How Many Cards?/Chapter 3

HE Inspector turned involuntarily and glanced at his subordinate, but McCarty's face was blandly inscrutable.

"Mr. Alexander," began Inspector Druet, "your informant was unauthorized by the police department, and we have no more knowledge than you as to his identity, but your presence here is more than welcome in this emergency. Certain suspicious circumstances, the details of which you will learn later, caused an investigation of the house between the hours of two and three this morning by the regular officer on this beat. The premises were found to be deserted although a light was burning and the remains of supper for two are spread out in the breakfast room. In the study, or den, there lies the body of a man in evening clothes shot through the heart and it has been identified as that of Mr. Creveling."

"Eugene—shot!" the banker gasped. "Impossible! Good God, I cannot believe it! Why, only yesterday we had a long conference at the office—! But who could have done this thing?"

"The pistol—an army .44—lies within touch of his fingers," replied the inspector.

"You mean to insinuate that he killed himself?" Mr. Alexander bristled, but he seemed to shrink even more within his light spring overcoat. "Ridiculous! What reason could he have for such an act? His affairs were never in better shape; the conference at the office yesterday was in regard to a large loan we contemplated making which would have brought us in highly advantageous returns and he had no other problems or troubles, no entanglements of any kind!"

"Come and see him for yourself." The inspector turned and led the way to the study with Mr. Alexander following and McCarty bringing up the rear. As they entered Clancy and the two detectives stepped aside exposing the motionless form outstretched upon the floor, and with a shocked exclamation the banker recoiled.

"It is he!—But Eugene never killed himself! Of that I am as sure as though I had been present when the deed was done!"

"Why are you so certain, Mr. Alexander?" the inspector asked.

"There could have been no reason," the other repeated. "No one ever loved life better than he or knew how to enjoy it to the full. He had an unassailable position both in the social and financial world, a beautiful wife, a host of friends—oh, it is unthinkable!"

"Yet the pistol is almost within his grasp,'" Inspector Druet reminded the banker. "Was he right or left-handed?"

"Right, but any one could have placed the weapon there after the crime was committed to make it look like a case of suicide." Alexander responded defensively. "Besides, who telephoned to me, and why?"

"That we must ascertain later." The inspector shrugged. "Do you recognize the pistol, Mr. Alexander? Have you ever seen it in Mr. Creveling's possession?"

"I have not, sir." The banker shook his head decisively. "It may have been his, of course. A man whose home was filled with valuable objects of art and whose wife's jewels constituted a huge fortune in themselves would be naturally supposed to guard against burglary, but he could have had no personal reason for such an article of self-protection."

The sound of another motor car outside and the ringing of the front door bell put a stop for the time being to any further questioning by the inspector, and as one of the assistants of the chief medical examiner was ushered in the dead man's partner turned to McCarty.

"Are you one of those in charge here? If so, for God's sake, take me out of this for a while! I can't stand it! The shock—!"

It was the moment for which McCarty had been waiting.

"Come this way, sir. They'll call if you're needed." He drew the banker out to the hall and into the breakfast room, where he switched on the light once more and pulled forward a chair suggestively with its back to the disordered supper table. "Sit here, Mr. Alexander, and rest yourself. I'm not connected with the police force, if that's what you mean; I just happened by, and I'm a friend of the inspector. It must have been a terrible shock to you, as you say, to find the house deserted and Mr. Creveling killed like this!"

"The abrupt summons over the telephone was startling enough, but to lose my partner in this hideous, tragic way!" The banker sank into the chair and pressed his delicate, blue-veined hands over his eyes for a moment.

"I think, sir, you said that Mrs. Creveling was your niece?" McCarty asked slyly.

Air. Alexander's hands dropped and he gazed at the other in a dazed fashion.

"Yes. She was my late brother's only child and my ward until her marriage to Eugene eight years ago. It will be a most—most distressing homecoming for her.—By Jove, we must wire her at once! I had forgotten—!"

"Mrs. Creveling is away?" McCarty's ingenuous blue eyes opened still wider. "That is why, then, that the house was all deserted."

