# More Lives Than One/Chapter 9
### CHAPTER IX
#### MRS. GARDNER’S STORY

The few days intervening between the death of Madeleine Barham and her funeral were as a nightmare of horrors to her husband. Yet, there was so much to be done that only he could do, and so many things to be attended to that only he could attend to, that, after all, the time passed quickly.
Nelson brought him the report of what had been done at the police inquiry, and Barham listened gravely to his recital.
“I’ve so many things on my mind, Nick,” he said, “that I can’t remember all you’re telling me. But that doesn’t matter, for I sent a stenographer down there, and I shall have the full account whenever I get ready to read it over. But you give me the salient points. I suppose they’ve no word from or of Mr. Locke?”
“No, they haven’t, and that of course is not surprising. Of course, Drew, the artist is either responsible for the deed—or he knows who is. That much goes without saying.”
“Yes, I suppose that is true,” Barham returned. But his attention was distracted, as if his mind were elsewhere.
“Don’t think I’m not listening,” he said quickly, as he saw Nelson’s recognition of his wandering mind, “but, oh, Nick, if you knew all I have to contend with. I wouldn’t mention it to any one but you, but Mother Selden is driving me crazy.”
“She can do it! You’ll have to make some other arrangement for her, Drew.” ​
“I can’t, Nick. She goes off in tantrums if I make the merest hint or suggestion of any change. Oh, well, that’s in the future. Just now, it’s the funeral arrangements. Poor Maddy, if I could only have a simple service and just a few of our nearest friends——”
“Mrs. Selden objects to that?”
“Oh, rather! She insists on enough pomp and ceremony for a Queen of England, at least. And, I’m glad for her to have her way—it’s her own daughter, you know, but she changes all the details every few hours. Now she’s all for a vested choir, and when that is arranged, she decides on a solo by some prima donna instead.”
“Can’t you put her and her arrangements in the hands of some one else?”
“I tried that. I sent for her sister, Mrs. Beresford. And when she came, they quarreled the first thing, and her sister went off in a huff. Claudine’s a good girl, she helps out all she can. Oh, Lord, Nick, don’t think I’m complaining—but I have to think quickly to keep up with Mrs. Selden’s vagaries.”
“Good old Drew,” and Nelson’s sympathy was ready. “Suppose I have a go at her. Maybe I can drive some sense into her head.”
“All right, try it. You’ve done about everything else for me. Now, as to this investigation. I want it pushed, and all that, but I can’t do anything myself until after the funeral.”
“Nor are you expected to. And, too, there’s nothing you or I can do. It’s up to the authorities. I think they feel that Locke is or will be in touch with that Miss Cutler.”
“Who’s she?” Barham looked up with a show of interest.
“She’s a neighbor and a friend of Locke’s. Rather an intimate friend, I judge. Also, and this is strange, she ​was seen bending over Maddy’s body before it was found by Mr. Post—no, it was after that—but before the police saw it.”
“Well, does that mean anything?”
“I think not. The girl was frank enough about it. Yet, there are some who are ready to think she is implicated——”
“In the crime? A girl?”
“Well, the Chinese servant saw her stooping there—but you’ll read it all on your stenographer’s notes. That was a good idea, Drew, to get a complete record, like that.”
“Yes, I have to have it—if I’m to help in the investigation. I can’t be going down there—I haven’t the time, nor the inclination. But, Nick, I do want to find out who killed Maddy—and yet—do you suppose it will bring about unpleasant revelations——”
“Yes,” and Nelson looked at him steadily, “yes, Drew, I think it will.”
“Then shall we hush it all up?”
“You can’t. It’s not in your hands. Now, take my advice, old man; after the funeral, put Mrs. Selden away some place—you can send her off on a visit—and then let me help you cook up some plan by which you can cover up Maddy’s—shortcomings. There’s a lot you ought to know, well, never mind it now—but when the time comes, we’ll work it out together.”
“Very well,” and Barham looked stern. “I am ready to do anything to shield my wife’s name or reputation. I can’t take up the matter now, I’ve pressing engagements—but I will do just as you advise, Nick, except as to sending Mrs. Selden away. That I can’t do, unless she’s willing to go. If you can persuade her—for Heaven’s sake, do!”
Nelson went off, and Barham fell into one of the brown studies which were frequent with him of late. ​
And not the least of his quandaries was the fact that people were acting queer. His own most intimate friends stood by him loyally. Men called or wrote or telephoned with sincere offers of help, sympathy and understanding.
But Madeleine’s friends were aloof. Only a few of the women had called on Mrs. Selden, only a few had sent notes or cards to him.
