Gibbs George
The Splendid Outcast

CHAPTER XXII
MYSTERY

The sudden extraordinary turn of events and the inexplicable horror of his brother's death had so bewildered Jim Horton that he stood awaiting the arrival of the Commissaire de Police in a kind of stupefaction, looking down at the huddled form of the man upon the floor, unable to think with any clearness. The officer requested him not to move or touch anything, and Piquette stood beside Jim as though to give him courage. But the policeman kept an eye on Horton and remained by the door, watching outside and in as though guarding it against his possible escape. Horton noticed this but remained immovable, aware that the fellow was only doing his duty, and that further explanations must await the arrival of the Commissaire, who had been telephoned for.

The furniture of the studio, each object of which possessed for Jim some poignant association, seemed strangely familiar, yet unreal. The chairs, the rugs, the hangings, had suddenly become merely a background for the body lying among them, a part of it, linked in a horrible conspiracy of silence, Moira's plain furniture, her easel, which still bore the placid portrait of the indomitable Parisienne who had refused to be a froussarde; the arm chair by the fireplace in which Moira had sat, the table from which they had supped; the lay figure in its old costume, felt hat and draperies; the couch by the window; the brass bowl on the mantel, full of Moira's brushes – all of them spoke so eloquently of her. And Moira…

He frowned as he tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together. The knife in his brother's side had been intended for him. There was no doubt of that, and the motive for the crime was obvious… Quinlevin… Tricot? Yes. But how? His glance passed over the room again and again, seeking in vain the answer. His guardian had preferred to await the arrival of his superior before examining the kitchenette and bed-rooms, but with the door locked upon the outside there was no hope that the solution of the mystery would be found there.

Meanwhile, Jim Horton's mind became slowly impregnated with the realization of his own position which must become more dubious when he answered the questions of the Commissaire, for answer them he must, telling the whole of his story if it were necessary, without thought of consequences to himself or others. The future became at each moment more ominous. Horrible as the thought was, they might even suspect him of this crime and even if he escaped that disaster, with the publicity which must follow, the Provost Guard awaited him. But at his side was Piquette, who had seen what he had seen and who knew what he knew and he felt her fingers clasp his with a valiant touch that gave him courage and assurance.

And in a short while the Commissaire entered, followed by his secretary, several Agents and newspaper men. The Commissaire, Monsieur Matthieu, was a man of medium height strongly built, with small sharp eyes, and reddish hair. He went about the affair with a business-like mien, exchanging a few words with the policeman who had first come, glancing quickly at Horton, Piquette, and the other witnesses.

"Let no one enter the room," he said in his sharp staccato, when he had selected his witnesses. "Let no one leave it."

Then quickly he questioned Horton and Piquette as to their visit and the exact circumstances of their discovery of the body. Horton was at a loss, but Piquette spoke rapidly and in a few moments had given the Commissairea complete narration of their experiences from the moment they had climbed the stairs to the studio of Madame Horton.

"You say that you and this monsieur came to this room by appointment to meet Madame Horton at eight o'clock?" questioned the Commissaire.

"Yes, Monsieur."

"That you came up the stair and as the door was unlocked, you entered this room, finding it empty?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"And the door to the apartment yonder was locked from this side and the key was in the lock as it is at this moment?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"The rooms beyond, then, have not yet been entered?" he asked of the policeman who had come up at the first alarm.

"No, Monsieur le Commissaire."

"Bien. Then we shall enter at once."

He nodded significantly to the two Agents, who took their places by Jim and Piquette, and with his secretary and the policeman following him, M. Matthieu unlocked the door into the kitchenette and investigated the kitchen and bedrooms.

When he reappeared some moments later his face was puzzled. But he went to the big studio window and examined the catches.

"These windows you say were also locked?" he asked of Horton suddenly, in excellent English.

"They were – all of them," said Horton.

"Then you did not know that one of them was open?"

"Open!" Horton crossed the room eagerly. "I could have sworn – "

"You observe – ?" said the Frenchman, and touching the window, it swung open noiselessly.

"That's strange," muttered Horton, "I thought the catch was on. But even so," he added, "there was no chance for the murderer to have escaped there. As you will see, Monsieur, it is a blank wall of full three stories in height."

