# More Lives Than One/Chapter 13
### CHAPTER XIII
#### THE LUCKY PIECE

When Hutchins heard of the nocturnal visit, he merely raised his eyebrows.
“I told you he was a slick one,” he said to Glenn. “I don’t blame you, though—you did your best. But he had the advantage in knowing the ways of his own house, and being able to run around in the dark.”
“Aw, I know this house well enough,” Glenn declared. “I haven’t lived here a week or more without knowing where the doors and halls run into each other, and all that. But it was his fighting that put me out of commission.”
“Jiu-jitsu?”
“Not a bit of it. But skillful, clever wrestling—like a professional. Why, I hadn’t a show. He didn’t hurt me a bit, but he just, well, he just sort of set me on one side. Then, as you say, he did know, even in the dark, just where he wanted to get to—and he got there.”
“And fooled you beside.”
“Yes, and fooled me beside. Of course, when I heard the front door slam open, I supposed he went out that way. And there, little cutie had swished the door open, with a flourish of trumpets, and then he had whisked himself through the house, and out at the good little old back door—so he had! Had the nerve to leave that flying open behind him, too!”
“Don’t worry, Glenn, if you had caught him you couldn’t have held him, and if you’d locked him in—he’d have got ​out! I tell you he’s as bright as they come—if he is an artist.”
“Well, what next? He’ll not come here again.”
“How do you know? Did he get what he was after?”
“What was he after?”
“I don’t know. What did he get?”
“I don’t know that he got anything. But I haven’t looked around at all. I was so sore—mentally, not physically—that I just went back to bed—and I’m only just through my breakfast now.”
“Let’s give the place the once over. I don’t think there was anything of value for him to take—but he was after something and we may get a line on it.”
“Why, of course, he was after his lucky piece—as Charley calls it.”
“Yes—if it was Locke.”
“If it was Locke? Who else in thunder could it be?”
“Might be lots of people. Hello, what’s this?”
The two had wandered through the studio, looking for any bit of evidence and finding none, and now they were in the Den. On the floor in a corner lay a strange looking object.
Hutchins picked it up and held it out at arm’s length.
“Well, I’m blowed!” he ejaculated, though he rarely gave way to such elaborate expletive.
But the occasion seemed to justify it, for the thing he held up to Glenn’s view was a wig of rather long, black hair.
Glenn’s eyes grew big and round as he gazed.
“That’s it!” he cried; “I grabbed him by the hair once, and it seemed to slide! Gave me the creeps! I’d forgotten that. My heavens, Hutchins, what does it mean?”
“It means,” the detective said, slowly, “well, it might mean something else, but I’ll say it means that your friend ​of last night wasn’t Locke at all, but somebody rigged up to look like him.”
“Yes—that must be it. An ordinary burglar, disguised as——”
“No, by no means an ordinary burglar! Rather a most extraordinary one! One who was so bent on getting in here that he made up to look like a man for whom a reward is offered! That’s going some!”
“But it must have been Locke—for he came in with his own night key—that is, he must have done so, or how did he get in?”
“Well, a chap smart enough to make up like Locke is smart enough to get a key somewhere or somehow. But, why? why?—that’s what I can’t understand. It can only be that there is some incriminating evidence still here regarding that murder. Nothing else would bring about such elaborate preparations.”
“Mightn’t be elaborate. Just slapping a wig on your head isn’t such a great game.”
“No; but this is just like Locke’s hair——”
“How do you know—except by hearsay?”
“That’s so, Glenn, I don’t. But all the descriptions of Locke sound like this thing looks.”
“It was Locke, Hutchins, I saw his two gold teeth gleam. I’ve heard over and over again about those two gold teeth.”
“So have I. Well, no burglar could carry disguise so far as that. It must have been Locke. I have it. He’s had his hair cut, to escape detection, and coming back here, he put on a wig to be different from what he really is now.”
“Pretty good—but not good enough. I’ll tell you! It was that brother of Locke’s. He’d likely have gold teeth, ​too, such things run in families—and he impersonated his brother to get something here in the house.”
“I never thought that brother person was really a brother,” Hutchins said, gloomily. Things were getting beyond his ken.
“Where’s the girl’s picture?” Glenn cried, looking around. “Ha! It was Locke—he took the picture—the painting of the Cutler girl! That’s what he was after! Oh, these young lovers!”