He added the last as if to himself, but the dazed look faded partially from Mr. Alexander's eyes and a shade as of caution crept into them.

"Mrs. Creveling has been paying a round of visits on Long Island for the last few weeks and Mr. Creveling has been living much at the club since his presence was required almost constantly in town on this banking matter we were arranging to negotiate." His explanation came with nervous haste. "I believe two or three of the servants were left here temporarily as caretakers, though; I cannot imagine where they may have gone. However, Mrs. Creveling must be sent for at once! May I ask that you arrange with the inspector to have one of those men in there dispatch a wire immediately to her in care of Mrs. Douglas Waverly, Broadmead, Long Island?"

"And what shall he say in the telegram, sir?" asked McCarty as he prepared to comply. "You don't want to tell her in cold blood that her husband has been shot, do you?"

"Heavens, no!" The little man recoiled. "Just explain that a serious accident has occurred and her immediate re turn is imperatively necessary. I—I cannot think! I confess that I find it almost impossible to pull myself together! This horrible thing—!"

"I understand, sir." McCarty's tone was full of respectful sympathy, but he paused with his hand on the door knob. "I wonder, now, you knowing Mr. Creveling so well, if you'd remember whether or not he smoked his cigarettes with an amber mouthpiece?"

"'An amber mouthpiece'?" the other repeated in unguarded surprise at the petty, irrelevant question. "No, he never used a holder of any sort.—But the telegram—!"

"I'll see that it goes at once, Mr. Alexander." McCarty closed the door behind him, and when he entered the room where the medical examiner's assistant was concluding his grim business the ex-roundsman's face did not betray by the flicker of an eyelash that he had stumbled on a clew, albeit a slender one. The inspector drew him aside at once.

"Creveling has been dead at least four hours," he announced. "The Doc seems to think he shot himself, although he wants an autopsy for form's sake, and it's just as well. We'll let it go at that for a day or two anyway till we've something to spring on the Old Man. Where's Alexander?"

"In the next room. He wants a telegram sent at once to Mrs. Creveling. It seems that she's visiting a Mrs. Douglas Waverly at Broadmead, Long Island."

McCarty rapidly detailed the substance of his brief talk with Alexander and of the message to be sent and one of the detectives was despatched to the nearest telegraph office. The medical examiner's assistant also took his departure after arranging for the removal of the body for a formal autopsy and the inspector and McCarty returned to the breakfast room.

"Mr. Alexander," Inspector Druet recommenced his interrogation without any preamble. "My friend, here, says that you told him Mrs. Creveling had been visiting on Long Island for several weeks and her husband living at the club. Was he in the habit of returning here to his home to give midnight suppers when it was virtually closed and the staff of servants away?"

George Alexander, whom they had found standing by the table frowningly contemplating the debris of the supper, turned and faced them at the question and its implication.

"I know little of my late partner's habits," he replied stiffly. "In our banking business we deal with many foreign powers among the representatives of which each have our own especial clients, and not until all the preliminary negotiations have been concluded do we have a general conference. Mr. Creveling and I are known to have arranged several international loans of a confidential nature—you know how such affairs creep out through the underground channels of diplomacy—and it is quite probable that he may have brought a prospective client here to-night rather than to a restaurant or club in order to insure privacy. Is it not at least probable also that after the departure of his guest he may have been attacked by burglars? You gentlemen of the police know that many an army pistol is now in the hands of a member of what I believe you term the 'underworld.'"

The inspector shrugged.

"The medical examiner who has just been here affirms that Mr. Creveling shot himself," he observed. "Mr. Alexander, you said that Mr. Creveling had no troubles of any sort. This may seem like an impertinent question but we must know the truth, and it is bound to come out in the end. Was he in no domestic difficulty? He and his wife seem to have been virtually living apart and the house left in the hands of caretakers—"

"Nothing of the sort!" the banker interrupted indignantly. "I am of an older generation, an older school than was Eugene, and their friends were not mine, but his wife was my niece and I should have been the first to know of any discord. To my mind they were a model, modern couple, independent in thought and action, but mutually considerate, and I can assure you that a very real affection existed between them. My partner was a man's man, caring little for society although his wife reveled in it. This was perfectly understood by their friends and the house here was frequently left in the hands of caretakers, especially in the spring and autumn when my niece—Mrs. Creveling—made a round of country house visits and Eugene preferred his club to an empty house, naturally."

