7 to 12. A Detective Story ebook

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“Clarke?”

“Yes, sir”

“Another entrance through a second-story window. A detective wanted right off. Better hurry up there,–East Seventy-third Street.”

“All right, sir.”

Clarke turned to go; but the next moment I heard the Superintendent call him back.

“It is Mr. Winchester’s, you know; the banker.”

Clarke nodded and started again; but a suppressed exclamation from the Superintendent made him stop for the second time.

“I’ve changed my mind,” said the latter, folding up the slip of paper he held in his hand. “You can see what Hailey has for you to do; I’ll attend to this.” And giving me a look that was a summons, he whispered in my ear: “This notification was written by Mr. Winchester himself, and at the bottom I see hurriedly added, “Keep it quiet; send your discreetest man.’ That means something more than a common burglary.”

I nodded, and the affair was put in my hands. As I was going out of the door, a fellow detective came hurriedly in.

“Nabbed them,” cried he.

““Who?” asked more than one voice.

“The fellows who have been climbing into second-story windows, and helping themselves while the family is at dinner.”

I stopped.

“Where did you catch them?” I asked,

“In Twenty-second Street.”

“To-night?”

“Not two hours ago,”

I looked at the Superintendent. He gave a curious lift of his brows, which I answered with a short smile. In another moment I was in the street.

My first ring at the bell of No.–East Seventy-third Street brought response in the shape of Mr. Winchester himself. Seeing me, his countenance fell, but in another instant brightened as I observed:

“You sent for a detective, sir;” and quietly showed him my badge.

“Yes,” he murmured; “but I did not expect”–he paused. I was used to these pauses; I do not suppose I look exactly like the ordinary detective. “Your name?” he asked, ushering me into a small reception-room.

“Byrd,” I replied. And taking as a compliment the look of satisfaction which crossed his face as he finished a hasty but keen scrutiny of my countenance and figure, I in turn subjected him to a respectful but earnest glance of interrogation.

“There has been a robbery here,” I ventured.

He nodded, and a look of care replaced the affable expression which a moment before had so agreeably illumined his somewhat stern features.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth,” he whispered, shortly. “Mrs. Winchester’s diamonds.”

I started; not so much at the nature and value of the articles stolen, as at the indefinable air with which this announcement was made by the wealthy and potential broker and banker. If his all had been taken his eye could not have darkened with a deeper shadow; if that all had been lost through means which touched his personal pride and feelings, he could not have given a sharper edge to his tones, business-like as he endeavored to make them.

“A heavy loss,” I remarked. “Will you give me the details of the affair as far as you know them?”

He shook his head and waved his hand with a slight gesture towards the stairs.

“I prefer that you learn them from such inquiries as you will make above,” said he. “My wife will tell you what she knows about it, and there is a servant or two who may have something to say. I would speak to no one else,” he added, with a deepening of the furrow in his brow; “at least not at present. Only,”–and here his manner became markedly impressive,–“understand this. Those diamonds must be found in forty-eight hours, no matter who suffers, or what consequences follow a firm and determined pursuit of them. I will stop at nothing to have them back in the time mentioned, and I do not expect you to. If they are here by Thursday night–” and the hand he held out with its fingers curved and grasping actually trembled with his vehemence–“I will give you five hundred dollars Friday afternoon. If they are here without noise, scandal, or–” his voice sank further–“disquietude to my wife, I will increase the sum to a thousand. Isn’t that handsome?” he queried, with an attempt at a lighter tone, which was not altogether successful.

“Very,” was my short but deferential reply. And, interested enough by this time, I turned towards the door, when he stopped me.

“One moment,” said he. “I have endeavored not to forestall your judgment by any surmises or conclusions of my own. But, after you have investigated the matter and come to some sort of theory in regard to it, I should like to hear what you have to say.”

“I will be happy to consult with you,” was my reply; and, seeing that he had no further remarks to offer, I prepared to accompany him up-stairs.

The house was a superb one, and not the least handsome portion of it was the staircase. As we went up, the eye rested everywhere on the richest artistic effects of carved wood-work and tapestry hangings. Nor was the glitter of brass lacking, nor the sensuous glow which is cast by the light striking through ruby-colored glass. At the top was a square hall fitted up with divans and heavily bespread with rugs. At one end a half-drawn portière disclosed a suite of apartments furnished with a splendor equal to that which marked the rest of the house, while at the other was a closed door, towards which Mr. Winchester advanced.

I was hastily following him, when a young man, coming from above, stepped between us. Mr. Winchester at once turned.

