Detective Hamilton Cleek's Cases - 5 Murder Mysteries in One Premium Edition. Thomas W. Hanshew

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      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

       WHEN TWO AND TWO MAKE FOUR

       Table of Contents

      It would not be overstating the case if one were to say that Cleek's mind was absolutely in a whirl when he closed the door of the dining-room behind him and stood alone in the brilliantly lighted hall; for, added to the loathing contempt he felt for the young reprobate he had just left, there was the knowledge that this new and unexpected development threatened to destroy the whole fabric of his theories in almost every particular.

      Not for one moment, heretofore, had he looked upon young Raynor as other than a shallow, empty-headed wastrel; a mere cuckoo hatched in an eagle's nest; a thing to be scorned, not dreaded; a mere mischievous atom that hadn't the courage to be a bird of prey, nor blood enough in its veins to be dangerous. Now, however—— God! what a riddle life is! You never know!

      The door that led out into the grounds of the Grange was but a rope's cast distant. He felt that he couldn't trust himself to go in and face the ladies just yet a while; that he must think over this new and staggering turn which events had taken: think over it for a time in the hush and darkness of the outer world; and, turning on his heel, went swiftly to the door and let himself out.

      By this time the night had closed in, the moon had risen, and the gardens were simply a shadowy place of dark and fragrant mystery, with here and there a silver arabesque on the earth where the moonlight shafted through the boughs of trees, and here and there a streak of yellower radiance where the windows of the house threw man-made light across the lawn and against the massed green of crowded leaves. Cleek took to the grass that his footsteps might not be heard, and there, in the darkest shadow of all the darkened land, walked up and down, up and down, with his lower lip pinched up between his thumb and forefinger, his brows knotted, and the elbow of one arm in the hand of the other: a quiet, slow-moving figure, as silent as the other soundless shades that were about it.

      So that was how the cat jumped, was it? Directing suspicion—not openly, not with any positive hint of what, but with deadly seriousness, considering that last night a man had been mysteriously murdered and the police were out for the assassin—directing suspicion against his own father, and at such an appallingly significant time.

      What a cur the fellow was! Even if his father could in any way have been implicated in the crime, by any means, upon any pretext, what a devil's act it was to lead the law into the right channel. But when there was not one solitary circumstance that pointed, when it was merely to save his own skin, merely to divert suspicion away from himself, what an act of unspeakable atrocity! Couldn't the fellow reason? Couldn't he see that the very thing he was doing to mislead justice was the one circumstance which directed its sword against himself? That the simple fact of his endeavouring to direct suspicion against one who was in no way implicated was absolute proof that he had a purpose in wishing it to be misdirected. And if he had a purpose in doing that, the inference was so obvious that a child might read between the lines.

      Heigho! It was just another exemplification of the truth of the old adage that "when the wine's in the wit's out." If he'd let that brandy decanter alone, if he hadn't fuddled his reason and clogged his wretched brain with alcohol, he must have seen what an ass thing he was doing, and what a fool his loosened tongue was making of him.

      True, as yet there did not seem any just cause for connecting him with the murder of De Louvisan, any reason why he should have killed the man; any single purpose he might serve, any solitary thing he might gain by slaying him; but still—— Oh, well, you never know how deep a well is until you have reached the bottom of it. The thing had every appearance of being an Apache crime, and he was "in" with Margot—Margot, who played for money and money alone; so if—— Good God! the little reptile hadn't let her lead him into that folly, had he? Hadn't let her lure him into taking the oath and enrolling himself a member of the Apache?

      If he had been mad enough to do that, if that were the explanation, why, then, all the rest was possible. The law of the Apache is the law of the commonwealth; and he would find that out, as Lovetski had found it out—too late. If St. Ulmer was in any way implicated, St. Ulmer's fortune would be one stake. And if this brainless weakling should fall heir to his father's money, ho! there was the other "stake"; there the possible motive, there the first connecting link!

      Was that Margot's little game? Was that the way the idiot had been tricked into becoming an accomplice? Just so! let's put the jumbled bits together and see if they fit; let's sum up two and two and learn if they really do make four.

      First bit: De Louvisan with such a hold upon St. Ulmer that he can compel his lordship to cancel his daughter's engagement and force her to accept him as a fiancé. Quite so! Second bit: De Louvisan, without any rupture occurring between himself and St. Ulmer, suddenly murdered in cold blood. And not only murdered, but spiked up to the wall after the manner of Lanisterre and other traitors to the Apache. A clear proof that this De Louvisan himself was an Apache; and being a traitor to the cause—— Quite so! quite so! Prevented from marrying Lady Katharine, because that was not part of the agreement; because he was making an effort to obtain for himself and his own personal use a fortune which it was intended should come into the commonwealth. Hum-m-m! Those two pieces seem to fit together. Now for the next:

      If St. Ulmer, over whom this De Louvisan undoubtedly had a hold of some sort, bought that fellow's silence by promising him his daughter for a wife, then it is quite certain that he was acquiescing in his traitorship to the Apache and quite willing that the man should have Lady Katharine's dower for himself. That bit fits also. Now for another: if in doing that thing this De Louvisan merited the name of traitor, it must have been that he came between the Apache and the possession of the St. Ulmer fortune, and if the owner of that fortune had to make terms such as he did with the man, the inference is as plain as the nose on your face. In other words, St. Ulmer, too, had reason to dread the Apache, and there must, therefore, be some connection between him and Margot. Two and two—and it makes four exactly! St. Ulmer, then, is the game, St. Ulmer the pivot upon which the whole case revolves.

      Where, then, does young Raynor come in? Hum-m-m! Ah! Of course, of course. Very crafty, very crafty indeed. A beautiful woman could do anything in the world with such a worm as he. The stage-door Johnnie will be best caught by a chorus girl. Yes, yes, just so. Get one who is out of an engagement or in debt—anything that will make her willing and eager to accept a bribe. She will do the introducing; the rest you can do yourself. Easy enough with such an ass as that fellow. Lovely women and jolly chaps for companionship; a lonely house, music, dancing, champagne; a famous French variety star heels over head in love with him, letters, photographs, nights of revelry, and quarts of wine; and then—voilà, the fish is hooked!

      Sworn in, by heaven! sworn in in a drunken fit, to wake and find himself not only an Apache, but to have his vanity tickled, his empty head turned, and his love of being thought a regular ladies' man pampered to the full by being told that he is in reality the king of the Apaches, and that hundreds and hundreds of СКАЧАТЬ