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Mystery of the Boule Cabinet

<h5 id="id00573">ROGERS GETS A SHOCK</h5> Grady, Simmonds and Goldberger examined the room minutely, for they seemed to feel that the secret of the tragedy lay somewhere within its four walls; but I watched them only absently, for I had lost interest in the procedure. I was perfectly sure that they would find nothing in any way bearing upon the mystery. I heard Grady comment upon the fact that there was no door except the one opening into the ante-room, and saw them examine the window-catches. "Nobody could raise these windows without alarming the house," Grady said, and pointed to a tiny wire running along the woodwork. "There's a burglar alarm." Simmonds assented, and finally the trio returned to the ante-room. "We'd like to look over the rest of the house," Grady said to Rogers, who was sitting erect again, looking more like himself, and the four men went out into the hall together. I remained behind with Hughes and Freylinghuisen. They had lifted the body to the couch and were making a careful examination of it. Heavy at heart, I sat down near by and watched them. That Philip Vantine should have been killed by enthusiasm for the hobby which had given him so much pleasure seemed the very irony of fate, yet such I believed to be the case. To be sure, there were various incidents which seemed to conflict with such a theory, and the theory itself seemed wild to the point of absurdity; but at least it was a ray of light in what had been utter darkness. I turned it over and over in my mind, trying to fit into it the happenings of the day—I must confess with very poor success. Freylinghuisen's voice brought me out of my reverie. "The two cases are precisely alike," he was saying. "The symptoms are identical. And I'm certain we shall find paralysis of the heart and spinal cord in this case, just as I did in the other. Both men were killed by the same poison." "Can you make a guess as to the nature of the poison?" Hughes inquired. "Some variant of hydrocyanic acid, I fancy—the odour indicates that; but it must be about fifty times as deadly as hydrocyanic acid is." They wandered away into a discussion of possible variants, so technical and be-sprinkled with abstruse words and formulae that I could not follow them. Freylinghuisen, of course, had all this sort of thing at his fingers' ends—post-mortems were his every-day occupation, and no doubt he had been furbishing himself up, since this last one, in preparation for the inquest, where he would naturally wish to shine. I could see that he enjoyed displaying his knowledge before Hughes, who, although a family practitioner of high standing, with an income greater than Freylinghuisen's many times over, had no such expert knowledge of toxicology as a coroner's physician would naturally possess. The two detectives and the coroner came back while the discussion was still in progress and listened in silence to Freylinghuisen's statement of the case. Grady's mahogany face told absolutely nothing of what was passing in his brain, but Simmonds was plainly bewildered. It was evident from his look that nothing had been found to shed any light on the mystery; and now that his suicide theory had fallen to pieces, he was completely at sea. So, I suspected, was Grady, but he was too self-composed to betray it. The coroner drew the two physicians aside and talked to them for a few moments in a low tone. Then he turned to Grady. "Freylinghuisen thinks there is no necessity for a post-mortem," he said. "The symptoms are in every way identical with those of the other man who was killed here this afternoon. There can be no question that both of them died from the same cause. He is ready to make his return to that effect." "Very well," assented Grady. "The body can be turned over to the relatives, then." "There aren't any relatives," I said; "at least, no near ones. Vantine was the last of this branch of the family. I happen to know that our firm has been named as his executors in his will, so, if there is no objection, I'll take charge of things." "Very well, Mr. Lester," said Grady again; and then he looked at me. "Do you know the provisions of the will?" he asked. "I do." "In the light of those provisions, do you know of any one who would have an interest in Vantine's death?" "I think I may tell you the provisions," I said, after a moment. "With the exception of a few legacies to his servants, his whole fortune is left to the Metropolitan Museum of Art." "You have been his attorney for some time?" "We have been his legal advisers for many years." "Have you ever learned that he had an enemy?" "No," I answered instantly; "so far as I know, he had not an enemy on earth." "He was never married, I believe?" "No." "Was he ever, to your knowledge, involved with a woman?" "No," I said again. "I was astounded when I heard Rogers's story." "So you can give us no hint as to this woman's identity?" "I only wish I could!" I said, with