The Commissaire peered out. There was a broad wooden ledge or sill just outside, but the ledge led nowhere and he could see that what Horton had stated was true. It was sixty feet to the flagging of the court below and a drop meant death or injury to any one who dared attempt it. Nor was there any sign of a rope or ladder.

"H-m. We shall wait for daylight for that. In the meanwhile – " he relapsed into silence, gazing about the room with great care, examining each object and coming at last to the body.

"It has not been touched?" he questioned of the policeman.

"No, Monsieur."

He walked around the corpse dictating quickly to the man with the note-book and then drew the knife from the wound. It was a two-edged affair at least six inches in length, a weapon evidently intended for just such a deadly business.

"He was struck below the left arm and from behind," Piquette heard him dictate, "the direction of the weapon in the body indicating without the possibility of a doubt that the wound was not self-inflicted. A case of murder," he finished, looking up at Horton, who had followed his motions with intense interest.

Then he moved the body so that it lay flat upon the floor, throwing a pocket light full upon the face, starting back in amazement.

"Monsieur!" he gasped to Horton, and then threw the light suddenly into Jim Horton's face.

"Monsieur Horton, did you know – ?"

"It is my brother," said Jim quietly.

"Nom d'un chien! I could swear it was yourself."

"My twin brother, Monsieur," repeated Horton.

Monsieur Matthieu's eyes narrowed as he gazed at Jim. "The case becomes more interesting. H-m. You will now tell me, please, what happened when you went out of the studio into the hallway."

Horton nodded.

"We thought of going away and returning when Madame Horton, my sister-in-law, should return."

"The wife of the murdered man?" broke in the Commissaire.

"Yes, Monsieur," said Jim. "As we were about to go down to the court below we heard the footsteps of some one coming up. But it was not Madame Horton. We knew that by the sounds. It was a man's step – so we withdrew into the little hall room and watched."

"The facts are curious, Monsieur Horton," put in the Commissaire with sudden interest. "Why did you wish to conceal yourself from the other visitors of Madame Horton?"

The question was pertinent and there could be no evading a reply. So Jim told briefly of Quinlevin, Moira and Harry and his unfriendly relationship with his brother. As he did so he heard the gasps and whisperings among the listeners which gave him an unpleasant realization of their conception of the affair. And the testimony of Piquette, who grew angry at the sounds from the auditors, did nothing to improve his situation.

"I see, Monsieur," said M. Matthieu sagely. "It is wise that you see fit to tell us the truth now since it must all come out later. There was bad blood between you and your brother and between you and Monsieur Quinlevin – so that you feared a plot in the Petit Bleu which meant to do you violence?"

"Not when I received the message, Monsieur. I came here with Madame Morin in good faith to try and help Madame Horton – to take her away from a situation in which she was most unhappy."

"And your relations with your sister-in-law?" asked the Commissaire.

Horton flushed angrily, but he realized that the man was within his rights. As Piquette cried excitedly, "Madame 'Orton was on'appy wit' 'er 'usband, Monsieur – "

"Madame Horton and I were the best of friends – " broke in Jim quietly.

"Evidently," said M. Matthieu dryly.

The changed manner of Monsieur Matthieu, his sudden air of intense interest in Jim himself, and the keen appraisal in his eyes did not augur well for the result of the investigation.

"You will please go on with the rest of the story, Monsieur," he added, and then with a glance at Piquette, "And you, Madame, will be pleased to remain silent until I question you. You say that you realized that the visitor coming up the stair was a man and that you and Madame withdrew in the darkness into the little hall-room and waited?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"And you both saw the man come up the stairs to the studio door. What happened then?"

"He turned the knob and entered."

"Had you recognized him as your brother at that time?"

"I hadn't. I thought that my brother had joined his regiment."

"Ah – a soldier! And do you know why he is here in civilian's clothes?"

"I do not."

"Did Madame Morin recognize him?"

"Yes. But I didn't believe it was he – even then."

Monsieur Matthieu smiled and shrugged. "And you didn't realize how much alike you were in your dark overcoats and soft hats?"

"No."

"And after your brother went in at the studio door, how long did you and Madame wait in the hall room?"

"I don't know exactly – a matter of four or five minutes, when we heard sounds in the studio and the falling of a body."

