# How Many Cards?/Chapter 5

pp. 50–63.

### CHAPTER V
#### "WHO KILLED HIM?"

THE womans tones were low and well-modulated but they seemed to soar to the topmost reaches of the galleried rotunda in the momentousness of their question and as they died away in a quivering silence even the matter-of-fact McCarty felt a cold shiver as of apprehension.
It seemed an age before George Alexander with a little nervous clearing of his throat advanced to meet her.
"My dear Myra!" There was mingled astonishment and dismay in his voice and beneath it McCarty detected that same undernote as of caution with which the banker had previously addressed the valet. "How could my telegram have reached you so quickly? I—we didn't expect—!"
"I know nothing of any telegram, Uncle George." Myra Creveling's voice still seemed strangely remote. "The cook telephoned out to me—at least I believe it was Sarah—that some accident had happened to Eugene. But who are these men?—Frank, where is Mr. Creveling?"
After a brief glance at the inspector and McCarty her eyes had fastened themselves upon the valet and as he opened his lips to reply the former stepped forward.
"You are Mrs. Creveling?"
"I am." Her glance returned to Inspector Druet. "May I ask who you are and what you are doing in my house?"
"Myra, my dear!" Alexander interposed hastily. "You must prepare yourself for a great shock, a great grief! This man is an inspector from the police department; Eugene was found here dead!"
For a moment her wide violet eyes stared deep into her uncle's and there came a sudden, tensing of the lines of her beautiful face but no outcry, no faintness, no other signs of normal emotion. Then from her stiffened lips there issued one single question:
"Who killed him?"
McCarty glanced inadvertently at his superior. If the supposed maid had telephoned to her mistress merely that Creveling had met with some accident, why had his wife on learning that he was dead instantly assumed that he had been murdered?
Inspector Druet, however, did not take up that thread at once. Instead he gestured deprecatingly but with unmistakable authority to a throne chair which stood between two torch lamps near where she had halted and asked:
"At what hour did your cook telephone to you, Mrs. Creveling?"
Obediently, almost mechanically, the lady seated herself and loosening her cloak drew off her veil.
"At about five o'clock this morning, a trifle before the hour, I think." She put one hand to her forehead for a moment, but there was no dazed look of shock in the direct, clear gaze she bent upon her questioner.
"And that was all the message, that there had been an accident? You asked for no particulars?"
"I had no opportunity. That was all the message that was delivered to me. I did not receive it myself, the butler at Broadmead where I was staying replied to the telephone, then awakened my maid who in turn brought the news to me. I understood that the cook—the only maidservant left here—had said that I must come home at once, that something had happened to my husband."
At about five! That had been the hour when Alexander first made his appearance at the house, a few minutes after McCarty had concluded his solitary second search of the rooms upstairs. The agitated elderly gentleman had not thought of sending the wire to his niece until a good half hour afterward; it must have been a quarter of six, at least, when the detective from borough headquarters reached the nearest telegraph office to despatch the message. Why had none of them thought to telephone direct to Broadmead instead?
As McCarty asked himself this question he glanced inadvertently at Alexander just in time to intercept a look which flashed between the banker and the valet; a deliberate motion of command with his eyes toward the room back of him which he had just left, the room with the disordered supper table still laid for two. McCarty's own eyes turned to Hill to find him slipping cat-like toward the door in a movement which the man himself instantly checked.
Mrs. Creveling's testimony was of utmost value at the moment, but McCarty made up his mind to keep his own attention upon this strangely assorted pair as well.
"You immediately aroused your host?" prompted the inspector.
"My hostess," Mrs. Creveling corrected him, still in that monotonous, remote tone without obvious display of repression. "Mr. Waverly was not at Broadmead last night.—Inspector, who killed my husband?"
Now indeed her voice had changed, but with no poignant outburst of pent-up grief. It rang out hard and cold and sharp as steel and behind it there was a stern, implacable determination to know the truth.
"What makes you think that any one killed him?" the inspector countered swiftly. "Your maid telephoned that an accident had occurred and your uncle here has merely informed you that Mr. Creveling was found dead."
