VI.
Next morning we drove up to Riverdale in Mme. Storey's own limousine, but instead of her regular chauffeur, we had Crider at the wheel, an admirable fellow, quiet and keen; the chief of all our operatives. I pointed out to Mme. Storey that if anybody at the house was curious about us, it would be an easy matter to find out who we were by tracing the number of our license.
“It doesn't matter,” she said. “By to-night it will all be decided, one way or the other.”
Riverdale, as everybody knows, is not a “dale” at all, but a bold hill on the mainland, just to the north of Manhattan Island. On the one side it overlooks the Hudson river; on the other the flat expanse of the Bronx with Van Cortlandt Park.
The original village may have started down by the river, but now the whole rocky height is thickly covered with handsome new villas standing in their beautiful and limited plots.
It is an exceedingly well-to-do community, but not at all fashionable. Fashion has fled farther from town. “Oakhurst” however is a survival. It was built and laid out by the first Darius Whittall in the days when “a mansion on the Hudson” was synonymous with everything that was opulent and eminent.
The grounds were of considerable extent. We drove in through beautiful wrought iron gates and past a lodge in the English style. The house was invisible from the road. We wound through a woods of evergreens and oaks before coming to it in the midst of its lawns. It was a long, irregular structure built of native stone. It had no particular architectural pretensions, but the years had mellowed it. It looked dignified and comfortable. This was the back of the house really; the principal rooms faced the glorious prospect over the Hudson with the Palisades beyond.
We drove up under a porte cochere, and upon alighting, were received by an irreproachable butler. This was Frost. All I need say of him is that he was the perfect butler; ageless, expressionless, characterless.
I showed him our order to view the place, and Mme. Storey expressed a wish to be shown the grounds first. Whereupon he handed us over to the second man, a sort of embryo butler; younger, fresh-faced; not yet able to subdue his curiosity and interest at the sight of a woman so beautiful as Mme. Storey.
He conducted us around the side of the house to the head gardener, who was directing the operations of several men engaged in setting out shrubs.
So we began our perambulations. There was only one thing about the grounds that really interested us; i.e., the pavilion; but of course we said nothing about it, waiting until we should arrive. there in proper order.
In front of the house the ground fell away gradually in beautiful flower beds and terraces, to the edge of a steep declivity which dropped to the river. The steep part was wooded in order to mask the railway tracks below.
At this season it was all rather sere and leafless except the grass which was clipped and rolled to the semblance of green velvet. Stables, garage and other offices were all concealed behind shrubbery.
We could see the pavilion off to the left as you faced the river; that is to say the southerly side. On this side the hill ran out in a little point ending in a knoll, and on the knoll was the pavilion, in the form of a little Greek temple with a flattened dome and a circle of Doric columns. The winding path which led to it was bordered with rhododendrons, backed with arbor vitae.
As we approached, I pictured the beautiful woman running down that path to the aid of the man she loved, as she supposed; and I seemed to hear the shot that ended everything for her. At the foot of the three steps one instinctively looked for bloodstains in the grey gravel; but of course all such marks had been erased long since.
Mme. Storey said to the gardener: “I should like to sit down here for five minutes to look at the view. Will you come back?”
The man bowed and hurried away to look after his subordinates.
As we mounted the three steps Mme. Storey laid her hand against the first pillar to the right. “There,” she murmured. “the murderer waited concealed, gun in hand.”
Inside, there was a circle of flat-topped marble benches, The view from that spot is world famous. One could see both up and down the glorious river for miles. Only within the last few years the foreground had been defaced by the cutting of new streets and the building of showy houses.
“Our first job is to decide how the murderer got here,” said Mme. Storey. “He must have familiarized himself with the spot beforehand.”
“But of course he knew the spot!” I said, in surprise.
“Mustn't jump to conclusions, my Bella!” she said with her dry smile. “It warps the judgment. All that we can say so far is; some person unknown to us stood behind that pillar and shot Mrs. Whittall.”
I thought Mme. Storey was over-scrupulous.
As soon as we looked down to the left, the means of access was clear. The present boundary of the Whittall property was only about a hundred feet away on this side. It was marked by a rough stone wall, not very high; any determined person could have scrambled over it.
On the other side of the wall a new street had been laid off down to the river. There were several new houses looking over the wall, and a boating club house down at the end. Once over the wall it was an easy climb through the dead leaves and thin undergrowth up to the pavilion.
“If you followed that street back over the hill and down into the valley on the other side,” said Mme. Storey, “it would bring you out somewhere in the vicinity of the subway terminal at Van Cortlandt Park. That is the way he came. You cannot trace anybody on the subway.”
She went on: “Now what did Whittall do with his wife's revolver?”
“A search?” I asked anxiously, thinking what a little time we had,
“Oh, sit down,” she said, suiting the action to the word. “And appear to be enjoying the view like me.”
She produced a cigarette, and lighted it. “Let us search in our heads first.”
She went on: “During that minute when he was left alone with the body, he took the revolver out of the drawer and dropped it in his pocket. All during the time when the police were in the house it lay there in his pocket, burning him! As soon as he could, he left the house with his little flashlight as Mary has told us, and came this way. He was looking for the letter then. He was afraid that his wife might have carried it out in her hand, and dropped it when she fell.
“Not finding any letter, he still had to dispose of the gun, Well, there he was. He dared not stay out more than a few minutes. Put yourself in his place, Bella, What would he do with it?”
I shook my head helplessly.