He knew, he realized that there was something for him to learn about Maddy—something derogatory, perhaps disgraceful, but from a strange feeling or fear he shrank from knowing it—at least, until after her funeral.
He wanted to take his last look at that beautiful face with only sorrow in his heart, not shame—if shame must come.
Poor Madeleine. He thought of her only tenderly. He forgot all the unpleasant things she had said to him, he forgot all her sarcasms and insults, and there had been many of late. He felt that perhaps he had been more to blame than he realized.
He had not been blameless, that he knew. But, then—and always at that point thoughts came crowding that he could not stand, and he would rise and go about some other business, in an effort to distract his mind.
Mrs. Gardner had written him a short, conventional note of condolence. She had said that she couldn’t bear to talk about it, and hoped he would understand. He did.
Rosamond Sayre telephoned to say that she was too upset and overcome even to write. Perhaps after a long time she could see him, but not at present.
“Why do they think I want to see them?” Barham wondered. Just because they had been his wife’s friends was no reason to his mind that they should meet and discuss the dreadful affair.
One woman gave him an inkling of the situation. ​
She was a very undesirable type, to his mind, but he remembered that Maddy had resented his criticism of her. Her name was Gibbs, and from her he received a short, even curt note, that she extended her sympathy, and trusted that when the time came for him to settle up his wife’s estate, he would remember that she was among the creditors.
“I suppose poor Maddy owed her a few dollars at Bridge,” he thought. “I wish I had made more inquiries as to the poor child’s finances. I thought I gave her enough.”
And then, with one of those strange perversities of which human nature is capable, he felt a sudden wave of relief that she was gone.
He was shocked, horrified, ashamed of—this—but there were times when it came over him that he had achieved freedom—by a fearful means, truly—but freedom.
He hadn’t time to analyze this thought, but he had time to be ashamed of it, and it was with real dismay that he took himself to task for such an impulse, and hastily set about doing all he could to make amends by offering honor to her memory.
But if Mrs. Gardner was unwilling to see or talk to Andrew Barham regarding his dead wife, she was not allowed to hesitate when the detective from the Police Bureau called upon her.
She promptly refused to see him, which refusal was as promptly set aside and she was advised to make an appearance.
“What is it you want with me?” she asked in a supercilious way as she swept into the drawing room and confronted Hutchins with a reproving stare.
“I must ask you some questions, madam, and it is ​necessary that you answer to the best of your knowledge and belief.”
As is often the case with those unfamiliar with police procedure, any phrase of the law carries a certain amount of awe-inspiring command and impressed also by Hutchins' air of authority, Mrs. Gardner came down a little from her heights of inaccessibility.
“The questions regard a certain side of Mrs. Barham’s nature, which, I have reason to believe was more familiar to you than to her husband,” Hutchins began, and it pleased him to be a bit intimate, a bit confidential in his manner.
His quick intuition had told him this was a better way to get at this woman than by mere insistence. And the result proved he was right.
“Yes,” and her lips curved into a cruel smile, “we women friends of Mrs. Barham know a lot about her that her husband does not dream of.”
“Regarding her Bridge games,” suggested Hutchins.
“Yes—that is, the extent of them. Mr. Barham knew, of course, that she played—lots—but he didn’t know, I’m sure, to what lengths she went to get the money to pay her debts.”
Hutchins hated his task. He had many ungrateful duties to perform in his detective work, but the one that always most thoroughly revolted him was when he found it necessary to get damaging information against a woman from another woman. There was no escape, however, so he merely said:
“How did she get it?”
And the story that Mrs. Gardner told him was so incredible, so different from what he had expected, so much worse than the worst he had feared, that Detective Hutchins listened, heartsick and overwhelmed with sorrow ​for the dead woman and sympathy for her surviving husband.
“You expected her here to play Bridge the night she died, then, Mrs. Gardner, did you not?”
“Oh, yes, she was due here at eleven.”
“And when she failed to come, did you telephone or make any inquiry?”
“Oh, no; Madeleine was a law unto herself. If she chose to break an engagement at the last minute, she did so without a word. And it didn’t matter that way. It isn’t a club, or anything like that. We just have a friendly game now and then, and if any one doesn’t come, there are plenty of others.”
“You think Mrs. Barham expected to come on here after she had made a stay at the Locke party?”
“Why, yes, I suppose so. Mrs. Sayre said that Mrs. Barham told her she would be here at eleven or shortly after. But, as I say, no one ever depended on Mrs. Barham’s word in such matters. She came and went, when and where she would.”
