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  V. THE RED CLOAK

  "What results? Speak up, Sweetwater."

  "None. Every man, woman and boy connected with the hotel has beenquestioned; many of them routed out of their beds for the purpose, butnot one of them picked up anything from the floor of the lobby, or knowsof any one who did."

  "There now remain the guests."

  "And after them--(pardon me, Mr. Gryce) the general public which rushedin rather promiscuously last night."

  "I know it; it's a task, but it must be carried through. Put upbulletins, publish your wants in the papers;--do anything, only gainyour end."

  A bulletin was put up.

  Some hours later, Sweetwater re-entered the room, and, approaching Mr.Gryce with a smile, blurted out:

  "The bulletin is a great go. I think--of course, I cannot be sure--thatit's going to do the business. I've watched every one who stopped toread it. Many showed interest and many, emotion; she seems to have had atroop of friends. But embarrassment! only one showed that. I thought youwould like to know."

  "Embarrassment? Humph! a man?"

  "No, a woman; a lady, sir; one of the transients. I found out in a jiffyall they could tell me about her."

  "A woman! We didn't expect that. Where is she? Still in the lobby?"

  "No, sir. She took the elevator while I was talking with the clerk."

  "There's nothing in it. You mistook her expression."

  "I don't think so. I had noticed her when she first came into the lobby.She was talking to her daughter who was with her, and looked natural andhappy. But no sooner had she seen and read that bulletin, than the bloodshot up into her face and her manner became furtive and hasty. There wasno mistaking the difference, sir. Almost before I could point her out,she had seized her daughter by the arm and hurried her towards theelevator. I wanted to follow her, but you may prefer to make your owninquiries. Her room is on the seventh floor, number 712, and her name isWatkins. Mrs. Horace Watkins of Nashville."

  Mr. Gryce nodded thoughtfully, but made no immediate effort to rise.

  "Is that all you know about her?" he asked.

  "Yes; this is the first time she has stopped at this hotel. She cameyesterday. Took a room indefinitely. Seems all right; but she did blush,sir. I ever saw its beat in a young girl."

  "Call the desk. Say that I'm to be told if Mrs. Watkins of Nashvillerings up during the next ten minutes. We'll give her that long totake some action. If she fails to make any move, I'll make my ownapproaches."

  Sweetwater did as he was bid, then went back to his place in the lobby.

  But he returned almost instantly.

  "Mrs. Watkins has just telephoned down that she is going to--to leave,sir."

  "To leave?"

  The old man struggled to his feet. "No. 712, do you say? Seven stories,"he sighed. But as he turned with a hobble, he stopped. "There aredifficulties in the way of this interview," he remarked. "A blush isnot much to go upon. I'm afraid we shall have to resort to the shadowbusiness and that is your work, not mine."

  But here the door opened and a boy brought in a line which had been leftat the desk. It related to the very matter then engaging them, and ranthus:

  "I see that information is desired as to whether any person was seen to stoop to the lobby floor last night at or shortly after the critical moment of Miss Challoner's fall in the half story above. I can give such information. I was in the lobby at the time, and in the height of the confusion following this alarming incident, I remember seeing a lady,--one of the new arrivals (there were several coming in at the time)--stoop quickly down and pick up something from the floor. I thought nothing of it at the time, and so paid little attention to her appearance. I can only recall the suddenness with which she stooped and the colour of the cloak she wore. It was red, and the whole garment was voluminous. If you wish further particulars, though in truth, I have no more to give, you can find me in 356.

  "HENRY A. MCELROY."

  "Humph! This should simplify our task," was Mr. Gryce's comment, ashe handed the note over to Sweetwater. "You can easily find out if thelady, now on the point of departure, can be identified with the onedescribed by Mr. McElroy. If she can, I am ready to meet her anywhere."

  "Here goes then!" cried Sweetwater, and quickly left the room.

  When he returned, it was not with his most hopeful air.

  "The cloak doesn't help," he declared. "No one remembers the cloak. Butthe time of Mrs. Watkins' arrival was all right. She came in directly onthe heels of this catastrophe."

  "She did! Sweetwater, I will see her. Manage it for me at once."

  "The clerk says that it had better be upstairs. She is a very sensitivewoman. There might be a scene, if she were intercepted on her way out."

  "Very well." But the look which the old detective threw at his bandagedlegs was not without its pathos.

  And so it happened that just as Mrs. Watkins was watching the wheelingout of her trunks, there appeared in the doorway before her, an elderlygentleman, whose expression, always benevolent, save at moments whenbenevolence would be quite out of keeping with the situation, had forsome reason, so marked an effect upon her, that she coloured underhis eye, and, indeed, showed such embarrassment, that all doubt of thepropriety of his intrusion vanished from the old man's mind, and withthe ease of one only too well accustomed to such scenes, he kindlyremarked:

  "Am I speaking to Mrs. Watkins of Nashville?"

