The Syracuse Journal, Volume 7, Number 7, Syracuse, Kosciusko County, 11 June 1914 — Page 3

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IfflE ©ME OF □ \ \ □ MOE > By MARY ROBERTS RINEHART i 1 j Copyright. 1913, by the Bobb*-Merrill Company I i “He lias killed ber!" sbe exclaimed, i J “Sbe was afraid he would do it, and—- > be has.” i “Killed her and thrown her into the > ! river,” .1 said. “That's what 1 think. ! [ and he’ll go free at that It seems there I ! isn't any murder when there isn’t any ' j corpse.” i “Nonsense! If he has done that the I river will give her up eventually.” “The river doesn't always give them i up,” I retorted. “Not in flood time, any- > how. Or when they are found it is I months later, and you can’t prove anything.” . She had only a little time, being due at the theater soon, but she sat down and the story she told afterI ward on4be stand: She had known Jennie Brice for years, they having been together in | the chorus as long before as Nadjy. “She was married then to a fellow i on the vaudeville circuit,” Miss Hope said. “He left her about that time, and sbe took up with Ladley. I don’t think they were ever married.” “What!” 1 said, jumping to my feet, “and they came to a respectable house like this! There’s never been a breath us scandal about this house. Miss Hope, and if it comes out I’m ruined." “Well, perhaps they were married,” she said. “Anyhow, they were always quarreling. And when he wasn’t playing it was worse. She used to come to my hotel and cry her eyes out.” “I knew you were friends.” I said. “Almost the last thing she said to me i was about the black and white dress I of hers you were to borrow for the piece this week.” I “Black and white dress! I borrow one of Jennie Brice’s dresses!” exclaimed Miss Hope. “I should think not. I have plenty of my own.” That puzzled me. for she had said it. that was sure. And then 1 remembered that 1 had not seen the dress in the room that day, and I went to look for it. It was gone. 1 came back ■ and told Miss Hope. “A black and white dress! Did it have a red collar?” she asked. “Yes.” “Then I remember it. She wore a small black hat with a red quill with | that dress. You might look 4or the I hat” She followed me back to the room ind stood in the doorway while 1 i searched. The hat was gone. too. “Perhaps, after all. he’s telling the iruth.” she said thoughtfully. “Her tur coat isn't in the closet, is it?" It was gone. It is strange that all lay I had never thought of looking I over her clothes and seeing what was missing. I hadn’t known all she had. , of course, but I had seen her all winter in her fur coat and admired it. It I was a striped fur, brown and gray. I and very unusual. But with the coat missing and a dress and hat gone, it began to look as if I had been making a fool of myself and stirring up a tempest in a teacup. Miss Hope was as puzzled as I was. “Anyhow if he didn’t kill her.” she said, “it isn’t because be did not want to. Only last week she had hysterics in my dressing room and said he had threatened to poison her. It was all Mr. Bronson, the business manage* and I could do to quiet her.” * She looked at her watch and exclaimed that she was late and would have to hurry. I saw her down to her boat The river had been falling rapidly for the last hour or two, and I heard the boat scrape as it went .over the door sill. I did not know whether ' to be glad that the water was going ; a ) “Peterl” I said. “Poor old Peterl” . down, and I could live like a Christian again or to be sorry for fear of what. * we might find in the mud that was al- ■ ways left. Peter was lying where I had pnt t him. on a folded blanket laid in a S clothes basket. 1 went back to him ! and sat down beside the basket. “Peter!” I said. “Poor old Peter! i Who did this t® you? Who hurt you?” 1 He looked at me and whined, as if he wanted to tell me if only he could.