“Did you ever hear her speak of Mr. Locke?”
“Never! It’s the queerest thing. I should as soon have thought of hearing she had gone to the Battery as to Washington Square! I never knew her to go any place south of Fiftieth Street before! To a party, I mean. Who is the man?”
“An artist—apparently a gentleman.”
“Oh, well, I don’t suppose he killed her.”
“Why not?”
“Why would he—when he doesn’t know her?”
“You’re not sure he didn’t know her.”
“Oh, yes, I am. I knew all Maddy’s friends. He wasn’t a rich man?”
“No, I think not.” ​
“Well, that wouldn’t matter, Maddy never got money from men. But I’m positive if she had known an artist in Washington Square we would have known of it. It could only have been as a joke—her going there, I mean. Somebody must have dared her—or—oh, I can’t think of any reason! It is utterly inexplicable to think of Madeleine Barham going there—alone! If she had asked some of us to go—as a lark, I could have understood. But to go alone—no, I can’t think of any reason—not of any reason whatever. Can you?”
Hutchins looked at her. She was a good-looking woman, not handsome but well groomed and well made up. She was capable and efficient, he saw, and of the type that has what has been called generalship. He could well imagine her sponsoring successful Bridge games, and he could also picture her as having small sympathy with the unfortunate ones whose luck went against them.
However, he felt that he could learn no more from her concerning Mrs. Barham, and too, he felt he had learned quite enough. So, without further ado, he took his leave.
A confab with Inspector Dickson took place soon after, and the two men agreed that if the mystery was to be cleared up it would be done through investigations starting at the Barham end and not from the Locke house.
“She’s the one to run down,” Dickson said, though Hutchins’ more sensitive nature winced at this way of putting it. “The wrong begins with her—wherever it leads to. Maybe Locke is entirely innocent. Maybe he’s shielding somebody——”
“The Cutler girl,” suggested Hutchins.
“I don’t know that Locke was interested in that child,” the inspector said, meditatively. “I hope he is, because that might help us get a line on him. If he’s in love with her, he’ll communicate with her, sure as shooting. But, as ​I see it, she’s a hero worshiper and he’s her hero. Which is a very different matter.”
“But she must be kept in view,” Hutchins persisted.
“Keep her, then. I incline more to the idea that Locke is somehow mixed up with Mrs, Barham’s affairs. It may be indirectly—but she never went to that party without some big vital reason for going.
“You see, all her relatives, all her friends are dumfounded with amazement at her being there at all. Now, if it had been some foolish escapade, they would have known of it—or, say, have known of her predilection for that sort of thing. Instead of which, they’re all open-mouthed with surprise at her going. Now, add the fact that she dressed for it with greatest care and even expense—that Oriental rig cost a pretty penny!—and you must come to the conclusion that it was a big occasion for her. It meant a lot to her—whatever the lot was.”
“Looks that way.”
“Also, from your own story, she hesitated, even as she was getting ready. Her maid says she almost gave up the project. But she didn’t give it up—she carried it through. Common sense must tell us that she didn’t expect to meet her death there—but she did expect great things of some sort. There’s no other way to dope it out.”
Hutchins agreed to that, and went away to think it over.
Moreover, he wanted to give the rooms another look, with the purpose of finding something of Mrs. Barham’s, of indicative value. Perhaps she had left some papers—notes—no, she wouldn’t do that. Well, any way, he went down to the studio.
He was met by a very much disgusted caretaker and guard whom Dickson had stationed there for the day. ​
“What’s the matter, Glenn?” Hutchins asked, smiling at the chagrined one.
“Foiled!” the other wailed. “Foiled! and by the Chink!”
“Chinese Charley? What’s he done? Vamoosed?”
“No; he’s here. Charley, come in here, and tell Mr. Hutchins that yarn.”
Charley entered, silent-footed, calm, meekly respectful. Had it not been for a gleam in the Chinaman’s eye, Hutchins would have thought Glenn was imagining things.
“It was a while ago,” Glenn burst forth, “and I was sitting around, when I heard Charley answer the telephone. Always heretofore, he’s done that and then turned the thing over to me.
“This time I heard him say, ‘Yes, sir,’ and ‘No, sir,’ and then he hung up—and—guess who had been talking to him?”
“Who, Charley?” said Hutchins.
“Misser Locke,” said the Oriental, imperturbably.
“Mr. Locke! What did he say?”
“Said Charley pay bills. Little small bills—papers, milk, so so. Says he will pay big bills. Says ‘good-by, Charley, maybe never come back. Good-by, Charley.’ So I say, good-by. Dassall.”
