# Deep Lake Mystery/Chapter 8
### CHAPTER VIII ALMA’S STATEMENTS

“THAT is a possible explanation,” Hart conceded. “But who would do such a thing? Who would hide those ridiculous properties in that strange place, and why?”
“No, it is not a plant,” Alma Remsen said, speaking slowly and seeming to choose her words carefully. “I left the waistcoats in the boathouse myself, when I carried them home day before yesterday.”
“Why did you take them home?” Hart spoke gravely but not unkindly.
“My uncle gave them to me.”
“Gave them to you! What for?”
“I am making a patchwork quilt, and he told me these two waistcoats were worn and I could have them to cut up for patches. As they were of fine quality silk, I was glad to get them.”
I looked at the girl in admiration. She was quite composed, even smiling a little, and she favoured Hart with a glance of confidence, as if sure he would believe her.
“And the Totem Pole?”
“Uncle gave me that, too. He possessed several, and he often gave me little presents like that.”
She was quite at ease now, and her eyelids were as steady as the rest of her face and demeanour.
“You were here Tuesday afternoon, then?”
“Yes, between three and four.”
“You saw your uncle?”
“Yes, of course.”
Something about her manner was disconcerting. At least, it bothered the already harassed Coroner.
I was watching Alma Remsen closely, and it seemed to me she purposely tried to put the Coroner in wrong. There was no overt act or word, but her little glance of surprise or her glimmer of a smile made him seem blundering and inept, and I decided she had such intentions.
This did not lower her in my estimation; indeed, I was fast reaching a point where nothing could disparage her to me. It was not alone her beauty, though she looked fair and sweet to-day, but I was bowled over by her air of courage and determination.
That she had something to conceal, I was positive.
I knew she had been at Pleasure Dome the night of her uncle’s death, I knew she denied it. Fatuously I told myself she had her own good reasons for telling a falsehood, and I preferred to believe she was shielding another rather than herself.
Hart was proceeding.
“Were you alone with him?”
Alma’s pretty brows contracted in her effort to recollect.
“Most of the time,” she said, with the air of humouring an over-inquisitive child. “Mr. Everett was in and out of the room, and Mr. Dean, too, I think.”
“Where were you?”
“In my uncle’s sitting room in his own suite.”
“And then he gave you the silk waistcoats?”
“Yes.”
“Which are, you say, worn?”
“Y-yes.” There was a slight hesitation this time.
“But Griscom has stated they were nearly new. Why should he give them to you?”
Alma’s brows rose in distinct annoyance.
“The question of wear in such a garment is not a matter of fact, it is a matter of opinion. It may be that my uncle considered them more worn than Griscom did, or it may be that, since I admired them, my uncle was willing to part with them, even if they were nearly new. The fact remains, he gave them to me, for the purpose I have told you, and I cannot see what bearing it has on the matter of his death. He also gave me the Totem Pole, and I carried the things home, and inadvertently left them in the boathouse.”
Well, if that girl was a liar, she certainly was the cleverest one I had ever seen, and I didn’t for a minute believe she was lying.
I glanced at Keeley Moore, but nobody could read his inscrutable face.
I turned my attention to the jury.
Their interested countenances left no doubt of their sympathy with the witness and their readiness to accept her statements.
And apparently Hart himself believed in her. The explanation of the waistcoats was plausible enough. Doubtless, those rich men did give up their clothing before it was worn threadbare, especially if a pretty niece asked for it. And the Totem Pole, too. It was known that Sampson Tracy had been devoted to his niece, although they no longer lived in the same house, and for him to make her presents was far from unbelievable.
And, of course, I believed her.
Even if she had come to Pleasure Dome in the dead of night, that had nothing to do with the waistcoats, which, doubtless, were given to her exactly when and why she had stated.
Yet the girl seemed a mystery.
Coroner Hart contemplated her with a perplexed stare, which she in no way resented.
“Can I tell you anything more?” she asked, helpfully.
Then he glared at her.
“Not now, Miss Remsen,” he said, with a new note in his voice. It sounded almost menacing and Merry seemed to spring to attention. “I shall adjourn the inquest, as it was intended merely for identification purposes, and I must look into the case further before I can carry on properly. I will call at your house to-day, and investigate a few things.”
