Drury Lane’s Last Case

19 The House of Mystery

At the sullen direction of the dark Italian, Dromio swung the Lincoln off the main highway between Irvington and Tarrytown into a narrow road, little more than a gravelly lane bordered by overhanging trees. From a humming concrete world they plunged suddenly into a cool wilderness. Birds and insects stirred the leaves above and about them. There was no sign of human life anywhere. The road wound and pirouetted through the green trees like a live thing.

“Sure this is it?” asked Thumm fretfully.

Villa nodded in a wary way. “I oughta know.”

They drove through what seemed an interminable forest, and all were pale and silent. Dr. Ales at last! It did appear as if the perplexities of the past few weeks would be cleared away. Tensely they watched the trees flow by.

Then, without warning, the foliage fell away and they came upon another lane — the first exit they had encountered since turning off the main road a mile behind. This lane was a rough driveway branching snakily off to the left, running through thick dusty underbrush to what appeared to be a house set some fifty yards away. They could see a crumbling, patchwork, gabled roof through the trees.

“Turn off here,” croaked Villa. “This is it. Now can I—?”

“You sit tight,” said the Inspector grimly. “Take it easy, old boy,” he ordered Dromio, who had brought the big car to rest. “We don’t want to scare anybody away. Quiet, everybody.”

Dromio nosed the machine into the narrow side-lane, handling it as if it were a feather. The car crept softly along; the lane widened a trifle; and then it emerged into a small clearing before a weather-beaten wooden house which looked like the grandfather of all neglected old houses. Its paint, once white no doubt, was now a dirty grey-yellow; it hung in curled slivers from the walls, giving the structure the disagreeable appearance of a peeling potato. There was a tiny porch before the house, and the wooden steps leading up to it sagged crazily. All the visible windows were tightly shuttered, and these seemed stout enough. The trees on the sides brushed the walls. On the left side of the house leaned a tired old woodshed. Not ten feet from the shed there was a dilapidated little one-story building, apparently a garage; its double door was closed. Telephone and electric wires stuck out from the house and the garage and plunged mysteriously into the wilderness beyond.

“What a lovely old ruin!” exclaimed Patience.

“Ssh!” said the Inspector vehemently. “All right, Drome. You stick here, you people, while I do a little scoutin’ around. A funny business, Joe. If you’re on the level about this, I’ll see you don’t suffer.”

He climbed quickly out of the car, crossed the clearing, and with amazing lightness for a man of his bulk mounted the steps to the porch. The door was a solid one, although it suffered from the same paint disease which afflicted the walls; there was an electric bell-button at one side. He avoided this, creeping about the porch, trying to peer into the window which looked out upon it. But the shutter effectually prevented peeping; and he softly retreated down the steps and disappeared to the left side of the house. After three minutes he appeared from the right, shaking his head.

“Damn’ place looks deserted. Well, let’s see.” He boldly mounted to the porch and jabbed at the pushbutton.

Instantly — so quickly that he must have been watching them through some peephole of his own — a man opened the door and stepped out. As the door swung open a bell jangled — an antiquated device at the top of the door coiled on a spring which shivered and tinkled at the least movement of the door. The man was a tall, gaunt old fellow, shrunken within his sombre clothes, with a seamed and pitted face of remarkable pallor. His faded grey eyes rested briefly upon the Inspector, peered out in the bright sun toward the car, and then swung back.

“Yes, sir?” he said in a shrill voice. “What can I do for you?”

“This house occupied by a Dr. Ales?”

The old man bobbed his head eagerly; for an instant he was animated. He smiled and scraped. “Oh, yes, sir! You’ve heard from him, then? I was beginning to get worried—”

“Oh,” said the Inspector. “I see. Just a minute.” He stumped to the edge of the porch. “Better come up here, folks,” he called out in bitter tones. “It looks as if we’re in for a long session.”

The gaunt old man led them through a narrow passage to a tiny parlor. The interior of the house was dark and cool. The parlor was furnished with solid old pieces glazed with age, old carpets, and older hangings. A musty odor, like the cold stale smell of a crypt, assailed their nostrils. Seen in the light of day as the old man hastened to push back the shutters and pull up the blinds, the room was threadbare and repulsive.

