MRS3 The Velvet Hand (29 page)

"Thirdly, when I talked to Bristed, as soon as he claimed not to know the nature of the work his employer had been engaged on, my suspicions fastened on him. Such a statement was simply incredible. It was Bristed's one fatal error in tactics. Later, when I learned from the charwoman that he had lied about the nature of the gas, I was morally certain that Bristed was the murderer; but you can't go into court with moral certainties, either; I had to prove my case.

"By this time I had discovered that I was up against an exceptionally astute and prudent pair. Nobody had seen Mrs. Bristed hand the pot of pansies to the old man. No doubt she met him outside his house, as if she had been on the way there with it, and begged him to carry it to her sick sister in London, or something of that sort. Moreover, since the murder, they had been over the laboratory and the cottage with a fine tooth comb and had collected and destroyed every scrap of evidence. That woman made no mistakes. Bristed's disguises, the satchel, and so forth; all had been burned, and completely burned, you may be sure.

"So my only recourse was to force a confession from the man. I have had to do that before when my evidence was insufficient. It was for that reason that I staged the reproduction of the fatal journey, using the same compartment where the murder was committed; and casting Bristed in the role of the victim. But remorse for his crime didn't affect him in the least, all he felt was fear of discovery. He would have caved in quicker if I had left the woman at home. She was of much tougher fibre; her presence stiffened him.

"When the pot of pansies was fished from the water and he still did not cave in, I changed the pots with the idea of letting him think for a while that he had saved himself and then springing the truth on him. A cruel trick, but a brute like that deserves no better. That worked, as you saw. And that's all there is to it."

The car was heard returning, and we all stood up. None of us was anxious to linger in that poor little house. Mme Storey pressed out the fire in her cigarette and smothered a yawn.

"Hum!" she said, "and now I must get back to London."

"London!" exclaimed the inspector. "My dear lady, you need sleep."

"I must snatch what I can on the way. Do you suppose I can get a car at this time of night?"

"Come with me!" he said eagerly.

"You are sure you have room?"

"There are only four of us, including the chauffeur, and the car holds seven."

"Splendid! Let's go."

"Wouldn't you like to sleep for a few hours?" he said solicitously. "I can wait."

She shook her head. "Impossible. Bella and I are due at the Embassy at nine. That's our main graft, you know. This was only a side issue."

"What a woman!" he murmured, his eyes fixed on her, big with admiration.

Poor fellow! He was going the way of all the others, I could see. And such a handsome man! There were plenty of women in England, I had no doubt, who would have been glad to put his slippers to warm in the evenings.

"Inspector, could I—could I make the seventh in the car?" asked young Straiker, his voice trembling a little with eagerness. "If I could only be the first to tell Harry of what has happened."

"Oh, yes, do take him!" said Mme Storey warmly.

"By all means!" said the inspector, looking at her, not at the young man.

We were in London by eight o'clock and drove direct to the prison where Harry Straiker was confined. All obstacles smoothed by a word from Inspector Battram, Richard Straiker was admitted directly to his brother's cell. A few minutes later we followed him. The two brothers were sitting side by side on the cot, the elder with an arm around his junior's shoulders. Their faces were beaming. Seen side by side like that they did not look so much alike. Harry was much the handsomer. There was a power either for evil or for good in that young man. They sprang up.

"This is the lady who saved you," said Richard.

Harry took the hand that she held out. But his tongue failed him. "I can't say what is proper," he murmured.

"Don't try," said Mme Storey promptly.

"We'll have you out of here in an hour or two," said the inspector cheerfully. "There are certain formalities that have to be attended to."

"Then what are you going to do?" asked Mme Storey.

He shrugged rather helplessly.

"You want a new start," said Mme Storey. "Come to America. I'll give you a job to start with, and you'll soon find your own feet."

"Oh, you don't know!" he said with a painful air. "About me, I mean, what I've been."

"I know all about you. That's why I offered."

He flashed a look of perfect devotion on her and quickly veiled his eyes. "All right," he said brusquely, "I accept. That is if my father approves. I must consult him."

And so it was done. I need only say that Harry Straiker finds the wider spaces of America more congenial than confined England. He's raising cattle in the Big Bend country of western Texas.