  "You are," she faltered, with another rapid change of colour. "I--I amjust leaving. I hope you will excuse me. I--"

  "I wish I could," he smiled, hobbling in and confronting her quietly inher own room. "But circumstances make it quite imperative that I shouldhave a few words with you on a topic which need not be disagreeableto you, and probably will not be. My name is Gryce. This will probablyconvey nothing to you, but I am not unknown to the management below,and my years must certainly give you confidence in the propriety of myerrand. A beautiful and charming young woman died here last night. May Iask if you knew her?"

  "I?" She was trembling violently now, but whether with indignation orsome other more subtle emotion, it would be difficult to say. "No, I'mfrom the South. I never saw the young lady. Why do you ask? I do notrecognise your right. I--I--"

  Certainly her emotion must be that of simple indignation. Mr. Gryce madeone of his low bows, and propping himself against the table he stoodbefore, remarked civilly:--

  "I had rather not force my rights. The matter is so very ordinary. I didnot suppose you knew Miss Challoner, but one must begin somehow, and asyou came in at the very moment when the alarm was raised in the lobby,I thought perhaps you could tell me something which would aid me in myeffort to elicit the real facts of the case. You were crossing the lobbyat the time--"

  "Yes." She raised her head. "So were a dozen others--"

  "Madam,"--the interruption was made in his kindliest tones, but in a waywhich nevertheless suggested authority. "Something was picked up fromthe floor at that moment. If the dozen you mention were witnessesto this act we do not know it. But we do know that it did not passunobserved by you. Am I not correct? Didn't you see a certain person--Iwill mention no names--stoop and pick up something from the lobbyfloor?"

  "No." The word came out with startling violence. "I was conscious ofnothing but the confusion." She was facing him with determination andher eyes were fixed boldly on his face. But her lips quivered, and hercheeks were white, too white now for simple indignation.

  "Then I have made a big mistake," apologised the ever-courteousdetective. "Will you pardon me? It would have settled a very seriousquestion if it could be found that the object thus picked up was theweapon which killed Miss Challoner. That is my excuse for the trouble Ihave given you."

  He was not looking at her; he was looking at her hand which restedon the table before which he himself stood. Did the fingers tighten alittle and dig into the palm they concealed? He thought so, and was veryslow in turning
limpingly about towards the door. Meanwhile, would shespeak? No. The silence was so marked, he felt it an excuse for stealinganother glance in her direction. She was not looking his way but at adoor in the partition wall on her right; and the look was one very akinto anxious fear. The next moment he understood it. The door burst open,and a young girl bounded into the room, with the merry cry:

  "All ready, mother. I'm glad we are going to the Clarendon. I hatehotels where people die almost before your eyes."

  What the mother said at this outburst is immaterial. What the detectivedid is not. Keeping on his way, he reached the door, but not to openit wider; rather to close it softly but with unmistakable decision. Thecloak which enveloped the girl was red, and full enough to be calledvoluminous.

  "Who is this?" demanded the girl, her indignant glances flashing fromone to the other.

  "I don't know," faltered the mother in very evident distress. "He sayshe has a right to ask us questions and he has been asking questionsabout--about--"

  "Not about me," laughed the girl, with a toss of her head Mr. Grycewould have corrected in one of his grandchildren. "He can have nothingto say about me." And she began to move about the room in an aimless,half-insolent way.

  Mr. Gryce stared hard at the few remaining belongings of the two women,lying in a heap on the table, and half musingly, half deprecatingly,remarked:

  "The person who stooped wore a long red cloak. Probably you precededyour daughter, Mrs. Watkins."

  The lady thus brought to the point made a quick gesture towards thegirl who suddenly stood still, and, with a rising colour in her cheeks,answered, with some show of resolution on her own part:

  "You say your name is Gryce and that you have a right to address me thuspointedly on a subject which you evidently regard as serious. That isnot exact enough for me. Who are you, sir? What is your business?"

  "I think you have guessed it. I am a detective from Headquarters. WhatI want of you I have already stated. Perhaps this young lady can tell mewhat you cannot. I shall be pleased if this is so."

  "Caroline"--Then the mother broke down. "Show the gentleman what youpicked up from the lobby floor last night."

  The girl laughed again, loudly and with evident bravado, before shethrew the cloak back and showed what she had evidently been holding inher hand from the first, a sharp-pointed, gold-handled paper-cutter.

  "It was lying there and I picked it up. I don't see any harm in that."

  "You probably meant none. You couldn't have known the part it had justplayed in this tragic drama," said the old detective looking carefullyat the cutter which he had taken in his hand, but not so carefully thathe failed to note that the look of distress was not lifted from themother's face either by her daughter's words or manner.

  "You have washed this?" he asked.

  "No. Why should I wash it? It was clean enough. I was just going down togive it in at the desk. I wasn't going to carry it away." And she turnedaside to the window and began to hum, as though done with the wholematter.

  The old detective rubbed his chin, glanced again at the paper-cutter,then at the girl in the window, and lastly at the mother, who had liftedher head again and was facing him bravely.