She shrugged and a faint smile as of scorn curled her mobile lips for an instant before they settled again in that unyielding line.
"What fatal accident could have befallen him in his own home?" Her long, slim, white hands dismissed the possibility with a gesture of finality. "My husband was in perfect health and there can be no question of suicide. I demand to be told at once how he died."
"He was found in the study or library which opens just beside the staircase there, shot through the heart. The weapon, an army .44, was within reach of his hand and there was no living person in the house except those who discovered the body," Inspector Druet replied gravely. "Mrs. Creveling, when did you last see your husband alive?"
"Last Sunday. He came down to Broadmead over the week-end." She broke off and asked quickly: "Who found my husband? Was it Rollins or Sarah? Where are they?"
Frank Hill, the valet, interposed.
"Mr. Creveling himself gave them a holiday yesterday, Mrs. Creveling," he said.
She darted a swift glance at him and nodded slowly, but save for a slight tightening of her lips her expression did not change for a moment. Then a quick thought came to her.
"Then who—?"
Her uncle divined the question before it was uttered.
"We don't know. I was summoned, too, by telephone some little time before you were, but it was a man who called me, a stranger. I don't remember ever having heard his voice until early this morning." He spoke hastily, almost furtively. "Eugene entertained some one at supper here late last night, Myra, some client of ours probably—"
"Did you know that he intended doing so, Mrs. Creveling?" interrupted the inspector bruskly. "Do you know who the person was?"
She shook her head.
"No." she responded composedly. "I only know that if my husband was shot he was murdered. I do not wish to act in opposition to the authorities, but it is permitted I believe that in a case like this I may engage private investigators to coöperate with them?"
The inspector bowed but George Alexander started forward.
"Myra! Such a step would be most—most unnecessary! I am sure that the authorities are perfectly capable of handling this terrible situation and that they know best. I myself thought at first that it could not have been a case of suicide, but the pistol lay within touch of his fingers. I—I saw it myself! If you drag in blundering private detectives you will subject us to needless and distressing notoriety. This shock has dazed you, you are not quite yourself, my dear. If you will take time to think the matter over—"
"I have thought." Mrs. Creveling favored her uncle with a long inscrutable look and before it he seemed all at once to shrivel and the lines of age which grooming and care had kept smooth stood out in his pallid face. "I knew Eugene better than any one in the world and I know that the suggestion of suicide is absolutely untenable. I'm going to find out who killed him, Uncle George, if I move heaven and earth to do so. I have heard of a man, a scientific criminologist I believe he is called, who is quite famous in his way. I want him if he is to be had. His name is Wade Terhune."
A swift glance passed between the inspector and McCarty and the former shrugged with a slight smile. McCarty grinned in answer. So once more Terhune with his little scientific recording instruments and trained analytical mind was to be pitted against the routine methods of the force and McCarty's own efforts! It seemed a stroke of fate that the ex-roundsman, the inspector and the crime savant should be again upon the trail and the former looked forward with grim humor to Terhune's appearance on the scene.
"Mr. Terhune has often been called in by the department, and my special deputy, here, and I have worked personally with him on more than one case." Inspector Druet turned to Mrs. Creveling who still preserved her stoic calm. "I have the telephone number here of his private, unlisted wire; shall I have him summoned for you?"
"Myra!" Mr. Alexander put in a final, futile remonstrance. "Think well what you are doing! If Eugene were really—er—murdered I am sure the inspector is fully capable of finding the guilty man. These private detectives are always looking for press notices and the notoriety will be hideous! Do you realize—?"
"I realize everything, Uncle George, and my mind is made up," Mrs. Creveling replied with a quiet finality of tone which brooked no further opposition. "I do not imply that the police department is incapable of handling this—this crime, but I want to feel that I myself am leaving no stone unturned to discover by whose hand my husband came to his death. If the inspector will give you his number I wish you would go and call up Mr. Terhune yourself for me. Tell him to name his own price, anything, but to come at once."
When Mr. Alexander, accompanied by the inspector, had retired to the study upon his reluctantly assumed mission McCarty stepped forward with one eye still on the valet and coughed deferentially.