“First thing we want to know,” began the Inspector curtly, “is who you are.”

The old man smiled cheerfully. “My name is Maxwell, sir. Been working for Dr. Ales as sort of general man around the house. Cook, clean, chop firewood, shop in Tarrytown—”

“Handyman, eh? You the only servant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dr. Ales isn’t at home, you say?”

Maxwell’s grin changed into an expression of alarm. “I thought— Didn’t you know? I thought maybe you had news of him, sir.”

“And that,” sighed Patience, “just goes to show. Damn! You were right, Mr. Lane. Something’s happened to him.”

“Hush, Patty,” said her father. “Maxwell, we’re looking for information, and we’ve got to locate this employer of yours. When—”

Maxwell’s faded eyes clouded with suspicion. “Who are you?”

Briefly the Inspector revealed a glittering shield; it was his old one which he had neglected to turn in upon his retirement; and he kept it to flash upon such occasions as he felt demanded a judicious show of authority. Maxwell retreated. “The police!”

“Just answer my questions,” said Thumm sternly. “When was Dr. Ales last home?”

“I’m glad you’ve come, sir,” murmured Maxwell. “I’ve been very worried. Didn’t know what to do. Dr. Ales often took little trips, but this is the first time he’s been away for such a long time.”

“Well, for God’s sake, how long has he been away?”

“Let’s see, now. Today is June twenty-second. Oh, it’s over three weeks now, sir. May twenty-seventh it was; yes, sir. May twenty-seventh on a Monday when Dr. Ales went off.”

“The day of that funny business at the museum,” muttered Thumm.

“Di’n’ I tell you?” cried Joe Villa.

Mr. Drury Lane took a short turn about the parlor; Maxwell watched him with anxiety. “Suppose,” he said slowly, “suppose you tell us what happened here, Maxwell, on the twenty-seventh. I have a notion it’s an interesting tale.”

“Well, Dr. Ales left the house in the early morning, sir, and he didn’t come back till late in the afternoon; toward evening, I’d say. He—”

“How did he seem?” asked Rowe curiously. “Excited?’

“That’s right, sir! Excited, although he is a very cold sort of person and never shows any... any... you know what I mean, sir.”

“When he returned, was he carrying anything?” Rowe’s eyes gleamed.

“Yes, sir. A book, it looked like. But then he’d gone off with the same book in the morning, so—”

“How do you know it was the same book?”

Maxwell scratched his chin. “Well, it looked the same.”

The old gentleman said softly: “It all fits admirably. He went off Monday morning carrying the 1606 Jaggard, and returned with the 1599 Jaggard he had taken from the Britannic, after having left the 1606 in its place. Hmm... Go on, Maxwell. What then?”

“Well, sir, Dr. Ales was no sooner in the house than he told me: ‘Maxwell, I shan’t want you any more to-night. You can have the night off,’ he said. So, seeing that I’d left supper for him all prepared, I went away — walked down the lane to the main pike and caught the bus there for Tarrytown’. I live in Tarry-town; have folks there.”

“And that’s all you know?” grumbled Thumm.

The man looked crestfallen. “Well, I— Oh, yes, sir! Before I went he told me he was leaving a package in the hall for me to send the next morning. Not to mail, he said, though; when I got back Tuesday morning I was to take the package into Tarrytown and send it off by messenger, he said. Well, when I got back Tuesday morning, sure enough, Dr. Ales wasn’t there but the package was, so I took it into Tarrytown and sent it.”

“What sort of package was it?” asked Lane sharply. Maxwell looked blank. “Why, a package. Flat I guess—”

“Could it have contained a book?”

“That’s it! Just the right shape, sir. It must have been a book.”

“Let’s clear up one thing at a time,” growled the Inspector. “When Ales got back that Monday night, was he alone? Did you notice anybody prowling around outside?”

“Oh, he was alone.”

“You didn’t see a tough Irisher, middle-aged, ugly red map, hangin’ around, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“Funny. What the devil happened to the blasted Mick?”