“Bah, I don’t believe it. It’s too foolish. What was it. A photograph?”
“No; a little painting—pretty—almost like a miniature. I think Locke painted it himself——”
“I think he didn’t. He paints landscapes——”
“Some artists do both. Well, maybe he didn’t paint it—but it’s gone, and I’ll bet he took it. He stopped at that table—where it stood—the last thing before he left the room.”
“Maybe he took it then—but it’s of small importance. The fact that Locke is in love with the little Cutler girl—or she with him—hasn’t much to do with our finding the murderer of Mrs. Barham. That’s what I’m after.”
“Well, I think this wig business and this fellow that broke in last night are important matters. And I’ll bet old Dickson’ll think so too. Don’t pass it up, Hutchins—sleuth it out. If it was Locke why did he come, and——”
“And if it wasn’t Locke, why didn’t he? But I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Put it up to Charley. See if he knows anything about it. Maybe Locke always wore a wig. Maybe he wanted to affect that long hair business and couldn’t do it on his own.”
Charley came at their summons and gazed stolidly at the wig when asked to observe it.
“Whose is it, Charley.” ​
“Donno.”
“Is it Mr. Locke’s?”
“Donno.”
“Did Mr. Locke ever wear a wig? Come, you must know that?”
“Donno.”
And even threats of jail, or intimations of worse punishment could not move the Chinaman to admit any knowledge of the wig or even the slightest interest in it.
Nor did Dickson seem as much impressed as Glenn thought he would be.
He opined it might have been some sneak thief, who had donned a wig merely to disguise his own appearance, or it might have been a curiosity seeker, of whom there were plenty about. He could see no explanation of Locke’s presence there, for if he wanted to come to his own house as secretly as all that, he would have disguised himself—not attempted to look like himself.
But Glenn persuaded Hutchins to take the wig with him when he went to see Miss Cutler—for, he said, she could tell whether it’s really like Locke’s hair or not.
“It’s a mighty fine wig,” Glenn went on, “and it was made in Paris—see, here’s the maker’s mark.”
“That’s nothing,” Hutchins scoffed, “all good wigs are made in Paris. It’s a very expensive affair, too, which proves that it never was made merely to look like Locke on a midnight marauding expedition. That wig was made for a special customer, and for a special purpose. It has since fallen from such high estate, and is, most likely, the property of an artist’s model, who is posing as Hamlet or a Wandering Minstrel. By the way, like as not, it was worn here at the masquerade. Then when friend burglar ​started upstairs, he saw it, somewhere about, and clapped it on his head by way of disguise.”
“Oh, you can make up fine-sounding gabble, but if you’d seen that chap, as I did, bending over that spot in the den—you’d know he was no burglar—he was Locke himself, or somebody who wanted to appear to be Locke.”
“You said that before,” and Hutchins grinned at Glenn, as he registered extreme weariness.
All the same, when Hutchins set out for his interview with Pearl Jane, he did carry the wig with him, and he did hope to learn something about it from the girl.
She didn’t want to see the detective at all, but he had told her over the telephone that she must, and that she must see him alone. He gave her no choice in the matter and advised her to be at home when he called, which would be immediately.
So he found her waiting for him, and, while she was calm, yet he could note an undercurrent of nervous excitement, and a frequent tremor of overwrought nerves.
“Now, Miss Cutler,” he began, not at all unkindly, but decidedly, “I can’t help feeling you’ve not been entirely frank with me when we have talked together. This time, I hope you will be—for I may as well tell you that unless you are, you may be questioned by other people who will not be so patient with you as I am.”
“What do you want to know?” and Pearl Jane struggled hard to preserve her composure.
“First—what did you take from the hand of the—of Mrs. Barham, that night as she lay on the floor of the smoking room?”
Pearl Jane grasped her throat to stifle a cry.
“Now, don’t do that,” and Hutchins spoke a bit sharply. “Hysterics won’t get you anywhere. You’ve tried them ​before. Don’t scream, or burst into tears, for if you do I shall only wait till you’re over it.”
“Aren’t you perfectly horrid!” and the gray eyes flashed angrily at him.
“Yes, I have to be—to keep you from being so! Go on, now, answer that question, so we can go on to the next.”