"You say their friends were not yours, that they moved in a different set," the inspector interposed. "You must, however, have heard your partner and your niece mention from time to time those with whom they were most intimate."

Mr. Alexander's lips closed in a tight line.

"Mrs. Creveling was twenty at the time of their marriage and ceased to be my ward a year later; Mr. Creveling and I seldom discussed anything but business."

"How long have you and Mr. Creveling been in partnership?"

Mr. Alexander stroked his beard for a moment in evident hesitation before he replied:

"Since about the time of his marriage to my niece, although his family and ours have known each other for generations."

"Had Mr. Creveling been engaged actively in any financial pursuits prior to that?" Inspector Druet continued.

"I cannot say that he had, beyond speculating now and then on the market," the banker answered with yet more obvious reluctance. "But I really do not comprehend the significance of these questions at such a time as this. Mr. Creveling was a very rich man, but naturally the prospect of marriage made him ambitious to become something more than a—er—mere art dilettante—"

"And Broadway spender?" broke in McCarty irrepressibly.

Mr. Alexander's eyes shifted.

"I presume you refer to the unfortunate sobriquet of Mr. Creveling's college days, and which erroneously clung to him for years after he had reached maturity," he said. "Irresponsible youth and the possession of too much money have formed a dangerous combination before now but my partner has been unknown in the bright light district, save at an occasional theater party with his wife and their friends, for several years."

"Mr. Alexander," the inspector bent forward suddenly, "when I asked you just now if you knew who Mr. and Mrs. Creveling's intimates were you evaded the question; in the face of this tragedy they are bound to be discovered and fully investigated. You said also that you seldom discussed anything but business with your partner and that your guardianship of his wife ended a year after their marriage. Does that mean, too, that your social relationship with them was interrupted? That, in fact, there was any estrangement between you and them?"

"Most assuredly not!" The banker squared his somewhat narrow shoulders. "My niece made her home with me prior to her marriage and the greatest possible affection has always existed between us. As their only relative I have been a frequent visitor here, but I have already told you that their friends are in a different circle—"

As he spoke the slow, measured tread of heavy feet in the hall outside told of the temporary departure of Eugene Creveling from his home, before his final return for the brief scene in which he would be the principal but silent actor, and involuntarily his late partner paused, shuddering again.

The remaining detective from borough headquarters appeared in the doorway, with Clancy behind him, and both stood awaiting further orders.

"There's nothing more for either of you to do here now," the inspector announced. "Sam, have your report sent in to me downtown; Clancy, make your own to the Old Man and I'll look it over later. If that young crook tries to get hold of a shyster lawyer, ask the Commissioner to stall him and keep him quiet until I get back to Centre Street myself."

As the two men turned to go, McCarty went to the door.

"You'll not be needing me now for a bit, Inspector?" The statement was a question asked with the ingratiation which only the ex-roundsman could command. "I'll have another look over the ground—"

"Go as far as you like, Mac," Inspector Druet responded heartily, then turned once more to Mr. Alexander. "Who were the Crevelings' intimate friends, as far as you know? This Mrs. Douglas Waverly, for instance, whom Mrs. Creveling is visiting; do you know anything about her?"

The banker smiled slightly in a somewhat relieved fashion.

"She was born a Preston, of Washington." He spoke as though that was sufficient answer in itself. "Her husband is the son of old Monro Waverly, the tight-fisted Scot who developed a passion for speculation late in life, in the 'eighties, and amassed millions. Besides Broadmead the Douglas Waverlys have a town house a block or two below here. I have met them occasionally."

"Who were the others in the Creveling set?"