THE END

The Pot of Pansies
 was originally published in 
The Argosy All-Story Weekly
, 30 Apr 1927

Our visitor was a dignified little old gentleman in an old-fashioned Prince Albert and round white cuffs which came down partly over his hands. The quaint cuffs somehow stamped him as a prosperous country lawyer and such he proved to be: Mr. D. J. Riordan, Stanfield, Connecticut. "Village lawyer" was the phrase he used, deprecatingly, to describe himself.

"But you would hardly call Stanfield a village," said Mme Storey.

"It was a village when I started to practise there," he said. "And I am afraid we old-timers like the self-dependent village that it was better than the great and wealthy suburb it has become."

"What can I do for you?" asked Mme Storey, smiling. I could see that she liked the quaint little gentleman.

"Well, in order not to waste your time unnecessarily," he replied, "I will ask you at once, plainly: would you be attracted by a fee of five hundred dollars (it is all I am empowered to offer) for a service which will require three hours of your time some afternoon; with the promise of an additional five hundred in the event that you are successful in the undertaking I am to suggest to you?"

"The fee is sufficient," said Mme Storey, "provided the undertaking is one which I am qualified to carry out."

"Oh, eminently, eminently," he said. "My friends and I have heard you described as a practical psychologist, specializing in the feminine. That is precisely what we require."

"Is it a crime which has been committed?" asked my mistress.

"No, Madame. It is a measure designed to forestall a crime."

"So much the better," said Mme Storey. "Proceed." Helping herself to a cigarette, she prepared to listen.

"We have in Stanfield," he began, "a conspicuous local character called Mrs. Genevieve Brager—perhaps you are familiar with the name?"

"Vaguely," said Mme Storey, "but I cannot remember in what connection."

"Doubtless you have heard of Hyman Brager, her husband, a wealthy manufacturer of enamelled ware. He created the enamelled-ware trust, and died a few years ago, leaving his widow upward of ten million dollars without check or hindrance."

"Ah," said Mme Storey. "A nice little sum."

"Mrs. Brager is sixty-seven years old," the lawyer went on. "She is childless; indeed, she has not a relative in the world. Moreover, she is a woman so flighty and ill-advised that she has never succeeded in making any friends in Stanfield, though she has lived there for over thirty years."

"I begin to picture the situation," said Mme Storey. "The legacy hounds have tracked her down."

"Exactly, Madame. An admirable phrase! These persons, both men and women, are of the most sinister types. God knows where she picks them up!"

"Oh, they pick her up," put in my mistress.

"It has become a public scandal. Brager's Asylum is the phrase coined by my townspeople to describe the establishment."

"Then they live in her house?"

"Yes, Madame, a swarm of them. Mrs. Brager is of a miserly character and keeps them all on short commons. She retains a hold on them by scattering promises of legacies. She plays them off one against the other. She is continually making new wills. You can readily conceive what hideous passions this must set loose. We feel certain that it must end in an appalling tragedy."

"Which would sully the fair name of Stanfield," put in Mme Storey.

"Exactly, Madame. For a long time the situation has troubled me vaguely, but it was not my province to interfere. It was nobody's business to interfere. There is no question of having the woman declared incompetent, even if it was anybody's interest to do so, because her wits are as sharp as yours or mine. She handles her great fortune skilfully; and since she spends nothing it increases by leaps and bounds."

"What finally led you to act?" inquired my mistress.

"Three days ago Mrs. Brager sent for me (she employs every lawyer in Stanfield by turn) and required me to make a will leaving everything she possessed to one of her hangers-on, a scoundrel who has the impudence to call himself 'the Honourable' Shep Chew."

"A proved scoundrel or only a suspected one?"

"Proved, Madame. I have learned that he has served a term in prison in Ohio for malfeasance in some minor political office: under sheriff, I fancy."

"Hence the 'honourable,'" said my mistress drily.

"His scoundrelly character is written in his face," Mr. Riordan went on. "I am convinced that he does not intend Mrs. Brager shall live to make another will."

"Hm!" said Mme Storey; "a highly explosive situation. But what can I do?"