"And you rushed out to the studio door and went in?" asked the Commissaire craftily.

"The door was locked," said Jim. "I put my shoulder against it and broke it in."

"Ah. You broke it in? How long did that take?"

"Perhaps half a minute."

"And when you entered the room, Madame was with you?"

"Yes – just behin' heem," broke in Piquette eagerly.

M. Matthieu glanced at Piquette with a frown which silenced her.

"And what did you see, Monsieur?"

"What you saw, Monsieur – my brother lying there – the chair upset – but no sign of any one in the room. It was very mystifying."

"Yes, it must have been," dryly, "miraculous, in fact. And then what did you do?"

"I examined the room thoroughly – I was bewildered, Monsieur. I couldn't understand any more than you can, because the only door by which the murderer could have escaped I found to be locked – as you found it, Monsieur."

"Most extraordinary! And what is your theory as to the escape of the murderer?"

"I haven't any. The more I think, the more astounding it seems. I couldn't believe, unless I had seen all these things with my own eyes."

"And you, Madame?" he asked at last in French, turning to Piquette.

"What Monsieur tells is the truth, Monsieur le Commissaire. I swear."

Monsieur Matthieu laughed.

"Come now. What you two ask me to think is beyond belief. I come to this room and find a man murdered by a dastardly blow dealt by a man of great muscular force." Here he ran a careless glance up and down Jim Horton's long figure. "The only door by which he could have escaped is locked, exit by the window is impossible, and you and Madame guard the stairs until the crowd gathers. Do you think you will get me to believe that the murderer flew up the chimney?"

"I don't ask you to believe anything," said Jim, trying to keep his nerve.

"But I must believe the evidence of my observation. There is no way in which the man could have passed you on the stair?"

"None," said Jim helplessly, "until I came up with the policeman no one went down."

"That is true," added Piquette. "Monsieur 'Orton was armed. No one could have passed him."

Here the Commissaire was puzzled, for what had seemed clearer a moment ago was lost in the frankness of this confession.

"Where are the other witnesses in the case?" he asked of the policeman.

"Here, Monsieur," indicating one of the men he had detained. "This man was in the hall with the crowd. These others too are willing to testify."

The secretary took the witness's name, Paul Joubert, his address, and M. Matthieu questioned him.

"You have heard the testimony of Monsieur Horton?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"It is true?"

"In every particular. I and these others," indicating the men beside him, "came up the stairs to the landing and entered the studio."

"How many were there in the crowd?"

"Eight – ten – a dozen," he replied, while the others confirmed him.

"Did you know them all?"

"Ah no, Monsieur. I live in the Court at the rear. Some of them were strangers who ran in from the street."

"There was no one in the upper hall?"

"No one."

"And in the hall-room?"

"One of the men who had rushed up examined the room and said it was empty. I went in myself also and saw that this was so."

"Is the man who first went into the hall-room here?"

"No, Monsieur le Commissaire. I do not recognize him, the light from the doorway was dim and – "

"All right," said Matthieu. "No matter."

And then,

"And the other door from the apartment to the hallway remained locked all the time?" he asked.

"Yes, Monsieur. No one came out of there. We tried it many times."

"H-m. And you have no theory as to how any one could have escaped from the room under the circumstances?"

"No, Monsieur. It is nothing less than a miracle."

The other witnesses shook their heads in confirmation of the testimony.

"That will do, Monsieur Joubert." And then turning to Horton. "Now, Monsieur Horton, what did you think when you found the body of your brother, when you had positive proof that unless the murderer had jumped from the window to death, he must at that moment have been in the room?"

Horton had courage but he couldn't deceive himself as to the intent of the question. The cord was tightening. He felt it in the looks of those around him, in the frightened breathing of Piquette and in the steady gaze of his questioner, which he met with more and more difficulty. But he managed to answer calmly.

"Think! Why, I couldn't think, Monsieur. I was bewildered, dazed, stupefied with astonishment and horror."

"But you must give me credit for some intelligence," protested the Commissaire. "Since the murderer couldn't have gone out of the door while you say you were breaking in, he must have been in the room all the while."

"There was no one in the room. I searched it."

"That is true," almost screamed Piquette in her excitement. "I was wit' 'im. There was no one."

