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Vicky Van

<h2 id="id01203" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XIII</h2> <h5 id="id01204">FLEMING STONE</h5> Vicky had said "Hush!" but it was an unnecessary precaution, for I was too stunned to articulate. I peered at her in the darkness and then, unable to control my desire for certainty I flashed my little pocket light on her for an instant. "Don't!" she whispered, putting her hands up before her face. But I had seen. It was really Vicky Van, her smooth black hair looped over her ears, her scarlet mouth, and soft pink cheeks, flushed with excitement of the moment, and her long dark lashes, which suddenly fell beneath the blinding flare of the light, all were those of the runaway girl. "Don't talk," she said, hastily, "let me do the talking. I want you to help me, will you?" "Of course, I will," and all sense of law and justice fled before the wave of pity and solicitude for the trembling suppliant who thus appealed to me. Her voice was indistinct and a little hoarse, as if she was laboring under great mental and nerve strain, and she was so alone, so unprotected, that I couldn't help promising any assistance in my power. "There wasn't any parcel in the big vase," I said, in a low voice, as she seemed to hesitate about going on with her explanation. "No, here it is," and she handed me a little box, "Just put it away safely for the present. And now, this is what I want to ask of you. Don't let them engage that Mr. Stone, to hunt me down, will you?" "Why, how can I help it?" "Oh, can't you?" and she sounded so disappointed; "I hoped you could persuade Mrs. Schuyler not to have him." "But Mrs. Schuyler doesn't want him, either!" I exclaimed. "It's those two sisters who insist on getting him. And I never could turn their wills, try as I might." "Why doesn't Mrs. Schuyler want him?" "Oh, I'm not sure that she really objects to the plan, but, I mean she didn't seem as anxious as the other two. You see, little girl, the widow of Randolph Schuyler isn't so bitter against you as the two sisters are." "That's good of her," and Vicky's voice was wistful. "But, you know I must remain in hiding—" "I thought you were going to leave New York?" "I am. And at once. But if that Mr. Stone gets on my trail, he'll find me, as sure as fate. And so I risked this interview to try to persuade you to use your influence against his coming." "And I'll do that," I returned, heartily. "But I feel that I ought to tell you that I doubt my power to dissuade the Schuyler sisters from their determination. And, too, how did you know they thought of getting him?" "Oh, I see all the papers, you know, and in one of them a reporter gave a personal interview with the Schuyler people, and they hinted at getting that man." Vicky sighed wearily, as if her last hope was gone. I was full of questions I wanted to ask her, but it seemed intrusive and unkind to quiz her. And yet, one thing I felt I must say. I must ask her what she knew of the actual crime. "Tell me," I blurted out, "who did kill Randolph Schuyler?" Again I felt her tremble, and her voice quivered as she whispered back, "It must have been some enemy of his, who got in at the window, or something like that." My heart fell. This was the sort of thing she would say if she were herself the guilty one. I had hoped for a more sincere, even if despairing, answer. "But I must send you away," she breathed in my ear. We were standing just inside the room, and Vicky held her hand on a chair-back for support. There was the faintest light from the street, enough for us to distinguish one another's forms, but no more. Vicky wore a street gown of some sort, and a long cloak. On her head was a small hat, and a black net veil. This was tied so tightly that it interfered a little with her speech, I thought, though when I had looked at her face by my flashlight, the veil had not been of sufficient thickness to conceal her features at all. I've often wondered why women wear those uncomfortable things. She kept pulling it away from her lips as she talked. "I want my address book," she went on, hurriedly. "I've looked all over for it, and it's gone. Did the detective take it?" "I think he did," I replied, remembering Lowney's search. "Can't you get it back for me?" "Look here, child, what do you think I am? A magician?" "No, but I thought you could manage somehow to get it," her voice showed the adorable petulance that distinguished Vicky Van; "and then, you could send it to me—" "Where?" I cried, eagerly. "Where shall I address you?" "I can't tell you that. But you can bring it here and leave it in the Chinese jar, and I will get it." "How do you come in and go out of this house without being seen?" I demanded. "By the area door?" "Perhaps so," and she spoke lightly. "And perhaps by a window, and maybe by means of an aeroplane and down through the skylight." "Not that," I said, "the skylight is fastened on the inside, and has been ever since—ever since that night." "Well, then I don't come that way. But if you'll get that book and put it in the big vase, I'll come and get it. When will it be there?" "You're crazy to think I can get it," I returned, slowly, "but if I can I will. Give me a few days—" "A week, if you like. Shall we say a week from to-night?" "Next Monday? Yes. If I can get it at all, I can have it by then. How shall I let you know?" "You needn't let me know, for I know now you will get