“I didn’t take anything——”
“Look here, my dear young lady, let me say from the start, falsehoods are barred. If you’re just going to tell stories, you can tell them to some one else. I’ve no time nor inclination for anything but the truth. I think I’d better take you over to the police station for a hearing.”
“No, no—I’ll tell the truth. But—but skip that question—ask me the next one?”
“This is the next,” and Hutchins looked grave. “Did you kill Mrs. Barham?”
“No, no, no!” and again hysterics were imminent.
But the face she raised to Hutchins was so imploring, and withal so appealingly sorrowful, that Hutchins was forced to modify his manner a little.
“I don’t believe you did,” he said, heartily, after a deep look into her eyes, “now, have you any idea who did?”
“That I refuse to answer,” and now the eyes flashed. “You can take me to the station or to prison or you can take me to the electric chair—but I shall never tell you if I suspect any one—any one at all!”
She lay back in her chair rather exhausted at the vehemence of her own speech.
She looked very young, she seemed very alone—but underneath her young helplessness there seemed to be a strong power of will that Hutchins began to see was unbreakable. ​
“You care for him as much as that, then,” Hutchins said, his voice sinking to a whisper.
“Yes,” said Pearl Jane, and her face glowed with a soft flush.
Then realizing that she had been trapped, she flew at him like a young tigress. “How dare you? You think that is fair—right—to trap me into an admission. Mr. Hutchins, you are more guilty of falsehood than I! You have no right to——”
“There, there, Miss Cutler, yours is an open secret. You couldn’t keep it if you wanted to. Now, let me tell you, that it will be better for Mr. Locke in the long run, if you will be frank about him. Are you engaged to him?”
“No.”
“Do you—or did you expect to be?”
“Those are questions you’ve no right to ask.”
“Very well, perhaps I haven’t. Now, Miss Cutler, do you know whose this is?”
He flung off the paper, and held up the wig suddenly before her astonished eyes.
She gazed at it as if hypnotized. She wasn’t scared—she seemed not to be over-curious, but she looked at the thing with a mild wonder, as a child at a curious novelty.
“Where did it come from?” she asked, and gave a puzzled smile.
“Of whom does it remind you?”
“Of Mr. Locke. It is exactly like his hair.”
“Do you think it is his hair? I mean, do you think he wears a wig, continually?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. I don’t know, I’m sure, but I do know that’s Tommy Locke’s hair, or just exactly like the hair I’ve always seen on his head. Oh, nonsense! ​No, I don’t believe he wears a wig habitually. Why should he? He’s a young man.”
“How old?”
“I don’t know exactly. We’ve judged him at twenty-eight or twenty-nine. That’s not old enough for a wig!
“It is in the case of some people. Why do you smile?”
“It’s so funny. If it is his—and if he hasn’t another, and has lost this—how queer he must look. Do you suppose he is bald?”
Miss Cutler shook her own short, thick locks, and then she became serious again. “Where did you get it?” she asked.
Hutchins told her the whole story, and asked her opinion.
“No, it wasn’t Tommy,” she said; “it was some of the boys dressed up for a prank. It doesn’t seem funny to you, I daresay, but the boys do ever so many things that they think are funny, but no one else does.”
“But this funny person took your picture—the little one in the den.”
“That one! Why, that is one of Mr. Locke’s chief treasures. Jamieson painted that—how dare anybody steal it! Can you get it back?”
“But perhaps it was Mr. Locke himself who took it. He would have a right to, you know.”
“Yes,” and again she blushed that soft, pretty pink.
“Where’s his lucky piece?” asked Hutchins, suddenly. It was his theory that these suddenly sprung queries brought results before the victim was aware of it.
“What lucky piece?”
“The one you took from Mrs. Barham’s hand.”
He could see the effort she made—but this time it was successful. She conquered her emotion, she controlled her voice and she said calmly, “Mr. Hutchins, you spoke ​of that before. What makes you think I took anything from the dead woman?”
“You were seen to do so.”
“By that lying Chinaman! I refuse to answer if he is your informant.”
“But he saw you—he was directly behind you. You leaned over and took the thing—and in so doing you touched your sleeve to her wounded forehead, thus making the smear which you afterward washed out.”
“No, you are all wrong—I did none of those things.”
“Then—then you won’t mind if I look about a bit for it? You see, if I look through your place and announce that I can’t find it—they won’t send somebody else to look—somebody with a warrant.”