"Quietly, Madame," said M. Matthieu reprovingly. And then, "Monsieur Horton, when you searched the room, what did you do?"

"What you would have done, Monsieur – I rushed down the stair and gave the alarm, watching the stair and waiting for the police. I am as mystified as you. If I could tell you any more I would do so."

Monsieur Matthieu tapped his eye-glasses thoughtfully and it was a long time before he spoke. And then,

"Where is Madame Horton?"

"I don't know."

"And Monsieur Quinlevin?"

"I don't know."

"You have no means of helping me to find them?"

"If I had I would tell you."

A pause. And then the Commissaire cleared his throat in an important manner.

"I have a feeling that you are keeping something back, Monsieur Horton. I warn you that you will not make things easy for yourself in making them difficult for me."

"What do you mean, Monsieur?" asked Jim, sure that his position and Piquette's had now grown desperate.

"Merely, Monsieur," said the Commissaire with a glance at the dead man, "that blows such as this are not struck by spiritual agencies, that when there is a murdered man there must also be a murderer. Your testimony and that of Madame Morin agree, but then I cannot neglect the possibility that you may have some object in agreeing."

"You believe that I – " Horton broke in in horror.

"I believe nothing until it is definitely proved. I admit that there are many phases of this case which seem favorable to a belief in your story. But there are also some points which from your testimony seem to be – er – incredible. We do not live in an age of miracles. Murders are not committed by spirits who vanish. There was bad blood between you and your brother. You yourself have admitted it. Madame Morin had a suspicion when he came up the stair that the Petit Bleu you received was a trap intended for you – "

"Which my brother fell into," said Horton, in a last desperate effort to clear himself. "Why, Monsieur, you yourself can see how like we are. The blow was intended for me – "

"You are fortunate, Monsieur," said the Commissaire, with a shrug. "And you will have every chance to prove your innocence. But I cannot take the grave responsibility of liberating you. The case must go to the Prefetand will be heard in its entirety, including the many details which have been suggested as to Madame Horton and Monsieur Quinlevin. I am only sent here to investigate the case in its physical aspects. And the result of the investigation is to place you and Madame Morin under arrest."

Horton straightened and glanced around at the others in the room. They had ceased to have personalities. They looked like wax images – staring at him in wonder, in curiosity, as though he were already condemned. From them his glance found Piquette. Her face was white and she was staring at the Commissaire as though she could not believe the evidence of her ears.

"Why, Monsieur, have we not told you – ?" he heard her begin, when the officer silenced her.

"You will have every opportunity to testify to-morrow, Madame."

She sent one glance at him, the gamine in her terrified at the Law as represented in the man before her, and then bewildered, rushed to Jim and caught him by the hand.

"Courage, mon ami," she gasped. "You 'ave on'y to speak de truth."

"I'm not frightened," he said, "but you, Piquette – a prison – "

"It's not'ing – " she said bravely, but he saw that she was on the point of breaking.

"And now," broke in the Commissaire, who had watched this byplay with some interest, "I am sorry that we must be off. Come."

And giving some instructions as to the witnesses to one of the Agents de police who had accompanied him, and taking the revolver which Horton silently offered him, he led the way down the stair, with Piquette and Horton following, policemen at their elbows.

A great crowd had assembled in the street and courtyard below. Horton caught a glimpse of the white cap and whiter face of Madame Toupin at the door of her loge, and then was hurried by a policeman into a carriage which was awaiting them. He saw poor Piquette put into another one and they drove off in the direction of the Prefecture de Police, where he was shown without ceremony into a cell alone to await a further investigation upon the morrow.

He sank down upon the cot, buried his head in his hands and tried to think.

Quinlevin was at the bottom of this – Quinlevin – Tricot. One of them had done this dastardly thing, believing to save their skins and thinking that they were killing him. But how had the murderer gotten away? How? How?