it. Steal it from Mr. Lowney, if you can't get it otherwise." "But if Fleming Stone is on your trail, will you come for the book?" "I must," she spoke gravely. "I must have the book. It means everything to me. I must have it!" "Then you shall, if I can manage it. It is your book, it has proved of no value as evidence, you may as well have it." "Yes, I may as well have it. And now, Mr. Calhoun, will you go, please, or do you intend to turn me over to the police?" "Vicky!" I cried, "how can you say such a thing? Of course I'll go, if you bid me. But let me wait a minute. You know you wrote to Ruth Schuyler—" "Ruth? Is that one of the old sisters?" "No. Ruth is the widow." "Oh, yes, I wrote to her. I didn't know her first name. I wrote because I thought it was she who is making the desperate search for me, and I hoped I could influence her to stop it. That's all. I have no interest in Randolph Schuyler's widow, except as she affects my future, but can you do anything by working in the other direction? I mean can you dissuade Fleming Stone from coming, by asking him not to? You can bribe him perhaps—I have money—" "Oh, I doubt if I could do anything like that. But I'll try, I'll try every way I can, and, if I succeed—how shall I let you know?" "Oh, I'll know. If he takes up the matter, it will probably get into the papers, and if I see nothing of it, I'll conclude you succeeded." "But I—I want to see you again, Vicky—" "Oh, no, you don't. Why, you don't know this minute but what I stabbed that man, and—" "You didn't, Vicky—tell me you didn't!" "I can't tell you that. I can't tell you anything. I am the most miserable girl on God's earth!" and I heard tears in Vicky's voice, and a sob choked her utterance. "Now go," she said, after a moment, "I can't stand any more. Please go, and do what you can for me, without getting yourself into trouble. Go, and don't look back to see how I make my exit, will you?" "Indeed, I won't do that. Your confidences are safe with me, Vicky, and I will do all in my power to help you, in any way I can." "Then go now," she said, and a gentle pressure of her hand on my arm urged me toward the door. I went without another word, and neither while in the street, nor after gaining my own house, did I look back for another glimpse of Vicky Van. And yet, try as I would, maneuver as I might, I couldn't prevent the arrival of Fleming Stone. The Schuyler sisters were determined to have the great detective, and though Mrs. Schuyler wasn't so anxious, yet she raised not the slightest objection, and after some persuasion, Stone agreed to take the case. I was present at his first call to discuss details and was immensely interested in my first sight of the man. Tall, well-formed, and of a gravely courteous manner, he impressed me as the most magnetically attractive man I had ever seen. His iron-gray hair and deep-set, dark eyes gave him a dignity that I had never before associated with my notions of a detective. The Schuyler sisters were frankly delighted with him. "I know you'll run down the murderer of my brother," Miss Rhoda exulted, while Miss Sarah began to babble volubly of what she called clues and evidence. Fleming Stone listened politely, now and then asking a direct question and sometimes turning to Ruth Schuyler for further information. As I watched him closely, it occurred to me that he really paid little attention to what the women said, he was more engaged in scanning their faces and noting their attitudes. Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought he was sizing up their characters and their sympathies, and intended looking up his clues and evidence by himself. "The first thing to do," he declared, at last, "is to find Miss Van Allen." This was what I had feared, and remembering my promise to Vicky I said, "I think that will be impossible, Mr. Stone. She wrote she was leaving New York forever." "But a householder like that can't go away forever," Stone said, "she must look after her goods and chattels, and she must pay her rent—" "No, she owns the house." "Must pay the taxes, then. Must sell it, or rent it or do something with it." "It would seem so," I agreed. "And yet, if one is wanted for murder one would sacrifice household goods and the house itself in order to escape being caught." "True," and Stone nodded his head. "But, still, I fancy she would return for something. Few women could leave their home like that, and not have some valuables or some secret papers or something for which they must return. I venture to say Miss Van Allen has already been back to her house, more than once, on secret errands." Was the man a clairvoyant? How could he know that Vicky had done this very thing? But I realized at once, that he knew it, not from cognizance of facts, but from his prescience of what would necessarily follow in such a case. "She has her keys, of course?" he asked. "The police have charge of the keys," I said, a little lamely. "I know," Stone said, impatiently, "but there are doubtless more keys than the ones they have. I should say, that Miss Van Allen took at least the key of one door with her, however hurried her flight." "It may be so," I conceded. "But, granting she has been back and forth on the errands you suggest, it is not likely she will keep it up." "No, it is not. And especially if she learns I am on the case." "How could she know that?" Ruth Schuyler asked. "I'm sure Miss Van Allen is a most clever and ingenious young