fervour. "Thank you, Mr. Lester," and Grady turned to Simmonds. "I don't see that there is anything more we can do here," he added. "There's one thing, though, Mr. Lester, I will have to ask you to do. That is to keep all the servants here until after the inquest. If you think there is any doubt of your ability to do that, we can, of course, put them under arrest—" "Oh, that isn't necessary," I broke in. "I will be responsible for their appearance at the inquest." "I'll have to postpone it a day," said Goldberger. "I want Freylinghuisen to make some tests to-morrow. Besides, we've got to identify d'Aurelle, and these gentlemen seem to have their work cut out for them in finding this woman—" Grady looked at Goldberger in a way which indicated that he thought he was talking too much, and the coroner stopped abruptly. A moment later, all four men left the house. Dr. Hughes lingered for a last word. "The undertaker had better be called at once," he said. "It won't do to delay too long." I knew what he meant. Already the face of the dead man was showing certain ugly discolourations. "I can send him around on my way home," he added, and I thanked him for assuming this unpleasant duty. As the door closed behind him, I heard a step on the stair, and turned to see Godfrey calmly descending. "I came in a few minutes ago," he explained, in answer to my look, "and have been glancing around upstairs. Nothing there. How did our friend Grady get along?" "Fairly well; but if he guesses anything, his face didn't show it." "His face never shows anything, because there's nothing to show. He has cultivated that sibylline look until people think he's a wonder. But he's simply a stupid ignoramus." "Oh, come, Godfrey," I protested, "you're prejudiced. He went right to the point. Do you know Rogers's story?" "About the woman? Certainly. Rogers told it to me before Grady arrived." "Well," I commented, "you didn't lose any time." "I never do," he assented blandly. "And now I'm going to prove to you that Grady is merely a stupid ignoramus. He has heard all the evidence, but does he know who that woman was?" "Of course not," I said, and then I looked at him. "Do you mean that you do? Then I'm an ignoramus, too!" "My dear Lester," protested Godfrey, "you are not a detective—that's not your business; but it is Grady's. At least, it is supposed to be, and the safety of this city as a place of residence depends more or less upon the truth of that assumption. On the strength of it, he has been made deputy police commissioner, in charge of the detective bureau." "Then you mean that you do know who she was?" "I'm pretty sure I do—that is what I came back to prove. Where's Rogers?" "I'll ring for him," I said, and did so, and presently he appeared. "Did you ring, sir?" he asked. He was still miserably nervous, but much more self-controlled than he had been earlier in the evening. "Yes," I said. "Mr. Godfrey wishes to speak to you." It seemed to me that Rogers turned visibly paler; there was certainly fear in the glance he turned upon my companion. But Godfrey smiled reassuringly. "We'd better give him his instructions about the reporters, first thing, hadn't we, Lester?" he inquired. "Which reporters?" I queried. "All the others, of course. They will be storming this house, Rogers, before long. You will meet them at the door, you will refuse to admit one of them; you will tell them that there is nothing to be learned here, and that they must go to the police. Tell them that Commissioner Grady himself is in charge of the case and will no doubt be glad to talk to them. Is that right, Lester?" "Yes, Ulysses," I agreed, smiling. "And now," continued Godfrey, watching Rogers keenly, "I have a photograph here that I want you to look at. Did you ever see that person before?" and he handed a print to Rogers. The latter hesitated an instant, and then took the print with a trembling hand. Stark fear was in his eyes again; then slowly he raised the print to the light, glanced at it…. "Catch him, Lester!" Godfrey cried, and sprang forward. For Rogers, clutching wildly at his collar, spun half around and fell with a crash. Godfrey's arm broke the fall somewhat, but as for me, I was too dazed to move. "Get some water, quick!" Godfrey commanded sharply, as Parks came running up. "Rogers has been taken ill." And then, as Parks sped down the hall again, I saw Godfrey loosen the collar of the unconscious man and begin to chafe his temples fiercely. "I hope it isn't apoplexy," he muttered. "I oughtn't to have shocked him like that." At the words, I remembered; and, stooping, picked up the photograph which had fluttered from Rogers's nerveless fingers. And then I, too, uttered a smothered exclamation as I gazed at the dark eyes, the full lips, the oval face—the face which d'Aurelle had carried in his watch! <h2 id="id00639" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER VIII</h2> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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