“I think his first impulse would be to toss it from him as far as he could,” Mme. Storey resumed. “But it was night you see, and the risk would be too great that the morning light would reveal it. There are too many men working on this place! For the same reason he wouldn't dare hide it in the shrubbery. He would next think of burying it, but I don't suppose Whittall had ever dug a hole in his life. Besides, he would have to get a tool, which would take time, and anyway, where in this carefully manicured place could he have buried it without leaving telltale marks?
“Then there's the river, that's the ideal hiding-place. But it's too far away. It would take him twenty minutes to go and come, not counting the time he spent looking for the letter, and we have Mary's word for it that he was not out of the house more than ten—I think he would have risked the trip to the river, Bella, had he not known of water nearer to. For a guilty person with a heavy object to hide, instinctively thinks of water!”
We saw the gardener returning along the path.
Mme. Storey smiled at him. “I have a horror of mosquitoes,” she said to him as he came up, “and I want to ask you if there is any standing water on this place, or near by? Any pond or pool or basin?”
“No, madame,” was the reply. “Nothing of that sort anywhere in the neighborhood.”
“But are you sure?” she persisted sweetly. “They say that even a pan of water is enough if it's allowed to stand.”
“Well, there's an old well down at the foot of the front lawn,” he said good-humoredly. “But I hardly think the insects could breed there, because it's twenty feet down to the water.”
“Still I'd like to look at it,” said Mme. Storey. “If you wouldn't mind.”
“Certainly, madame.”
He pointed out a path which led down to the right, without returning to. the house. As he led the way, he gave us a history of the well. “The original house on this property stood on the edge of the steep bank, and this was the well belonging to it. When Mr. Whittall's grandfather pulled the old house down he did not fill up the well, but built an ornamental well-house over it. But the late Mrs. Whittall thought it was incongruous, and so it was, and she had it removed. Her idea was to bring over an antique well-head from Italy, but for some reason this was never done, and so at present it just has a temporary cover over it.”
In a hundred yards we.came to the spot. It was on the lowest level of the gardens and terraces in front of the house. One could picture the old-fashioned farmhouse which had once stood there. The magnificent elm which had shaded it, had been allowed to remain. The brick work of the well projected a few inches above the ground, and over it had been laid a heavy wooden cover with a trap in the middle, having a ring.
“Will that open?” asked Mme. Storey, pointing.
He got down on his knees to pull it up, looking bored at these vagaries of my mistress, but still respectful.
“I want to look in it,” she said.
He made place for her, and she in turn got down on her knees to peer into the black hole.
Suddenly she clasped her breast. “Oh, my pin!” she cried. “It fell in!” And got up with a face of tragedy.
The old gardener scratched his head. I think he was a Scotchman. He looked utterly disgusted. Oh, the folly of these gentlefolk! his expression said.
“It must be recovered!” my mistress said agitatedly. What an admirable actress she was! “It must be recovered! I value it above price!”
“Well, ma'am, I suppose it can be got,” the man said slowly. “There's not above three feet of water in the bottom. I have a block and tackle in the tool-house. I will send one of the men down.”
“My chauffeur shall go down,” said Mme. Storey.
“No need of that, ma'am.”
“No, I insist! My chauffeur shall go down. If the others will help him I shall see that all are well rewarded for their trouble. And you, too!”
“As you wish, ma'am.” He went off to summon help.
With a slight smile, Mme. Storey pressed an emerald bar-pin that she had unfastened from somewhere or other into my hand, and sent me for Crider. I found him still sitting like a wooden image at the wheel of the car. I gave him the emerald, which he pinned inside his clothes, and whispered his instructions. His eyes gleamed. We returned to the old well.
The under-gardeners had gathered to help, and the old man was dragging block and tackle toward the spot.
“This will take some time, I suppose,” said Mme. Storey when he came up. “We had better be looking over the house while we wait.”
So we went back up the slope.
We had no particular interest in the interior of the house, but we went over everything dutifully under the guidance of the butler. It was one of the most attractive houses I ever was in. If I had never heard anything else about the mistress of it I would have known from the inside of her house that she was a superior woman.
It had nothing of the awful perfection usual to the houses of the very rich; nothing of the museum look. It was full of character. There were no “period” rooms. it was above all the house of an American lady.
On the ground floor there was a magnificent suite of rooms with rows of windows overlooking the gardens and the river; drawing-room, library, morning-room, dining room. At the south end a great square room with an immense fireplace had been built on. This they called the lounge.
Up-stairs Mrs. Whittall's own suite occupied the best position, that is, the southwest exposure. There were three rooms; sitting-room, dressing-room and bed-room. I don't suppose that much had been changed there since her death; and it was very sad to see the narrow little bed where her body had lain; the dressing-room where Mary Thole had attended her for the last time; and the delightful sitting-room where she had had her one and only interview with the man she loved.
In order to give Crider plenty of time we made our tour last as long as possible, but we had returned to the main floor ere any word came from him. There was a central hall which was furnished with comfortable chairs. Mme. Storey said to the butler:
“If we may, we will wait here a little while. It is so cold outside.”
“Certainly, madame,” he said and withdrew. We had a feeling, though, that he was lingering somewhere close by. Well, after all, we were strangers in the house.
In a few minutes we heard a car approach swiftly through the crunching gravel, and come to a stop with a grinding of brakes. Mme. Storey and I looked at each other significantly. She shrugged. We heard the car door slam outside, feet came running up the steps, and the front door was flung open. There stood the master of the house. The light was behind him, and I could not read his expression.
The thought flew instantly into my head that the butler, recognizing Mme. Storey, or perhaps suspecting us on general principles, had telephoned to him. He had had just about time enough to drive up from town.