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Mystery of the Boule Cabinet

<h5 id="id00392">GRADY TAKES A HAND</h5> I have no very clear remembrance of what happened after that. The shock was so great that I had just strength enough to totter to a chair and drop into it, and sit there staring vaguely at that dark splotch on the carpet. I told myself that I was the victim of a dreadful nightmare; that all this was the result of over-wrought nerves and that I should wake presently. No doubt I had been working too hard. I needed a vacation—well, I would take it…. And all the time I knew that it was not a nightmare, but grim reality; that Philip Vantine was dead—killed by a woman. Who had told me that? And then I remembered the sobbing voice…. Two or three persons came into the room—Parks and the other servants, I suppose; I heard Godfrey's voice giving orders; and finally someone held a glass to my lips and commanded me to drink. I did so mechanically; coughed, spluttered, was conscious of a grateful warmth, and drank eagerly again. And then I saw Godfrey standing over me. "Feel better?" he asked. I nodded. "I don't wonder it knocked you out," he went on. "I'm feeling shaky myself. I had them call Vantine's physician—but he can't do anything." "He's dead, then?" I murmured, my eyes on that dark and crumpled object which had been Philip Vantine. "Yes—just like the other." Then I remembered, and I caught his arm and drew him down to me. "Godfrey," I whispered, "whose voice was it—or did I dream it —something about a woman?" "You didn't dream it—it was Rogers—he's almost hysterical. We'll get the story, as soon as he quiets down." Someone called him from the door, and he turned away, leaving me staring blankly at nothing. So there had been a woman in Vantine's life! Perhaps that was why he had never married. What ugly skeleton was to be dragged from its closet? But if a woman killed Vantine, the same woman also killed d'Aurelle. Where was her hiding-place? From what ambush did she strike? I glanced about the room, as a tremor of horror seized me. I arose, shaking, from the chair and groped my way toward the door. Godfrey heard me coming, swung around, and, with one glance at my face, came to me and caught me by the arms. "What is it, Lester?" he asked. "I can't stand it here," I gasped. "It's too horrible!" "Don't think about it. Come out here and have another drink." He led me into the hall, and a second glass of brandy gave me back something of my self-control. I was ashamed of my weakness, but when I glanced at Godfrey, I saw how white his face was. "Better take a drink yourself," I said. I heard the decanter rattle on the glass. "I don't know when I have been so shaken," he said, setting the glass down empty. "It was so gruesome—so unexpected—and then Rogers carrying on like a madman. Ah, here's the doctor," he added, as the front door opened and Parks showed a man in. I knew Dr. Hughes, of course, returned his nod, and followed him and Godfrey into the ante-room. But I had not yet sufficiently recovered to do more than sit and stare at him as he knelt beside the body and assured himself that life had fled. Then I heard Godfrey telling him all we knew, while Hughes listened with incredulous face. "But it's absurd, you know!" he protested, when Godfrey had finished. "Things like this don't happen here in New York. In Florence, perhaps, in the Middle Ages; but not here in the twentieth century!" "I can scarcely believe my own senses," Godfrey agreed. "But I saw the Frenchman lying here this afternoon; and now here's Vantine." "On the same spot?" "As nearly as I can tell." "And killed in the same way?" "Killed in precisely the same way." Hughes turned back to the body again, and looked long and earnestly at the injured hand. "What sort of instrument made this wound, would you say, Mr. Godfrey?" he questioned, at last. "A sharp instrument, with two prongs. My theory is that the prongs are hollow, like a hypodermic needle, and leave a drop or two of poison at the bottom of the wound. You see a vein has been cut." "Yes," Hughes assented. "It would scarcely be possible to pierce the hand here without striking a vein. One of the prongs would be sure to do it." "That's the reason there are two of them, I fancy." "But you are, of course, aware that no poison exists which would act so quickly?" Hughes inquired. Godfrey looked at him strangely. "You yourself mentioned Florence a moment ago," he said. "You meant, I suppose, that such a poison did, at one time, exist