“‘Dassall,’ is it?” cried Hutchins, “well, that’s just about enough! Don’t look so done up, Glenn. What difference would it have made if you had been on the wire?”
“We could have traced the message——”
“You can do that, anyway, but it won’t do a speck of good. Of course, he telephoned from some big pay station—Grand Central or some such place. Or from some corner drug store. And before you can do anything, he’s gone and mingled with the crowd! No, Glenn, all you could have done would have been to have made a fool of ​yourself over the telephone, begging him to tell you where he was! But, by Jinks, it shows he’s a cute one!”
“Oh, he’s cute enough. But I don’t see such special shrewdness in telling Charley to pay the bills. Looks like bravado to me—unless it’s a game to get us to leave the place here.”
“No; I don’t see it that way. I think he did it entirely to set Charley’s mind at rest. Also, I think he told the truth about not coming back. I doubt very much if we ever set eyes on Mr. Thomas Locke again, unless we go out and fetch him in, sorely against his will.”
“Then the game is up,” and Glenn looked utterly disgusted.
“Maybe and maybe not. Now, Charley, you slyboots, when Mr. Locke tells you to pay off the bills and close up accounts generally, where do you get the money, eh?”
A threatening look from Hutchins’ eyes made the Chinaman revise his quite apparent intention not to tell.
“I have the money already,” he said, with his sullen hauteur.
“Where?”
“At my home. Misser Locke, he gimme much money—ahead—I use it till all gone—then more come.”
“Oh, I see. He gives you a sum of cash for petty expenses.”
“Yes—that’s what he say—pettys.”
“And you have enough—and a bit left over, eh?”
“Yes”; was the grave reply. “Enough and the bit. And my wages for next month.”
“Ah, very good. The small expense money, your wages a month ahead in lieu of notice. All in case our friend disappears suddenly or unexpectedly. Very good—ve-ry good! So, Glenn, we may deduce, I think, that friend Locke was not altogether unaware of the possibility of ​his going off—and did go off. And we must think that when he said, so pleasantly to the door man, ‘Back in a minute,’ that he had no intention of coming back in a thousand years!”
“Then he is the murderer?”
“Oh, we can’t go so fast as that—but he must be in on the game somehow. Maybe there’s a lot more to this than we thought at first.”
“A gang?”
“No, idiot, not that! At least, I can’t see that element in it. But Locke was—oh, can’t you see Locke was—is something more than a mere artist?”
“No, I can’t see it. But that doesn’t matter. He won’t be back here, whatever he is. Probably he’s on the rolling deep by this time.”
“Probably. Now, you continue to hold the fort here—and incidentally keep an eye on that slant-eyed innocent, and I’ve another errand.”
Straight to Kate Vallon’s the detective went, and learned that Miss Cutler had returned to her own roof-tree.
As this was only a pair of rooms, above those of Miss Vallon’s own, Hutchins skipped up there and demanded admittance.
The girl who opened the door to him looked very different from the scared, forlorn young woman whom he had previously interviewed, and also from the girl who had testified at the inquiry.
She was, though not exactly smiling, at least in a satisfied, contented frame of mind, and Hutchins, though scarcely invited, went in and sat down in her tiny studio.
“Miss Cutler,” he said, in that kindly way of his, “give me just a moment, without making a fuss about it, won’t you?”
“Surely,” she said, and sat quietly down opposite him ​
Her fair hair, not curly, but with a wave in it, shook as she raised her eyes to his, expectantly.
“Go ahead,” she said, demurely, and he could have sworn she was secretly laughing at him.
Like a flash the truth dawned in him.
“Pearl Jane Cutler,” he said, and his voice was impressive in its earnestness, “I know why you’ve bucked up! I know what has happened to you!”
“What?” she said, a little taken aback at his speech. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I do. I mean this.” He leaned forward a little to whisper:
“You’ve had a telephone message from Thomas Locke!”
Pearl Jane went white.
“What—what do you mean?” she cried; “how—how ridiculous!”
“Ridiculous, if you like, but the truth. Now, then, what did he say?”
“I don’t see how I can answer that, for I don’t admit the truth of your—your guess.”
“But it isn’t a guess—it’s a certainty. I know it. Nothing short of that would have given you this cocksure attitude—this little secret Bluebird of Happiness smile in the midst of all the doubt and uncertainty you are still experiencing! Come, little one, tell me all about it.”
“No, I won’t do it. You’ve no right to ask. Good-by, Mr. Hutchins,” and with a graceful little bow, she rose, flew into the adjoining bedroom and locked the door. Nor would she respond to any further summons.