"I drew up the will," said Mr. Riordan, "since nothing would have been gained by my refusal to do so. I then consulted with Thomas A. Braithwaite, the president of our Chamber of Commerce, who called in Mr. Eckford, president of the First National Bank, Mrs. W. Atlee Bryan, president of the Woman's Club, and one or two others of our leading people; and a committee was formed to deal with the situation."

"Who suggested coming to me?"

The little old gentleman's eyes gleamed behind his glasses. "I did, Madame. I have long followed your career. I have made a study of your cases: the Ashcomb Poor case, the Teresa de Guion case; the strange murder of Mrs. Norbert Starr. And, if I may be permitted to say so, it is a great occasion for me thus to come face to face with you at last."

He bowed with no little impressiveness. Mme Storey, smiling, bowed in return.

"Nor were you by any means unknown to the other members of the committee," he went on. "When I mentioned your name they jumped at it. 'Madame Storey! Ah, if she will only help us!' they cried. They subscribed the sum I have named, on the spot, and pledged themselves to double it if you were successful."

"What do they want me to do?"

"Persuade Mrs. Brager to create a living trust, so that, although she will continue to enjoy her income, the control of her vast principal will pass out of her hands."

"Hm!" said my mistress, "this is no small order."

"With your extraordinary insight into feminine psychology, you are the one person for the job!" cried Mr. Riordan enthusiastically. "She is a timorous old woman—work upon her fears. And inordinately vain. Persuade her to leave her millions to found a great philanthropic institution. By announcing her intention in advance she can enjoy all the glory during her lifetime."

"What sort of institution?"

"Anything, anything she likes. My committee, in order to prove to you their disinterestedness, do not even stipulate that it shall be built in Stanfield—though of course it would be a fine thing for the town."

"Oh, it might as well be Stanfield as any place else," said Mme Storey.

"Then you will help us?"

"One moment. How could I be introduced to Mrs. Brager in a natural-seeming manner?"

"Oh, that will offer no difficulties, Madame. Mrs. Brager is always trying to get decent people to come to her parties."

"Ah, poor soul!" murmured my mistress.

"And if the great Madame Storey deigned to honour her house——"

"No!" interrupted my mistress quickly, "that would be fatal. I should be introduced under a pseudonym."

"Of course, if you thought best. Then you will...?"

"I will," said Mme Storey.

"Thank heaven!" cried the little lawyer.

"I assume that Chew knows about the will in his favour," said Mme Storey.

"Yes, Madame. Mrs. Brager gave him a copy."

"Then we should act at once."

"I am asked to a tea at Mrs. Brager's house to-morrow afternoon," said Mr. Riordan, with a rueful smile. "If you and your secretary could be at my office at four we might go together."

"Expect us at three-thirty," said Mme Storey. "And have your committee on hand in your office so that I may have a few words with them before we start for Mrs. Brager's."

"Yes, Madame."

We motored up to Stanfield on the following afternoon. It took a little longer so, but the quiet of our own car permitted us to do some work on another case. In Mr. Riordan's respectable office we found the committee waiting, all obviously impressed by the prospect of meeting the great Madame Storey face to face. The male members had brought their wives. My mistress plainly told these eminent ladies and gentlemen of Stanfield that if they had shown more neighbourliness to the lonely old widow they might have handled this case without outside assistance. They all pledged themselves thereafter to act exactly as she enjoined. With Mr. Riordan, we then proceeded to Mrs. Brager's.

I was keenly interested in this case. The vastness of the sum involved arrested the imagination. Moreover, it was much more agreeable to be working to prevent a crime than to solve a crime already committed. But I must say there was nothing about the house to suggest ten millions. It looked more like a second-rate boarding house than the home of a woman rich beyond the dreams of avarice. It was on the Boston Post Road, just outside of town. Picture a big square wooden house with a cupola in the style of the 1870's, standing in full view of the street. The house was sadly in need of paint, the wooden fence was broken in several places, the evergreen trees were decayed and dying, and patches of naked earth showed amid the neglected grass. To come upon such a place in fashionable Stanfield, where everything was trimmed, cut, and rolled to a finish, was like finding a leering old tramp at a garden party.