“Indeed, you’ll do nothing of the sort!”, Mrs. Merivale exclaimed, her eyes fairly snapping. They were dark, deep-set eyes, and her gray hair, in wisps round her thin gaunt face, shook with the intensity of her anger. “I’ll not have my lamb pestered by such nonsense! Ask her what you like now, and have done with it. But don’t come snooping about her home, for you won’t be let in!”
Alma quietly turned to the irate woman, and gave her a tender smile.
Then she said to Hart, quietly:
“Mrs. Merivale means no disrespect. She is ignorant of the workings of the law, and is quick to resent what she thinks an intrusion on my privacy. Keep still, Merry. The law must take its course.”
More, I felt certain, in response to a caressing touch on her shoulder than by Alma’s words, the woman subsided, muttering to herself, but saying nothing audible.
“It must, Miss Remsen,” Hart agreed. “I shall therefore call on you to-day, as well as on several other of the witnesses, and I adjourn this inquest for a week.”
Now it was Katherine Dallas’s turn to look apprehensive.
“I shall not be here,” she volunteered. “I am going away for a trip——”
“Not just at present, Mrs. Dallas,” the Coroner said, sternly. I was surprised to note how much more master of himself he was when talking to this woman than when he addressed Alma. Yet, surely, the haughty and dignified widow was more awe-inspiring than the gentle girl.
Somehow, everybody seemed disturbed.
Harper Ames looked positively disgruntled. Both secretaries sat, with eyes cast down, as if dismayed at the way things were going. Clearly, there was disappointment that the matter could not be finished up then and there, one way or another.
I came to the conclusion that the Coroner was largely at fault. Apparently he knew little about conducting an inquest, and though he made no basic errors, he was distinctly floundering and decidedly out of his depth.
“There is much yet to be learned,” he announced, and we all, I am sure, silently agreed with him. “There are strange happenings to be explained, stories to be investigated, clues to be traced, evidence to be sifted, and until these things are done the jury cannot come to a decision. As they have seen and identified the deceased man, and have heard the detail of the finding of the body, the funeral may be held and the estate may be administered. But no witness may leave town, and all present must attend the resumed inquest one week from to-day.”
Again I looked at the principals. As I could take no part in the conversation, I contented myself with trying to read faces.
Nor was it difficult to do so.
Alma was trembling. Not only did her eyelids quiver, but she shook all over, though quite evidently trying to control herself. Merivale stood at her side; we had all risen now, and the girl leaned heavily upon the arm of the faithful nurse.
Katherine Dallas looked daggers at everybody. Whatever her reason, whatever her mental attitude, she appeared angry at the whole world and inclined to show it.
Ames maintained his usual aspect, which was that of grumpiness.
That is the only word that really describes that man. He was not actively angry, not exactly morose, but just grumpy, and it seemed to be his normal state.
He looked loweringly at the Coroner, at Mrs. Dallas and at Alma. But none of them called forth a varying expression to his grumpy face.
The audience began to disperse, and Ames came directly to Keeley Moore.
“Are you going to take this case?” he asked, in a threatening rather than an urgent manner.
Moore looked at him. Knowing Kee as I did, I could read his thoughts pretty well, and I realized that he was torn between his great desire to investigate this intriguing problem and his disinclination to do it at Ames’s behest.
Yet he couldn’t ignore Harper Ames and take up the case on his own.
“Yes,” he said, deciding quickly, “yes, Mr. Ames, I am most desirous of doing so.”
“Then, go ahead, in your own way,” and for almost the first time, I saw Harper Ames look pleased. “Conduct it as you like, and report to me at your convenience.”
“I understand, then,” Moore said, looking at him closely, “I am to have carte blanche in my manner of procedure, and I am to pursue my investigations no matter in what direction they may lead me?”
I saw a quick spasm of fear flash into Ames’s eyes, but it vanished as quickly, and he said, suavely:
“Yes, Mr. Moore. Stop at nothing to get at the truth.”
He’s the villain, I told myself. He is so sure of his diabolical cleverness, that he thinks he has left no clue and has completely covered his tracks! God help him, when Keeley Moore gets on his trail!
We went into Mr. Tracy’s office, a pleasant room off the library.
There were three fine desks, Tracy’s own, and those of the secretaries.
Moore had told me to come along, and as Ames made no objection, I did so. The three of us, behind closed doors, ran over the salient details.
“I can offer no sort of explanation of the absurd decorations on the bed,” Ames said, “that is your province.”
He spoke in a quick, jerky way, as if anxious to delegate the whole matter to Moore and be rid of it once for all.