there?" "Something of the sort, perhaps," agreed Hughes. "The words were purely instinctive, but I suppose some such thought was running through my head." "Well, the poison that existed in Florence five centuries ago, exists here to-day. There's the proof of it," and Godfrey pointed to the body. Hughes drew a deep breath of wonder and horror. "But what sort of devilish instrument is it?" he cried, his nerves giving way for an instant, his voice mounting shrilly. "Above all, who wields it?" He stared about the room, as though half-expecting to see some mighty and remorseless arm poised, ready to strike. Then he shook himself together. "I beg pardon," he said, mopping the sweat from his face; "but I'm not used to this sort of thing; and I'm frightened—yes, I really believe I'm frightened," and he laughed, a little unsteady laugh. "So am I," said Godfrey; "so is Lester; so is everybody. You needn't be ashamed of it." "What frightens me," went on Hughes, evidently studying his own symptoms, "is the mystery of it—there is something supernatural about it—something I can't understand. How does it happen that each of the victims is struck on the right hand? Why not the left hand? Why the hand at all?" Godfrey answered with a despairing shrug. "That is what we've got to find out," he said. "We shall have to call in the police," suggested Hughes. "Maybe they can solve it." Godfrey smiled, a little sceptical smile, quickly suppressed. "At least, they will have to be given the chance," he agreed. "Shall I attend to it?" "Yes," said Hughes; "and you would better do it right away. The sooner they get here the better." "Very well," assented Godfrey, and left the room. Hughes sat down heavily on the couch near the window, and mopped his face again, with a shaking hand. Death he was accustomed to—but death met decently in bed and resulting from some understood cause. Death in this horrible and mysterious form shook him; he could not understand it, and his failure to understand appalled him. He was a physician; it was his business to understand; and yet here was death in a form as mysterious to him as to the veriest layman. It compelled him to pause and take stock of himself—always a disconcerting process to the best of us! That was a trying half hour. Hughes sat on the couch, breathing heavily, staring at the floor, perhaps passing his own ignorance in review, perhaps wondering if he had always been right in prescribing this or that. As for me, I was thinking of my dead friend. I remembered Philip Vantine as I had always known him—a kindly, witty, Christian gentleman. I could see his pleasant eyes looking at me in friendship, as they had looked a few hours before; I could hear his voice, could feel the clasp of his hand. That such a man should be killed like this, struck down by a mysterious assassin, armed with a poisoned weapon…. A woman! Always my mind came back to that. A woman! Poison was a woman's weapon. But who was she? How had she escaped? Where had she concealed herself? How was she able to strike so surely? Above all, why should she have chosen Philip Vantine, of all men, for her victim—Philip Vantine, who had never injured any woman—and then I paused. For I realised that I knew nothing of Vantine, except what he had chosen to tell me. Parks would know. And then I shrank from the thought. Must we probe that secret? Must we compel a man to betray his master? My face was burning. No, we could not do that—that would be abominable…. The door opened and Godfrey came in. This time, he was not alone. Simmonds and Goldberger followed him, and their faces showed that they were as shaken and nonplussed as I. There was a third man with them whom I did not know; but I soon found out that it was Freylinghuisen, the coroner's physician. They all looked at the body, and Freylinghuisen knelt beside it and examined the injured hand; then he sat down by Dr. Hughes, and they were soon deep in a low-toned conversation, whose subject I could guess. I could also guess what Simmonds and Godfrey were talking about in the farther corner; but I could not guess why Goldberger, instead of getting to work, should be walking up and down, pulling impatiently at his moustache and glancing at his watch now and then. He seemed to be waiting for some one, but not until twenty minutes later did I suspect who it was. Then the door opened again to admit a short, heavy-set man, with florid face, stubbly black moustache, and little, close-set eyes, preternaturally bright. He glanced about the