“Are you going out?” he asked this person, in a tone that lacked the cordiality of a parent, while it yet suggested the authority of one.

The young gentleman, who was of fine height and carriage, paused with a curious, hesitating air,

“Are you?” he inquired, ignoring my presence, or possibly not noticing it, I being several feet from him and somewhat in the shadow.

“We may show ourselves at the Smiths for a few minutes, by and by,” Mr. Winchester returned.

“No; I am not going out,” the young man said, and, turning, he went again up-stairs.

Mr. Winchester’s eye followed him. It was only for a moment; but to me, accustomed as I am to note the smallest details in the manner and expression of a person, there was a language in that look which opened a whole field of speculation.

“Your son?” I inquired, stepping nearer to him.

“My wife’s son,” he replied; and, without giving me an opportunity to put another query, he opened the door before him and ushered me in.

A tall, elegant woman of middle age was seated before the mirror, having the final touches given to her rich toilette by a young woman who knelt on the floor at her side. A marked picture, and this not from the accessories of wealth and splendor everywhere observable, but from the character of the two faces, which, while of an utterly dissimilar cast, and possibly belonging to the two extremes of society, were both remarkable for their force and individuality of expression, as well as for the look of trouble and suppressed anxiety, which made them both like the shadows of one deep, dark thought.

The younger woman was the first to notice us and rise. Though occupying a humble position and accustomed to defer to those around her, there was extreme grace in her movement and a certain charm in her whole bearing which made it natural for the eye to follow her. I did not long allow myself this pleasure, however, for in another instant Mrs. Winchester had caught sight of our forms in the mirror, and, rising with a certain cold majesty, in keeping with her imposing figure and conspicuous if mature beauty, stepped towards us with a slow step, full of repose and quiet determination, Whatever her feelings might be, they were without the fierceness and acrimony which characterized those of her husband. But were they less keen? At first glance I thought not, but at the second I doubted. Mrs. Winchester was already a riddle to me.

“Millicent,”–so her husband addressed her,–“allow me to introduce to you a young man from the police force. If the diamonds are to be recovered before the week is out, he is the man to do it. I pray you offer him every facility for learning the facts. He may wish to speak to the servants and to–” his eye roamed towards the young girl, who, I thought, turned pale under his scrutiny–“to Philippa.”

“Philippa knows nothing,” the lady’s indifferent side-look seemed to say, but her lips did not move, nor did she speak till he had left the room and closed the door behind him. Then she turned to me and gave me first a careless look and then a keener and more sustained one.

“You have been told how I lost my diamonds,”‘ she remarked at length.

“They said at the station that a man had entered by your second-story window while you were at dinner.”

“Not at dinner,” she corrected gravely. “I do not leave my jewel-box lying open, while I go down to dinner. I was in the reception-room below–Mr. Winchester had sent word that he wished to see me for an instant–and being on the point of going to an evening party, my diamonds were in their case on the mantel-piece. When I came back the case was there, but no diamonds. They had been carried off in my absence.”

I glanced at the mantel-shelf. On it lay the open jewel-case. “What made you think a burglar took them?” I asked, my eyes on the lady I was addressing, but my ears open to the quick, involuntary drawing in of the breath which had escaped the young girl at the last sentence of her mistress.

“The window was up–I had left it closed–and there was a sound of scurrying feet on the pavement below. I had just time to see the forms of two men hurrying down the street. You know there have been a series of burglaries of this nature lately.”

I bowed, for her imperiousness seemed to demand it. Then I glanced at Philippa. She was standing with her face half averted, trifling with some object on the table, but her apparent unconcern was forced, and her hand trembled so that she hastily dropped the article with which she was toying and turned in such a manner that she hid it as well as her countenance from view.

I made a note of this and allowed my attention to return to Mrs. Winchester.

“At what time was this?” I inquired.

“Seven o’clock.”

“Late for a burglary of this kind.”

A flush sudden and deep broke out on the lady’s cheek.

“It was successful, however,” she observed.

Ignoring her anger, which may have arisen from sheer haughtiness and a natural dislike to having any statement she chose to make commented upon, I pursued my inquiries.

“And how long, madam, do you think you were down-stairs?”

“Some five minutes or so; certainly not ten.”

“And the window was closed when you left the room and open when you returned?”

“I said so.”

I glanced at the windows. They were both closed now and the shades drawn.

“May I ask you to show me which window, and also how wide it stood open?”

“It was the window over the stoop, and it stood half-way open.”

I passed at once to the window.

“And the shade?” I asked, turning.

“Was–was down.”

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