“Once get the main issues of the affair, and those things will explain themselves,” Keeley said, nonchalantly. “Whom do you suspect, Mr. Ames?”
Harper Ames gave a start, and looked up as if he had not heard aright.
“Suspect? I? Oh, nobody. I can’t conceive of a human being brutal enough to commit this crime as it was committed. But somebody did, and so, I hope you can bring about his arrest and conviction. Spare no expense——”
“This is not going to be an expensive case, Mr. Ames,” Moore told him. “It must be solved by clever work, not by buying up evidence. I admit that sounds rather boastful on my part, but I confess that I am taking up the matter principally because of its unusual features and its bizarre elements. I mean to do my best, and while I shall rely on having your help when and where it may be available, yet I think the most of my work will be done by myself alone.”
Again Harper Ames showed that strange gleam of fear in his eyes, but now I thought he feared for some one other than himself. Was he shielding some one? I knew evidence was often misleading because of the desire of some one to protect some one else. But so far, there was not enough evidence even to predicate this.
“Very well,” Ames continued. “Work on your own lines. Be as expeditious as possible, but omit no effort. By the terms of Mr. Tracy’s will, I shall be in a position to compensate you for your time, and your bill will be paid whether you succeed or not.”
“And you have no hint to offer? No advice as to which way to look?”
“I have not. I will only say, it seems to me quite possible that the killing of Mr. Tracy and the strange business of the flowers and oranges may not be the work of the same hand.”
“That has occurred to me, too,” Kee said. “Now, I don’t want to seem insistent, but do tell me your opinion as to the servants.”
“I’m not sure.” Ames seemed thoughtful. “I can’t suspect any wrong of Griscom; he’s a faithful old soul, yet he does want his money. Little home on a farm and all that. If he is mixed up in this thing, look out for Bray. She is infatuated with Griscom——”
“And he with her?”
“That I don’t know. And it may be only my imagination. The cook is too stupid to do anything really wrong. She has no thought save for her kitchen and household. The other servants I don’t know very well. Find out for yourself.”
“I shall,” and Kee smiled. “Don’t think I expect you to hire a dog and then do your own barking. As to the secretaries?”
Though he said this with a most casual air, I knew Moore was listening intently for the reply.
“As to that I can say nothing at all,” Ames returned, gravely. “I wouldn’t say a word that might inculpate an innocent man. Nor do I say that I think them other than innocent. But you must look it all up, you must weigh and sift and decide for yourself.”
“Yes,” and Kee nodded his head, “that’s what detectives are for.”
“Then go to it. Of course, you are free of this house. Any other place you wish to go, you must get permission for yourself. Try to be as expeditious as possible.”
I had warmed to Ames. He seemed more of our own sort than I had thought him. But as he rose, thus tacitly dismissing us, his grumpiness returned, and he made a pettish gesture of annoyance at the whole situation.
“Rotten thing to happen!” he exclaimed. “Just now, too, when there were so many crises pending.”
“I think I ought to know of those crises, Mr. Ames,” Moore said, decidedly.
“Oh, nothing that you don’t already know,” Ames pulled himself up. But I was sure that this time he was not strictly truthful. “Only Mr. Tracy’s approaching marriage and——”
“Yes, and?”
“Nothing, save some financial matters that are in the lawyers’ hands.”
Ames was suave again, and I realized that his little burst of anger had been impulsive and was now regretted.
So we left him, and Moore said, as he bowed us out, that we would take a look round Mr. Tracy’s apartments upstairs.
“Not just now,” Ames said. “They are about to take the body away.”
“That won’t matter. We won’t incommode them,” and grasping my arm, Moore fairly hustled me along with him toward the staircase.
We went up to the wing containing the luxurious suite of the dead man.
Looking at it more critically than before, I was delighted with its beautiful furnishings and appointments. We paused in the sitting room, for the undertaker’s men were in the bedroom.
Moore began to scrutinize the room. He did not get down on his hands and knees, and show the accepted detective demeanour of “a hound on the scent.” But he went about the room with his quick eyes darting here and there for possible indication of an intruder.
The usual appurtenances of the master’s occupancy he left apparently unnoticed, but he examined the door sill and the window sills.
The windows, there were two large ones, gave on the lake, or rather, on that dark pool-like stretch of water called the Sunless Sea.
“Come and look out here, Norris,” he said. “Can you imagine any one jumping or diving into that bottomless pit?”