CHAPTER XXIII
ESCAPE

The events in the Hôtel de Paris at Nice, the revelation in Monsieur de Vautrin's rooms, the confession of Piquette Morin and the startling events that immediately followed it were all bewildering. From affection for Quinlevin, Moira had passed through the stages of incredulity, doubt, and reassurance, and then at Nora's downfall, dismay at her own position, and after Quinlevin's brutal treatment of her, aversion and terror. When he turned the key of her door and went with Piquette into his own room, she threw herself into her chair, aware of her dependence upon him, and yet ready to run away and throw herself upon the mercy of the first stranger that she could find. But the sounds that came from behind the closed door fascinated her, the murmur of conversation rising and falling, and then the strange noises, heard indistinctly yet frightful in their significance. The silence that followed, still more suggestive. She shrank upon her bed in terror, shutting her ears with her fingers. Then the renewal of the commotion, as she raised her hands, her terror inquisitive for the worst – the sound of blows, the grunts of men in struggle, and then the falling of a body.

Tricot and Quinlevin – they were killing each other… That was the chief thought in her mind – that and the imperative need of escape. She got up, trembling, and went to the door, shooting the brass bolt, then turned, catching up her coat and gloves. The door into the corridor was locked but she could still go out through Nora's room. She tried the other door, but found it locked on the outside. She called Nora softly, then more loudly, and heard the woman answer. Presently, by dint of wild persuasion, she prevailed upon her old nurse to open the door. Nora was red of face, disheveled, and bewildered.

"What is it ye want, alanah?"

"I must go – you must go with me," she stammered.

"For why? Isn't it enough I've been through this day widout – "

But Moira pushed her way past the woman.

"Something dreadful has happened – in there," she stammered, her face white, "I can't stay – "

"What then – "

"A fight – Mr. Quinlevin and Tricot – "

The woman tried to restrain her but Moira flung herself away and unlocked the door.

"Ye'll not be lavin' me here alone," gasped Nora.

"Come then. Quickly."

And she fled out into the corridor, the woman following, down the stairway and into the night… The memory of those dreadful hours of wandering with Nora along the roads was like a dream in a fever, but after awhile the physical exercise made her more calm and she was able to explain to the frightened Irish woman what had happened.

Her first impulse had been to flee from it all – to escape anywhere – but without money where should she go? With the return of reason came courage. And with courage a resolve to go back and do what she could for Piquette Morin. They would not have dared to kill her. It was impossible. An impulse to tell the people of the hotel what had happened came to her again, but as she turned toward the gardens, followed heavily by the frightened Nora, she resolved to go upstairs and face whatever was in store for her.

What she found was rather terrifying at first, but when she summoned nerve enough to turn on the light, she saw two swaddled figures squirming to be free. Madame Morin had vanished. With the help of Nora, who came out of her state of coma when the facts were made obvious, she liberated the two men and questioned eagerly.

"W-why didn't you – come before?" was Quinlevin's reply. He was not pleasant to look at.

"I was frightened at the sounds. I ran away. What has happened?"

"Isn't it obvious?" mumbled the Irishman, spitting out a fragment of the cotton towel from his dry throat.

"Jim Horton!" gasped Moira.

"The same – damn him."

"And Madame?"

"Need you guess?" he sneered. "They're well on the road to Paris by now."

"Thank God," said Moira fervently.

He glanced at her but said nothing. His feelings were too deep for words.

* * * * *

But the day following, Moira was to learn her dependence upon him. He took little pains to conceal the change of his feelings towards her, the suddenness of which proclaimed only too insistently the fact that his years of kindness were only the device Jim Horton had proved them to be. On the way back to Paris he was for the most part silent and morose, remaining much of the time with the abominable Tricot, leaving Moira to the tender mercies of her old nurse, who now shared with her the Irishman's displeasure. It was indeed a sisterhood of consolation and she saw that with the failure of the great plan, Nora was much chastened by her experience, for she sat and wailed in a most discomfiting manner, confessing at last her share in the conspiracy and throwing herself upon Moira's mercy.