"I'm the special deputy Inspector Druet put on this case with himself, ma'am. McCarty's my name. Is there any one else you want sent for? Any relative or friend, I mean?"
Once more Mrs. Creveling shook her head.
"Neither Mr. Creveling nor I have any relative beside my uncle, Mr. Alexander," she responded. "My maid will follow on the next train from Long Island and the butler and cook will probably return at any moment now as I was expected home this morning in any event. I do not want my friends about me, I want to be alone, to think."
To think but not to grieve. One look at that stern countenance, as immobile as that of some goddess carved in marble, would have shown to far less astute eyes than McCarty's that Myra Creveling would permit no breakdown, no unleashing of her emotions until her dominating purpose was achieved. That she had jumped so hastily to the conclusion her husband had been murdered pointed to the probability that she also strongly suspected the identity of the murderer but it would be futile to question her on that score at the moment.
"Of course that's only natural, ma'am." McCarty spoke soothingly. "Still I'm sure you'll be wanting to give us all the help you can and every minute counts now. In a case like this where we've got practically no clew and nothing to go on we'll have to find out what we can from Mr. Creveling's friends. I believe you said that Mr. Waverly was not at Broadmead last night. Were any other of your friends there? Mr. Alexander mentioned a Mr. and Mrs. O'Rourke, a lady named Culp or Kip—"
"Oh, they are in our set, of course, but none of them were at Broadmead," Mrs. Creveling interrupted. "There was no house party; I was just visiting there quietly for a few days."
"Where was Mr. Waverly last night? Was he expected out at his home?"
"No, he was at one of his clubs, I suppose. He telephoned out before dinner that he would be detained in town overnight. Mrs. Waverly and I were alone at Broadmead with the servants." She paused and then spoke in a quickened tone. "Mr. McCarty, you said just now that you had no clews. If my butler and cook have been away since yesterday, who was the man who summoned my uncle and the woman who telephoned to me? If those calls could be traced I should think you would have a very real clew to material witnesses, at least."
McCarty nodded gravely.
"We may be able to learn their identity, though 'twill be no easy matter; they might have 'phoned from pay stations, you know, ma'am. 'Tis unlikely that either of them was the murderer, if murder was done. Mr. Alexander must have been called up after four o'clock and you say the message came to you a little before five. Now, Mr. Creveling's body was discovered a few minutes past two and according to the opinion of the medical examiner he must have been dead an hour before that; plenty of time, you see, for the murderer to have got clean away. Does the Waverlys' butler know your cook?"
"It is possible; I'm sure I don't know." There was a touch of hauteur in her tone.
"I was only wondering whether he recognized her voice or whether the woman told him who she was," McCarty explained mildly. "Do you know a Mr. Cutter?"
The slender, white hands resting on the arms of her chair gripped tensely at the sudden question, but she replied without hesitation or surprise.
"Nicholas Cutter? Certainly. He is one of our closest friends."
"And the O'Rourkes and Fords and the lady named Culp or Kip?" McCarty persisted. "Will you give me their full names and addresses, please? Are they all in the same set?"
"They are all in my immediate circle of friends, if that is what you mean." As if suddenly conscious of those betraying hands she lifted them and let them fall idly into her lap. "Of course, Mr. Creveling had many casual friends of whom I know nothing, clubmen and business associates, but those you mention have been our social intimates for years. Mr. and Mrs. Lonsdale Ford live at the St. Maur apartments on Madison Avenue; Mrs. Baillie Kip, if that is who you mean, has a house on East Sixty-third Street, and Mr. and Mrs. John Cavanaugh O'Rourke have taken the Hartington residence a few blocks above us on the Avenue, here. The Waverlys' town house is two blocks south."
McCarty had scarcely heard the last sentence. His face flushed and with shining eyes he repeated:
"John Cavanaugh O'Rourke! Would you know, Mrs. Creveling, if he came from the old country, from near Dublin?"
"Yes. He and his wife both came from there about six years ago. She was Lady Margaret Sinclair." The even voice responded without show of interest.
"Little Lady Peggy!" McCarty murmured softly to himself. "She and the son of 'the' O'Rourke! To think of it! The years do be sliding along fast!"