“Yes,” I returned, “I can easily imagine it. But he would have to be a master diver and a master swimmer. Also, a fearless man and a desperate one.”
“Well put, old chap. Clearly and succinctly, I’ll say. He would, indeed, have to be all those things. And he was about five feet eight inches tall, and not a heavy weight, and he wore white flannels and tennis shoes and carried in his hand something painted red.”
“Marvellous, Holmes, marvellous!” I managed to ejaculate, though I was nearly struck dumb at his speech. “Now, I won’t be your Watson, unless you tell me how you picked up, or made up, all that.”
“Of course, I’ll tell you. You well know I’m not the sort of mutt that likes to be mysterious. And, too, I want your corroboration. First, you see the print on the white painted window sill of what can only be the rubber sole of a tennis shoe. You see there’s by no means a full foot-print, but there is enough to show the nubbly sole.”
He was right. I could discern clearly, though faintly, a few of the imprints undeniably made by a sole of a tennis shoe.
“Not enough to tell whether the wearer of the shoe had his foot turned in toward the room or outward,” I offered.
“No,” he returned, eying me sharply, “but the law of probabilities makes me believe it is turned outward. It is hard to think of the murderer poising himself on the sill and diving into that black water, but far harder to visualize him coming in by such an entrance!”
“Go on,” I said, a bit crossly, for I didn’t at all like it.
“Our friend, the murderer, was about five feet eight, because I am five feet ten and a half, and here at the sides of the window frame, we see two sets of fingerprints, faint again, but there, and they are at a height of two and a half inches below where mine would strike if I took hold to pull myself up to the window sill.”
“You can’t get anything from those prints,” I told him. “They’re too faint. A mere hint only.”
“I only need a mere hint. And anyway, I’m only proving the exit of our criminal by this window, and so down into the lake.”
“And his clothes!” I jeered. “A straw hat, did you say?”
“I did not. I said white flannels, because here’s a shred of such caught in a splinter of the upright of the window frame.”
“I refuse to believe in ‘shreds of cloth clenched in the victim’s hand.’”
“Not a shred, really, just a thread, a strand, but it’s to the zealous, confirmation strong! And, note that he carried something painted red in his right hand. See the mark, just above his right hand-print, that is indubitably made by a piece of painted wood.”
“The devil it is! I say, Moore, you’re going dotty over this thing. At any rate, don’t give it all to Hart or March, for they’ll make ducks and drakes of it in short order.”
“No, I shall give it to nobody. I shall use it all myself. I only show it to you, because I want you to witness it. This evidence may be removed, and I want you to swear it was here.”
“I can’t swear those are fingerprints,” I complained. “They’re too faint. You can’t swear to that yourself.”
“I’ll get the fingerprint man up here, or get his outfit. It’s a wonder what they can do with the merest smudges. And, I say, Norry, what’s the trouble? Don’t you want me to find clues? Don’t you want me to unearth the villain? You didn’t murder Tracy, did you?”
“No, but do go slowly, Kee. You’re so impulsive, so headstrong. Now, that red streak, a mere blur, may have been here for days—even weeks.”
“Not in this house. Do you see any other smudges or smears on this immaculate white paint? Enamel paint, of the finest sort. Every fingerprint is wiped off within twenty-four hours, I’m sure. That’s why I want to be sure of these.”
The men were gone now, so we stepped into the bedroom.
Save that the master was absent, the room was much as we had already seen it. The flowers, now withered, still lay on the pillows, and the crackers and orange were on the floor where Doctor Rogers had flung them.
The feather duster seemed not to interest Kee, but he scrutinized the window sill with care.
“No signs here, you see. And, too, there’s a balcony. It would be easier to dive from the sitting-room window. So that’s what our friend did. See, here’s the lady’s scarf. Now learn, my boy, to distinguish between important and non-important clues. Without doubt, the sentimental Sampson kept that scarf by him as a reminder and souvenir of his bride to be. Most likely, he went to bed, carrying it with him. Perhaps wrapped it about him, or held it to his cheek.”
“Don’t be silly!”
“Not silly at all. I see you know nothing of fetish worship, remnants of which survive among us moderns in the form of just such souvenirs. So, I deduce the murderer had no hand in providing the scarf. But the flowers had to be brought from their vases, the crackers and fruit from the table, the duster from its proper abiding place, all these things were achieved by our tennis-soled friend.”
“And the nail?” I snapped at him.
“Yes,” he said, “and the nail.”