“Don’t forget, father,” said Patience, “that Maxwell was sent away shortly after Dr. Ales got home. It’s possible that Donoghue was hiding outside behind a bush, saw Maxwell go away, and then—”

“Then what?”

Patience sighed. “I’d give a cookie to know.”

“Did you notice the address on the package?” asked young Rowe.

“Oh, yes, sir. This gentleman” — Maxwell inclined his grey thatch toward Lane — “mentioned the name a minute ago. Britannic Museum, it was. Fifth Avenue and Sixty-Fifth Street, it said, New York City.”

“Brown wrapping paper, and the address printed in blue ink?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well,” said Thumm, “it clears up a lot, anyway. No question now but that the man in the blue hat was Ales; he stole the book, put the 1606 in its place, and the next day returned the 1599 by messenger.”

“It’s in the bag,” said Villa with a gloating grin.

“Yes, yes,” murmured Lane; his brow was corrugated. “By the way, Maxwell, do you recall mailing a similar package about two months ago?”

The remarks about theft had disturbed Maxwell; he fidgeted. “I... I hope,” he said nervously, “I’ve not done anything wrong. I didn’t know — Dr. Ales always seemed such a gentleman... Yes, sir. I did mail a package like that once before; it was addressed to a Mr. Crabbe, I think, in care of Saxon, on Fifth Avenue—”

“Nothing wrong with your eyesight, eh?” said the Inspector dryly. “Well, Joe, you’ve got the luck of the devil. It all checks.”

“Amazing thing,” muttered young Mr. Rowe. “It all seems to revolve about this Dr. Ales. Not only was he Deus ex machina of the events at the Britannic, but he seems also to have inspired that night-raid on the Saxon Library. What the deuce was in that book?”

Joe Villa hunched his thin shoulders, his beady black eyes shining. Then he saw the Inspector looking at him and he relaxed rather elaborately. “If you know what’s good for you, Joe, you’ll lay off,” said the Inspector mildly. “Now listen, Maxwell. How long have you been workin’ for this Dr. Ales?”

Maxwell licked his shriveled lips. “Why, just about three months. He came to Tarrytown at that time — it was the end of March — and advertised in the Tarry-town Times for a man to do general work. I applied for the job and got it. Reason I know when he came is because Jim Browning, the renting agent of this property in Tarrytown, is a sort of friend of mine, and he told me. Dr. Ales took this house and paid cash in advance for six months’ rent, no lease, no questions asked, no references. The way things are these days, Jim said... So we came out here and that’s all. He... he was always very nice to me.”

“No questions asked, eh?” said Patience grimly. “How romantic! We’ll be finding out next that he’s Prince Fidelio of Zuringia, in the United States incognito on a lark — tra-la! Tell me, Maxwell, did this charming employer of yours have many visitors?”

“Oh, no, miss. Nobody— No, I’m wrong. There was one.”

“Ah,” said Lane softly. “When?”

Maxwell frowned. “It was a week before he went away — I don’t recall the exact day. It was a man, but he was all bundled up and, seeing that it was at night, I couldn’t see his face very well. He wouldn’t give a name and insisted on seeing Dr. Ales. When I told him there was a gentleman in the parlor to see him, Dr. Ales got very excited and at first he wouldn’t come out. But then he did, and he went into the parlor and was there for quite a time. Then he came out, leaving the gentleman in the parlor, and told me — he was nervous, I think — to take the night off. I did, and when I got back the next morning the other gentleman wasn’t there.”

“Ales never referred to this man, Maxwell? He didn’t say anything later to you about him?” demanded Rowe.

“Me, sir?” Maxwell giggled. “No, sir. Not a blessed word.”

“Now who the deuce could that have been?” muttered the Inspector. “It couldn’t have been this mug here, could it, Maxwell?” and he clamped his meaty hand on Villa’s shoulder.

Maxwell stared, and then broke into a long chuckle. “Oh, no, sir! This gentleman doesn’t speak like — like that gentleman. The other talked like Dr. Ales. I mean — sort of like an actor.”