He was apparently absorbed, although the light in his eyes had suddenly misted, in jotting down the addresses on the back of an old envelope and as he replaced it in his pocket he looked up with a return of his deferential yet businesslike air.
"Your housekeeper has gone back to Scotland, I understand. Did she leave all the keys of the house with, you, ma'am? Did the servants who were dismissed turn theirs in?"
"I suppose so. At least, Mrs. Jarvie gave me a small box filled with keys all labeled. I can show them to you later." Mrs. Creveling rose as her uncle reëntered from the study accompanied by the inspector. "Did you reach Mr. Terhune, Uncle George? Will he undertake the case for me?"
"He will be here as soon as his car can bring him," Mr. Alexander replied. "I fancy my call got him out of his bed, however, for it isn't quite eight o'clock yet and it will take him a short time at least to dress. If you wish to retire in the meantime to your own rooms and compose yourself for your interview with him I am sure that Inspector Druet will have no objection. We must not put too great a strain upon you after this fearful shock."
"There is just one more question I should like to ask Mrs. Creveling now." The inspector stepped forward hastily. "Had your husband any cause to fear for his life? To your knowledge had he any enemies, Mrs. Creveling?"
McCarty did not hear the lady's reply. The tail of his eye which had never left the valet's spare, black-clad form caught him slinking toward a door on the other side of the staircase and as the man disappeared within it he was close upon the other's heels. Hill moved swiftly with his accustomed noiseless tread and so intent upon his errand was he that he did not hear the careful but heavier steps behind him. The door led into a rear hallway and the two proceeded beyond the back stairs and around a turning past the pantries and kitchen toward the tradesmen's entrance.
A tall, angular, middle-aged woman was advancing along the hall, and behind her appeared the shorter, more rotund figure of a man evidently some years her senior. Both were dressed in the simplest of outdoor attire and their bearing betrayed their identity even before the woman spoke.
"Don't you remind us that we're late, Frank!" she said sharply. "We've had a dreadful night; fire in the flat below Rollins' sister's, and never a wink of sleep for any of us! I'm sure I wish Mr. Creveling would have his parties somewhere else and leave us in peace—!"
She stopped abruptly on catching sight of the stranger behind the valet and her close-set eyes seemed boring him through like gimlets. Before Hill could interpose the fat elderly man spoke over her shoulder.
"Lizzie couldn't 'elp the fire but Sarah will have 'er—'Ullo! Who's this?"
Hill darted a swift glance behind and for the first time McCarty caught a glimpse of the man's countenance with the mask off. It was drawn and distorted and a gleam of incalculable cunning shone from the narrowed eyes. The next instant with a twisted smile he had stepped aside.
"Perhaps you'd like to tell them yourself, sir." He waved his hand toward the newcomers. "It's Rollins and Sarah."
The two stood rooted to the spot as McCarty stepped forward.
"Police Headquarters," he announced bluntly. "You are Sarah Rollins, the cook here? Did you telephone out to Broadmead where Mrs. Creveling is staying during last night?"
"Police!" the woman gasped in a shrill whisper. "Whatever's been goin' on!—What would I telephone to Mrs. Creveling for? I'm one that minds my own business and makes no trouble!"
Unfeigned astonishment was blazoned upon her thin, acidulous face but no sign of apprehension, and satisfied that he had been answered McCarty turned to her husband.
"You're the butler? Did you telephone to Mr. George Alexander about half-past four this morning?"
"'Mr. Alexander'!" Rollins repeated in evident stupefaction. "At 'alf after four I was trying to settle to a bit of sleep again in my bed at my sister's. The house she lives in took on fire at two, and we were all routed out in our—as we were, sir. I 'ad no occasion to telephone to Mr. Alexander or any one else. What is it? What's been going on 'ere, robbery?"
"Mr. Creveling was shot to death here in his study sometime during the night." McCarty watched the effect of his words narrowly. "Do you know who was supposed to have had supper here with him?"
"Shot!" It was the cook who uttered the exclamation and her husband turned on her before she could continue.