"An Irish aristocrat, if there be such a thing left, named O'Rourke and his wife who I believe has a title in her own right but refuses to use it, at least in this country; then there is a Mr. and Mrs. Ford, and I believe a Mrs. Gulp or Kip, or some such name—really, you must ask my niece—!"

"We'll leave her out of it for the time being," the inspector interrupted crisply. "You said that Creveling was a man's man; who were his associates aside from those in his wife's social circle?"

"He belonged to most of the best clubs in town, but I am not in a position to tell you with whom he associated." The note of defense was again evident in the banker's tones. "If he had any hobby beyond an innate love of beautiful things and a desire to acquire them I never learned it and I have found that it is only through a knowledge of a man's hobbies or predilections that one can gauge the type of individual to whom he would naturally be drawn as a congenial companion."

Mr. Alexander halted suddenly as though he had said too much, and the inspector glanced at him sharply.

"It did not occur to you to interest yourself in your partner's companions and mode of life outside of his family and business?" he asked.

"Why should it have?" the other countered defiantly. "My niece's married life with him appeared to be ideal according to modern standards, our partnership was successful and without friction of any sort and I was content. My own social interests, as I have told you, lay with an older, more staid school; a quiet round of golf or rubber of bridge, an occasional opera night or evening with my books or friends of my own generation; that for years has been my life after banking hours, Inspector."

Inspector Druet frowned thoughtfully.

"Conservative, eh? Why, then, Mr. Alexander, were you willing to enter into partnership with a man who you admit had no knowledge of business even if he was the husband of your niece?"

Once more a dull flush swept over the features of the dapper little man before him.

"I consider that question an impertinence, sir, but I have no reason to evade a reply to it except a natural aversion to discussing my private affairs with those for whom they can have no possible concern. I have already told you that prior to our entrance into partnership Mr. Creveling had speculated occasionally in Wall Street. Since he was to marry my ward I watched his operations and conceived a sincere admiration for his acumen. I realized that although he did not know the banking business I could trust his judgment; he brought the necessary capital into our concern and I the experience. It was an ideal combination which to-night's tragedy has so unfortunately broken."

"I see." The inspector nodded. "Was there any connection, Mr. Alexander, between that partnership and your niece's marriage? To put it bluntly, was the partnership a stipulation of the alliance? Mrs. Creveling was your ward; had she any fortune of her own?"

"You go too far, sir!" Mr. Alexander's eyes flashed. "The marriage was a love match; because of that alone I consented to it. Mrs. Creveling's fortune was not great but there is no older family than ours in America, and had she desired she could have made a far more brilliant alliance, in spite of Mr. Creveling's money. I—I decline absolutely to answer any more of your questions until I learn my rights in this affair. I do not understand the trend of this interrogation, nor do I consider it pertinent to the crime you are investigating.—For it is a crime, no matter what your assistant medical examiners or any other so-called officials of the police department may assume. Eugene Creveling was murdered!"

"I beg pardon, sir!" A voice whose studied deferentiality was evident even in the shocked accents which now punctuated it was heard behind them and both men turned. In the doorway stood a thin, smooth-faced individual of perhaps thirty-five and upon his austere, almost clerical features deep concern struggled with curiosity and alarm. "I have just returned—arrived, I should say—in accordance with Mr. Creveling's instructions, but he is not in his room. I hope nothing is wrong, sir? I knocked but you did not reply and I could not avoid hearing—"

"Oh, it's you, Frank!" Mr. Alexander spoke with obvious relief at the other's appearance, although his tone was fittingly lugubrious. "I regret to inform you that something very terrible has happened to your master. This is an inspector from police headquarters—"

"Who are you?" Inspector Druet stepped forward.

"Mr. Creveling's man, sir. Frank Hill is my name." The valet's tone was still respectful, but there was a shade less of deference in it, although he spoke nervously.

"When did you last see your employer alive?"

"At eleven o'clock this—last night, sir, in his rooms at the club."

"Where have you been since then?"

The man wet his thin lips and replied in a low, hesitating voice:

"On a private matter. My time was my own, sir. I—I had rather not say."