  "It is very important," he observed to the latter, "that your daughtershould be correct in her statement as to the condition of this articlewhen she picked it up. Are you sure she did not wash it?"

  "I don't think she did. But I'm sure she will tell you the truth aboutthat. Caroline, this is a police matter. Any mistake about it mayinvolve us in a world of trouble and keep you from getting back home intime for your coming-out party. Did you--did you wash this cutter whenyou got upstairs, or--or--" she added, with a propitiatory glance atMr. Gryce--"wipe it off at any time between then and now? Don't answerhastily. Be sure. No one can blame you for that act. Any girl, asthoughtless as you, might do that."

  "Mother, how can I tell what I did?" flashed out the girl, wheelinground on her heel till she faced them both. "I don't remember doing athing to it. I just brought it up. A thing found like that belongs tothe finder. You needn't hold it out towards me like that. I don't wantit now; I'm sick of it. Such a lot of talk about a paltry thing whichcouldn't have cost ten dollars." And she wheeled back.

  "It isn't the value." Mr. Gryce could be very patient. "It's thefact that we believe it to have been answerable for Miss Challoner'sdeath--that is, if there was any blood on it when you picked it up."

  "Blood!" The girl was facing them again, astonishment struggling withdisgust on her plain but mobile features. "Blood! is that what you mean.No wonder I hate it. Take it away," she cried.

  "Oh, mother, I'll never pick up anything again which doesn't belong tome! Blood!" she repeated in horror, flinging herself into her mother'sarms.

  Mr. Gryce thought he understood the situation. Here was a littlekleptomaniac whose weakness the mother was struggling to hide. Lightwas pouring in. He felt his body's weight less on that miserable foot ofhis.

  "Does that frighten you? Are you so affected by the thought of blood?"

  "Don't ask me. And I put the thing under my pillow! I thought it wasso--so pretty."

  "Mrs. Watkins," Mr. Gryce from that moment ignored the daughter, "didyou see it there?"

  "Yes; but I didn't know where it came from. I had not seen my daughterstoop. I didn't know where she got it till I read that bulletin."

  "Never mind that. The question agitating me is whether any stain wasleft under that pillow. We want to be sure of the connection betweenthis possible weapon and the death by stabbing which we all deplore--ifthere is a connection."

  "I didn't see any stain, but you can look for yourself. The bed has beenmade up, but there was no change of linen. We expected to remain here; Isee no good to be gained by hiding any of the facts now."

  "None whatever, Madam."

  "Come, then. Caroline, sit down and stop crying. Mr. Gryce believes thatyour only fault was in not taking this object at once to the desk."

  "Yes, that's all," acquiesced the detective after a short study of theshaking figure and distorted features of the girl. "You had no idea, I'msure, where this weapon came from, or for what it had been used. That'sevident."

  Her shudder, as she seated herself, was very convincing. She was tooyoung to simulate so successfully emotions of this character.

  "I'm glad of that," she responded, half fretfully, half gratefully, asMr. Gryce followed her mother into the adjoining room. "I've had a badenough time of it without being blamed for what I didn't know and didn'tdo."

  Mr. Gryce laid little stress upon these words, but much upon the lack ofcuriosity she showed in the minute and careful examination he now madeof her room. There was no stain on the pillow-cover and none on thebureau-spread where she might very naturally have laid the cutter downon first coming into her room. The blade was so polished that it musthave been rubbed off somewhere, either purposely or by accident. Wherethen, since not here? He asked to see her gloves--the ones she had wornthe previous night.

  "They are the same she is wearing now," the anxious mother assured him."Wait, and I will get them for you."

  "No need. Let her hold out her hands in token of amity. I shall soonsee."

  They returned to where the girl still sat, wrapped in her cloak, sobbingstill, but not so violently.

  "Caroline, you may take off your things," said the mother, drawing thepins from her own hat. "We shall not go to-day."

  The child shot her mother one disappointed look, then proceeded tofollow suit. When her hat was off, she began to take off her gloves.As soon as they were on the table, the mother pushed them over to Mr.Gryce. As he looked at them, the girl lifted off her cloak.

  "Will--will he tell?" she whispered behind its ample folds into hermother's ear.

  The answer came quickly, but not in the mother's tones. Mr. Gryce's earshad lost none of their ancient acuteness.

  "I do not see that I should gain much by doing so. The one discoverywhich would link this find of yours indissolubly with
Miss Challoner'sdeath, I have failed to make. If I am equally unsuccessful below--if Ican establish no closer connection there than here between this cutterand the weapon which killed Miss Challoner, I shall have no causeto mention the matter. It will be too extraneous to the case. Do youremember the exact spot where you stooped, Miss Watkins?"

  "No, no. Somewhere near those big chairs; I didn't have to step out ofmy way; I really didn't."

  Mr. Gryce's answering smile was a study. It seemed to convey a two-foldmessage, one for the mother and one for the child, and both werecomforting. But he went away, disappointed. The clew which promised somuch was, to all appearance, a false one.

  He could soon tell.