woman," Stone replied, "and I feel sure she knows all that is going on. She gets information from the papers, and, too, she has that dependable maid, Julie. That woman, probably disguised, can do much in the way of getting information as to how matters are progressing. You see, I've followed the case all the way along, and the peculiarities and unique conditions of it are what induced me to take it up." "Shall we offer a reward, Mr. Stone, for the discovery of the hiding place of Miss Van Allen?" asked Rhoda, eagerly. "I want to use every possible means of finding her." "Not yet, Miss Schuyler. Let us try other plans first. But I must enjoin utter secrecy about my connection with the matter. Not the fact that I am at work on it, but the developments or details of my work. It is a most unusual, a most peculiar case, and I must work unimpeded by outside advice or interference. I may say, I've never known of a case which presented such extraordinary features, and features which will either greatly simplify or greatly impede my progress." "Just what do you mean by that last remark, Mr. Stone?" asked Ruth Schuyler, who had been listening intently. "I mean that the absolutely mysterious disappearance of the young woman will either be of easy and simple solution, or else it will prove an insoluble mystery. There will be no half-way work about it. If I can't learn the truth in a short time, I fear I never can." "How strange," said I. "Do you often feel thus about the beginning of a case?" "Very rarely, almost never. And never have I felt it so strongly as in this instance. To trace that girl is not a matter of long and patient search, it's rather a question of a bit of luck or a slight slip on her part, or—well—of some coincidence or chance discovery that will clear things at one flash." "Then you're depending on luck?" exclaimed Rhoda, in a disappointed tone. "Oh, not that," and Stone smiled. "At least, I'm not depending entirely on that. If luck comes my way, so much the better. And now, please let me see the notes Miss Van Allen has written." None was available, however, except the one to Ruth Schuyler. For the one to Randolph Schuyler was in Lowney's possession, and the one I had had from Vicky, and which was even then in my pocket, I had no intention of showing. It was not necessary, however, for Fleming Stone said one was enough to gather all that he could learn from her chirography. He studied it attentively, but only for a moment. Then he said, "A characteristic penmanship, but to me it only shows forcefulness, ingenuity and good nature. However, I'm not an expert, I only get a general impression, and the traits I've mentioned are undoubtedly to be found in the lady's nature. Are they not?" and he turned to me, as to one who knew. "They are," I replied, "so far as I know Miss Van Allen. But my acquaintance with her is limited, and I can only agree superficially." Stone eyed me closely, and I began to feel a little uncomfortable under his gaze. Clearly, I'd have to tell the truth, or incur his suspicion. Nor did I wish to prevaricate. I felt friendly toward poor little Vicky, and yet, I had no mind to run counter to the interest of Ruth Schuyler. The two sisters I didn't worry about, and indeed, they could look out for themselves. But Ruth Schuyler was in a position to demand justice, and if that justice accused Vicky Van, I must be honest and fair to both in my testimony. Fleming Stone proceeded to question the women, more definitely and concisely now, and by virtue of his marvellous efficiency, he so shaped his inquiries, that he learned details with accuracy and rapidity. It would never have occurred to me to ask the questions that he put, but as he went on, I saw their pertinence and value. With Ruth's permission he called several of the servants and asked them a few things. Nothing of moment transpired, to my mind, but Stone was interested in a full account of where each servant was and what he was doing on the night of the murder. Each gave a straightforward and satisfactory account, and I realized that Stone was only getting a sense of the household atmosphere, and its relations to Mr. Schuyler himself. Tibbetts, the middle-aged maid of Ruth Schuyler, told of the shock to her mistress when the news was brought. "Mrs. Schuyler had retired," said Tibbetts, "at about ten o'clock, Mr. Schuyler was out, and was not expected home until late. I attended her, and after she was in bed, I went to bed myself." "I'm told you do not live here," commented Stone, though in a disinterested way, and at the same time making notes of some other matters in his notebook. "I have a room around on Third Avenue," replied Tibbetts. "I like a little home of my own, and when Mrs. Schuyler permits me, I go 'round there to sleep, and sometimes I go in the daylight hours. But on that night I happened to be staying here." "Tibbetts is rather a privileged character," interposed Ruth. "She has been with me for many years, and as she likes a little place of her own, I adopted the plan of which she has told you." "But that night you were here?" said Stone, to the maid. "Yes, sir. I slept in Mrs. Schuyler's dressing room, as I always do when I'm here. Then when Jepson told me the—the awful news, I awoke Mrs. Schuyler and told her." "Yes," said Stone. "I read all about that in the inquest report." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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