“An actor!” Mr. Drury Lane stared. Then he laughed heartily. “I dare say you would think that,” he chuckled. “You mean an Englishman, I take it?”

“Englishman — that’s it, sir!” cried Maxwell excitedly. “They both did.”

“Strange,” murmured Patience. “Now who in the world could that have been?”

Mr. Gordon Rowe drew his brows forbiddingly together. “Look here, man, the afternoon of the twenty-seventh when Ales sent you packing, didn’t he say anything about going away?”

“Not a word, sir.”

“And when you got back the next morning and found the package but Ales gone, wasn’t there even a note from him to explain where he’d gone, or something?”

“No, sir. I didn’t think much of it, sir, but when the days passed and he didn’t come back—”

“That’s why, Inspector,” remarked the old gentleman, “you drew a blank on that list of missing persons Captain Grayson supplied you. Had Maxwell reported the disappearance of Dr. Ales when it occurred, you would have got a line on him. Unfortunate!” He shrugged. “It may be too late now.”

“Dr. Ales is — missing?” faltered Maxwell.

“Apparently.”

“Then what shall I do?” The old man wrung his hands. “This house and all the furniture—”

“Oh, yes,” said Thumm. “The furniture. Was the house furnished when Ales rented it?”

“No, sir. He bought it second-hand in Tarrytown—”

“Doesn’t go with a bird who throws hundred-dollar bills around,” mused Thumm. “Evidently he didn’t mean to park permanently.” His grey eyes studied Maxwell shrewdly. “What did your man look like? Maybe we can get a good description of him now, anyway!”

“Why, he was tall, and rather thin—” Maxwell scratched his chin. “I’ve got a snapshot of him, sir; I’m sort of an amateur photographer and I took his picture one day when he wasn’t looking—”

“Good glory!” shouted Rowe. “A photo!” He leaped out of the horsehair chair in which he had been restlessly sitting. “Produce it, old fellow, for heaven’s sake!”

They stared at one another while Maxwell pattered off toward the rear. The musty odor seemed stronger; Villa with a quivering of his dark knife-like nostrils suddenly lighted a cigarette. Lane paced quietly up and down, hands loose behind his back.

“A snapshot,” murmured Patience. “Now — hear ye! once and for all time — we’ll settle the tantalizing question of...”

The gaunt servant hurriedly re-entered, carrying a small photograph. Thumm snatched it and held it up to the light. One devouring glance, and he cursed in astonishment. The others crowded about.

“There!” shrilled Villa. “Wha’d I tell you?”

The photograph revealed a tall slender middle-aged man in a dark sack suit of unfamiliar cut. It was a clear, well-focused picture.

There seemed no doubt, despite the absence of a monocle, that the man in the photograph was Dr. Hamnet Sedlar.

“’At lets me out,” said Villa complacently, and he sucked at his cigarette with evil enjoyment.

“The dirty lying devil,” said Gordon Rowe in a passionate undertone; and his jaw hardened. “So he was lying! I’ll pay that murdering scoundrel back for the bullet in my arm if it’s the last—”

“Here, here,” murmured Lane. “Don’t let your emotions carry you away, Gordon. We’ve proved nothing against Dr. Sedlar, remember.”

“But Mr. Lane,” cried Patience, “you can’t get away from the evidence of this photograph!”

“Only one thing to do,” muttered the Inspector. “Clamp the bracelets on him and sweat the truth out of him.”

“Coerce an English citizen, Inspector?” asked the old gentleman dryly. “I ask you all again to keep your heads. There’s too much here that completely baffles rational explanation. If my opinion carries any weight, you will proceed very slowly indeed.”

“But—”

“At any rate,” continued Lane quietly, “there is still work to be done. I suggest we examine the house very scrupulously. There’s no telling what we may find.” Then he gave a little chuckle; Maxwell gaped from one to another of them, plainly confused. “As Bedford said in Orleans: ‘Unbidden guests are often welcomest when they are gone.’ Another pearl from our mutual oyster, Gordon... So lead on, Maxwell, and we’ll relieve you of our burdensome presence with the utmost expedition!”