I could not think of sleep. I felt like planning ways to put the police off the track or finding some method of making them cease their hunt for Vicky Van. I went down to the library, and sat down for a smoke and a revery. And I sat there until very late, after two o'clock, in fact, without getting any nearer a plan than I was at the start. It was nearly three, when I concluded that I could sleep at last. I stood by the front window a moment, looking over at Vicky Van's house, across the street, and a few doors from our own. As I looked at the darkened dwelling, I saw the front door slowly open. There was no one outside, it was being opened from inside. As I knew the body of Mr. Schuyler had been taken away, and the house had been deserted by all who had been there, and that it was in custody of the police, I looked curiously to see what would happen next. Out of the door came a slight, small figure. It was, I felt positive, Vicky Van herself! I couldn't mistake that sleek, black head—she wore no hat—or those short, full skirts, that she always wore. She looked about cautiously, and then with swift motions she unlocked the letter-box that was beside her front door, took out several letters, relocked the box and slipped back into the house again! Without stopping to think I opened my front door, and flew across the street. Mounting her steps, I rang the doorbell hard. There was no response, and I kept on ringing—a veritable bombardment. Then the door opened a very little bit—I could see it was on a night-chain—and Vicky's voice said, "Please go away." "No, I won't," I said, "let me come in." "I can't let you come in. Go away, please." And then the door closed, in my very face, and though I pleaded, "Vicky, do let me in!" there was no response. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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