Moira was sorry for the woman who had brought her safely through her baby diseases and acted as guide, counselor and friend until it was time for her to go away to boarding school. And so, mingled with the contempt that Moira felt for her, there was a little pity too, and a leaven of the old affection. In those moments of rapprochement and confession, Moira learned in astonishment the secret of her birth. Jim Horton had not been mistaken. She was not the daughter of Barry Quinlevin, but his niece, posthumous daughter of his younger brother, whose widow had died in childbirth. Barry Quinlevin's own wife, an invalid and bedridden, had acquiesced in the plan of adopting the daughter of her sister-in-law, but had not known in the few years before her own death of the deception that was to be practiced upon Monsieur de Vautrin. The community in which the families lived was sparsely settled, the neighbors ignorant and illiterate. If Monsieur de Vautrin had taken pains to make inquiries at this time he must surely have discovered the ruse, but he had apparently taken all things told him for granted, or was too enwrapped in his own selfish pursuits to give the case attention. So long as he was left to the enjoyment of his fortune by the paying of the tribute Quinlevin demanded, he was satisfied. And so Quinlevin managed things in his own way, paying Nora for her silence and keeping Moira in ignorance as to the source of their income.

If Quinlevin guessed the nature of the conversation that passed between the two women upon the train he gave no sign of it, but when they reached Paris and returned to the studio, he seemed to experience a change of heart toward Moira, did what he could to restore the breach in their old relations, admitting the truth of Nora's confession and shrugging off his failure as a matter that was ended. Apparently taking Moira's forgiveness for granted, he treated her, in their new relation of uncle and niece, with marked consideration, and planned in his grandiose way for the future. He seemed to have plenty of money and spent it upon her generously, but he did not leave her for a moment. And when he proposed a trip to Fontainebleau, a spot which in former years she had loved to visit, he asked her to accompany him. Her reasons for acquiescence were logical enough. Until she decided upon a definite plan of separation from him, she thought it wisest to assume an attitude of forbearance. She wanted to go away somewhere where she could think and she wanted to hide herself where Jim Horton couldn't find her. For she was sure that he would not be content to let their affair remain as she had desired it. He would come pleading with her and then – God knows what she would do. Alone, helpless – she was afraid – of herself.

The little inn in the Forest where they stopped was not far from the house of some friends of Moira's, and thither if the opportunity offered, she could go for sanctuary. But here again she felt the constant supervision of her indomitable foster-father and uncle. He recovered some of his old spirits and his old affection as he seemed to be trying to obliterate from her memory the last few weeks which had been so disastrous to them both. But she accepted these marks of his regeneration with reserve, enjoying the rest and recuperation and trying her best to forget the man she loved, praying for strength and guidance and planning the struggle for existence which must begin when this brief interlude came to an end. And so in a few days she lulled him into a sense of security and convinced him of her spirit of resignation.

She wandered off alone into the forest, and sometimes did not see him for hours at a time, but she did not attempt escape. She was thinking deeply. She was still afraid that an escape from Quinlevin meant the other – the greater danger to her soul.

It was upon her return from one of her solitary pilgrimages through the dripping woods (for the early morn had been foggy), that she learned that Barry Quinlevin was still in bed. She smiled as she thought how easily her acquiescence had disarmed him. But when she sent up a message that she had returned he sent down word that he would join her at déjeuner. Something of the old attraction toward him still remained in spite of her knowledge of his villainy. She had not yet been able to obliterate from her mind the many years of his encouragement in her work, his gentleness and the many marks of affection. In his strange way he loved her, and the fact that she now felt contempt for him did not disguise the fact that she felt a little pity too. But she knew that she must decide very soon what she would do. There were so many years to set in the balance against the present. Rogue? Yes. But full of consideration and a lively appreciation of the creature that he had made her. To cut him out of her life – root and branch – much as she had learned to despise him, was not easy. But she must do it – for her own self-respect – to-morrow – the next day…

As she thought of her problems she sank into an arm chair by the fire and picked up a copy of a morning paper, which a new visitor had just brought in from the city. It was part of Moira's purpose in hiding herself from the world to hide also the world from herself. But she picked up the Matin and in a moment was absorbed in the account of the projected Peace Conference.

But as she turned the page, her glance fell upon a familiar name – many familiar names, and in a moment, her eyes starting from her head, she read the dreadful headlines:

"MURDER IN A STUDIO IN THE QUARTIER

Captain Horton, U.S.A., killed under strange circumstances."

Then the news which followed, describing briefly (for space was valuable) the known facts regarding the mystery, the arrest of an American, James Horton, and a French woman, Piquette Morin, pending a further investigation of the mysterious crime. Apparently all the facts in the possession of the police were given, which, unless some other details of the mystery were discovered, pointed the finger of suspicion at the American, who was the twin brother of the dead man.