room, nodded to Goldberger, and then looked inquiringly at me. "This is Mr. Lester, Commissioner Grady," said Goldberger, and I realised that the chief of the detective bureau had come up from headquarters to take personal charge of the case. "Mr. Lester is Mr. Vantine's attorney," the coroner added, in explanation. "Glad to know you, Mr. Lester," said Grady, shortly. "And now, I guess, we're ready to begin," went on the coroner. "Not quite," said Grady, grimly. "We'll excuse all reporters, first," and he looked across at Godfrey, his face darkening. I felt my own face flushing, and started to protest, but Godfrey silenced me with a little gesture. "It's all right, Lester," he said. "Mr. Grady is quite within his rights. I'll withdraw—until he sends for me." "You'll have a long wait, then!" retorted Grady, with a sarcastic laugh. "The longer I wait, the worse it will be for you, Mr. Grady," said Godfrey quietly, opened the door and closed it behind him. Grady stared after him for a moment in crimson amazement. Then, mastering himself with an effort, he turned to the coroner. "All right, Goldberger," he said, and sat down to watch the proceedings. A very few minutes sufficed for Hughes and Freylinghuisen and I to tell all we knew of this tragedy and of the one which had preceded it. Grady seemed already acquainted with the details of d'Aurelle's death, for he listened without interrupting, only nodding from time to time. "You've got a list of the servants here, of course, Simmonds," he said, when we had finished the story. "Yes, sir," and Simmonds handed it to him. "H-m," said Grady, as he glanced it over. "Five of 'em. Know anything about 'em?" "They've all been with Mr. Vantine a long time, sir," replied Simmonds. "So far as I've been able to judge, they're all right." "Which one of 'em found Vantine's body?" "Parks, I think," I said. "It was he who called me." "Better have him in," said Grady, and doubled up the list and slipped it into his pocket. Parks came in looking decidedly shaky; but answered Grady's questions clearly and concisely. He told first of the events of the afternoon, and then passed on to the evening. "Mr. Vantine had dinner at home, sir," he said. "It was served, I think, at seven o'clock. He must have finished a little after seven-thirty. I didn't see him, for I was straightening things around up in his room and putting his clothes away. But he told Rogers—" "Never mind what he told Rogers," broke in Grady. "Just tell us what you know." "Very well, sir," said Parks, submissively. "I had a lot of work to do—we just got back from Europe yesterday, you know—and I kept on, putting things in their places and straightening around, and it must have been half-past eight when I heard Rogers yelling for me. I thought the house was on fire, and I come down in a hurry. Rogers was standing out there in the hall, looking like he'd seen a ghost. He kind of gasped and pointed to this room, and I looked in and saw Mr. Vantine laying there—" His voice choked at the words, but he managed to go on, after a moment. "Then I telephoned for Mr. Lester," he added, "and that's all I know." "Very well," said Grady. "That's all for the present. Send Rogers in." Rogers's face, as he entered the room, gave me a kind of shock, for it was that of a man on the verge of hysteria. He was a man of about fifty, with iron-grey hair, and a smooth-shaven face, ordinarily ruddy with health. But now his face was livid, his cheeks lined and shrunken, his eyes blood-shot and staring. He reeled rather than walked into the room, one hand clutching at his throat, as though he were choking. "Get him a chair," said Grady, and Simmonds brought one forward and remained standing beside it. "Now, my man," Grady continued, "you'll have to brace up. What's the matter with you, anyhow? Didn't you ever see a dead man before?" "It ain't that," gasped Rogers. "It ain't that—though I never saw a murdered man before." "What?" demanded Grady, sharply. "Didn't you see that fellow this afternoon?" "That was different," Rogers moaned. "I didn't know him. Besides, I thought he'd killed himself. We all thought so." "And you don't think Vantine did?" "I know he didn't," and Rogers's voice rose to a shrill scream. "It was that woman done it! Damn her! She done it! I knowed she was up to some crooked work when I let her in!" <h2 id="id00482" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER VI</h2> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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