He hated to frighten the poor child, but it had to be done. He had learned the most effective way to deal with her.
“Look through my things!” she cried, staring at him.
“Yes; if you haven’t it—as you say you haven’t—you can have no objection—and truly, if I don’t, some one else will.”
“Go ahead,” she said, and sat watching him.
In a perfunctory fashion, Hutchins pulled open a few drawers of her writing desk and work table. He wasn’t really looking, he was watching her face hoping to learn from its expression what way to turn.
Nor was he in error. She fell easily into his trap. With no thought of being studied, Pearl Jane did all he could hope for. When he was looking in some places, she drew a long breath of contentment and satisfaction. Again, her breath would come quickly, her eyes turn dark with apprehension and her tightly clasped hands tremble.
So, he knew at last, that what he sought was—must be, in an upper drawer of an old secretary. He reached up ​for it, and as he saw the look of utter despair on her face, he pulled out the whole drawer, a small one, and lifted it down.
But his find was not a “lucky piece”—instead it was something far more gruesome. For, wadded up in a corner of the drawer was a long white kid glove—stained on the fingertips with a brownish tinge—unmistakably human blood.
It did not need her breat-broken cry of dismay to tell him he had discovered her secret, and he came slowly toward her.
“Miss Cutler—is this yours?”
“No—oh, no.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” indignantly.
“Then whose is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why is it here?”
She braced up. Whatever the reason—perhaps sheer desperation—she sat up straight, drew herself together, and answered:
“I found it on the floor near the body of Mrs. Barham.”
“When you leaned over her?”
“Yes; I did lean over to see if she were dead or alive. I was horribly frightened, but I thought it my duty to see that, at least.”
“And she was dead?”
“I think so. I tried to feel her heart, but I couldn’t—there was such an elaborate fringe and tinsel on the bodice. So, I—well, Mr. Hutchins, I think I rather lost my head. I had never seen a dead person before—like that, I mean—and I don’t know what I did. I grabbed the glove——”
“Why?”
I think I had a half formed fear that it might belong ​to some one I knew—that crime might be suspected——”
“But it’s a woman’s glove——”
“I know. But is a woman never guilty of crime?”
“Murder?”
“It has been known, hasn’t it? And isn’t the weapon that was used—a heavy weight, more the thing a woman would use? Can you imagine a man throwing that at a woman?”
“Yes, more easily than I can imagine a woman doing it. You are romancing, Miss Cutler——”
“I am not! I am telling you the truth. I was scared, even dazed at the awful situation, and I took the glove—brought it home and hid it—all because of that vague fear that it might implicate some one I care for—a dear friend——”
“Miss Vallon?”
“Yes, of course,” impatiently. “But I learned that she had her gloves—both of them—and then I thought no more about it. If that glove is of any importance, take it—I don’t know whose it is.”
“I will take it. But don’t think I can’t read you! You are trying to turn the conversation away from the main theme—trying to turn suspicion away from the man you love. Away from Thomas Locke. You suspect him yourself—but you want to shield him. That is why you went to the dead woman. That is why you bent down over her—You thought you would remove incriminating evidence, if you could find any. You opened her hand—the dead woman’s hand, whether you found anything in it or not. What did you expect to find?”
“Nothing,” Pearl Jane was sullen now. She kept her eyes down, her head turned away.
But, during the conversation, Hutchins’s ever busy eyes had found something else. ​
“Miss Cutler,” he said, this time very suddenly, “was it the scarab?”
Her frightened stare told him he had guessed right.
“What—what scarab?” she breathed.
“Mr. Locke had a scarab—a lucky piece. Charley calls it a Flyaway! That’s what made me think of it—when I saw where you have hidden the thing. And a wonderfully clever place! You are a marvel!”
“I don’t know what you mean——”
“Oh, yes, you do know what I mean. If you don’t—I’ll show you.”
Unfastening his cuff-link, and pushing back his sleeve, Hutchins thrust his arm into a globe of goldfish, and from among the little stones at the bottom, he brought up a stone scarab.
“A valuable one,” he commented, looking at its Egyptian inscription. “And more valuable, I suppose, for its lucky powers. And the dead woman had this in her hand?”
“Yes, she did,” said Pearl Jane, angrily, “make the most of it!”
“I most certainly shall,” said Hutchins, gravely, and with the scarab and the stained glove both in his possession, he went away.