"We know nothing about it!" His ruddy face had paled and the assertion although seemingly addressed to McCarty was as obviously intended for the woman. "This is terrible business, sir! 'Ow—'ow did it 'appen?"
"That's what I'm here to find out," McCarty retorted grimly. "Did you know why Mr. Creveling gave you a little holiday yesterday?"
"Why, yes, sir," the butler stammered. "I'd asked 'im for leave to run up to Boston overnight sometime this week to see my brother-in-law on business, and yesterday Mr. Creveling told me to go last night and take Sarah with me if I liked; I understood that Frank would be 'ere to look after the 'ouse."
"Why didn't you go to Boston, then?" demanded McCarty quickly.
"Because my brother-in-law 'ad returned to the city. I 'phoned my sister to tell 'er we were going and she said 'e 'ad come home; that's why we went to 'er flat 'ere instead."
"And stayed overnight instead of coming back here to your own rooms to sleep?" There was contemptuous incredulity in McCarty's tones. "Why did you do that?"
"Because we talked late and my brother-in-law and I split a bottle that he'd got 'old of somewhere." Rollins spoke sullenly and then as if in afterthought roused himself to what was probably expected of him. "Mr. Creveling dead! This is 'orrible, sir, 'orrible! A fine, free-handed gentleman he was. Did a burglar break in, do you think?"
"I'm asking questions, not answering them," McCarty asseverated sternly. "If you're not more frank with me than this fellow here has been it's likely to go as hard with you as it will with him! Who had supper with Mr. Creveling here last night?"
"I don't know, sir, strike me pink! No more does Sarah. We're paid to do our work and keep our place and we've done both, as Mr, Creveling 'imself would tell you if 'e was alive to do it. Mr. Creveling has entertained gentlemen 'ere now and again but we didn't know he expected any one last night. Has Mrs. Creveling been sent for, sir?"
"She is here."
"Here!" Sarah threw up her hands. "And her rooms not in order, and me with all that lobster and stuff from the caterer's to clean up!—Let me pass! Police or no, I've got my work to do. I don't know anything about what happened to poor Mr. Creveling, and you needn't be afraid I'll run away. You'll find me here when you want me!"
McCarty opened his lips as if to speak, then thought better of it and obediently stepped aside, but he gazed after the woman's departing figure with a quizzical look in his his twinkling eyes. When she had disappeared he turned once more to the butler.
"How long have you and your wife been employed here?"
"Three years," Rollins replied. "I've never worked for a nicer family—in America, that is. Always extra 'elp when they entertained and I could 'ave 'ad a second footman any time I'd wanted to ask for one. This will be a bad job for us, getting mixed up in scandal at our time of life, and we've always been so particular about our positions too!"
"Where does this sister of yours live, Rollins?" McCarty cut short the flow of lamentation.
"Just across the park, sir, in West Ninety-fourth Street, a door or two from Columbus Avenue. I'll write the address down for you." The butler's hands fumbled shakily in his pockets. "Her name is Mrs. William Carroll and she can tell you that both Sarah and me were with her all night."
McCarty smiled to himself. He would have surer proof than that, for the engine and hose company which his particular crony, Dennis Riordan, adorned with his presence was located in the same precinct; Denny would have the best of reasons for knowing if there had been a fire at two that morning.
"'Tis just a matter of form," McCarty remarked. "Now, Rollins, come clean! That stuff about keeping your place is all right but you are in a position to know the truth and I want it. You've heard all the family conversation at table whether you wanted to listen or not; did you ever hear Mr. Creveling speak of any one he hated or who hated him? Was there any one who would be glad to get him out of the way?"
Hill had followed the cook kitchenwards and Rollins' gaze traveled past his questioner to the shadowed turn in the hall and he hesitated. Finally he spoke.
"Both Mr. and Mrs. Creveling was too 'ighly bred to discuss their affairs before any of the 'ousehold, sir. 'E was a very forceful man and I've no doubt made enemies but none that could 'ave washed 'im out of the way, though there was one that 'e had 'igh words with one night not a fortnight ago."
"Who was that?" McCarty demanded. "One of his intimate friends?"
The butler nodded.
"It was Mr. Douglas Waverly, sir," he said.