Z 2 ' “Was it xTr/Mey?' I asked. And the poor thing cowered close to his bed and shivered. I wondered if it had been he and if it had he had come back. Perhaps he had remembered the towel. Perhaps he would come again and spend the night there. I was like Peter. I cowered and shivered at the very thought At 9 o’clock I heard a boat at the door. It had stuck there, and its occu- ' pant was scolding furiously at the boatman. Soon Utter 1 beard splashing. and I knew that whoever it was was wading baipk to the stairs through the foot and a half or so of water still in the hall. 1 ran back to my room and locked myself in and then stood armed with the stove lid lifter in case it should be Ladley and he should break the door in. The steps came up the stairs, and J Peter barked furiously. It seemed i to me that this was to be my end. killi ed like a rat in a trap and thrown out the window, to float, like my kitchen i chair, into. Mollie Maguire’s kitchen, • or to be found lying in the ooze of the i yard after the river had gone down. The steps hesitated at the top of the ' stairs and turned back along the hall Peter redouuled his noise. He never ! barked for Mr. Reynolds or the Lad- ' leys, i stood still, hardly able to : breathe. The door was thin and the lock loose. One good blow, and— The doorknob turned, and I screamed. I recall that the light turned black and that is all I do remember until I came to a half hour later and saw Mr. Holcombe stooping over me. The door, with the lock broken, was standing open. I tried to. move, and then 1 saw that my feet were propped up on the edge of Peter’s basket “Better leave them up,” Mr. Holcome said. “It sends the blood back to the head. Half the fool people in the world stick a pillow under a fainting woman’s shoulders. How are you now?” “All right.” I said feebly. “I thought you were Mr. Ladley.” He helped me up. and I sat in a chair and tried to keep my lips from shaking. And then I saw that Mr. Holcombe had brought a suit case with him and had set it inside the door. “Ladley is safe until he gets bail, anyhow,” he said. “They picked him up as he was boarding a Pennsylvania train bound east.” “For murder?” I asked. “As a suspicious character,” he replied grimly. “That does as well as anything for a time.” He sat down opposite me and looked at me intently. “Mrs. Pitman,” he said, “did you ever hear the story of the horse that wandered out of a village and could not be found?” I shook my head. “Well, the best wit of the village failed to locate the horse. But one day the village idiot walked into town leading the missing animal by the bridle. When they asked him how he had done it, he said. “Well. I just thought what I’d do if I was a horse •nd then I went and did it" “I see,” I said, humoring him. “Tou don’t see. Now, what are we trying to do?” “Wet’re trying to find a body. Do you intend to become a corpse?” He leaned over and tapped on the table between us. “We are trying to prove a crime. I Intend for the time to be a criminal.” He looked so curious, bent forward and glaring at me from under his bushy eyebrows, with his shoes on his knee—for he had taken them off to wade to the stairs—and his trousers rolled to his knees, that I wondered if he was entirely sane. But Mr. Holcombe, eccentric as he might be, was sane enough. “Not really a criminal!” “As really as lies in me. Listen, Mrs. Pitman. I want to put myself in Ladley’s place for a day or two, live as he lived, if 1 can. I am going to sleep in his room tonight, with your permission.” I could not see any reason for objecting, although I thought it silly and useless. I led the way to the front door, Mr. Holcombe following with his shoes and suit case. I ‘ lighted a lamp and he stood looking around him. “I see you have been here since we left this afternoon,” he said. “Twice,” I replied. “First with Mr. draves, and later”— The words died on my tongue. Some one had been in the room since my last visit there. “He has been here!” I gasped. “I left the room in tolerable order. Look at it!” “When were you here last?” “At 7:30, or thereabouts.” “Where were you between 7:30 and 8:30?” - “In the kitchen with Peter.” I told him then about the dog and about finding him shut in the room. The washstand was pulled out. The sheets of Mr. Ladley’s manuscript, usually an orderly pile, were half on the floor. The bed coverings had been jerked off and flung over the back of a chair. Peter imprisoned might have moved the washstand and upset the manuscript. Peter had never put the bedclothing over the chair or broken' his own leg. “Humph!” he said. And, getting out his notebook, he made an exact memorandum of what I had told him and of the condition of the room. That done, he turned to me. “Mrs. Pitman,” he said, “I’ll thank you to call me Mr. Ladley for the next day or so. lam an actor out of employment, forty-one years of age, short, stout and bald, married to a woman I would like to be quit of, and I am writing myself a play in which the Shuberts intend to star me or in which I intend the Shuberts to star me.” “Very well, Mr. Ladley,” I said, trying to enter into the spirit of the thing and, God knows, seeing no humor in it “Then you’ll like your soda from the icebox?" “Soda? For what?” “For your whisky and soda before you go to bed, sir.” "Oh, certainly, yes. Bring the soda. And—just a moment, Mrs. Pitman. Mr. Holcombe is a total.abstainer and has always been so. It is Ladley, not Holcombe, who takes this abominable stuff.” f I said I quite understood, but that Mr. Ladley could skip a night if .he ,so as■■r

wished. ’'But the gentleman would not hear to it and when I brought the soda poured himself a double portion. He stood looking at it with his face screwed' up, as if the very odor revolted him. “The chances are,” he said, “that Ladley—that I—having a nasty piece of work to do during the night would —will take a larger drink than usual.” He raised the glass, only to put it down. “Don’t forget” he said, “to put a large knife where you left the one last night I’m sorry the water has gone down, but I shall imagine it still at the seventh step. Good night Mrs. Pitman." “Good night, Mr. Ladley,” I said, smiling, “and remember, you are three weeks in arrears with your board.” His eyes twinkled through his spectacles. “I shall imagine it paid,” he said. I'went out and I heard him close the door behind me. Then, through the door, 1 beard a great sputtering and coughing, and I knew be had got the whisky down somehow, I put the knife out as he had asked me to, and went to bed. 1 was ready to drop. Not even the knowledge that an imaginary Mr. Ladley was about to commit an imaginary crime in the house that night could keep me awake. Mr. Reynolds came in at 11 o’clock. I was roused when he banged his door. That was all I knew until morning. The sun on my face wakened me. Peter, in his basket lifted his head as I moved and thumped his tail against his pillow in greeting. 1 put on a wrapper and called Mr. Reynolds by knocking at his door. Then 1 went on to the front room. The door was closed, and some one beyond was groaning. My heart stood still, and then raced on. I opened the door and looked in. Mr. Holcombe was on the bed, fully dressed. He had a wet towel tied , around his bead, and his face looked swollen and puffy. He opened one eye and looked at me. “Arhat a night!” be groaned. “What happened! What did you find?” He groaned again. “Find!” he said. “Nothing, except that there was something wrong with that whisky. It poisoned me. I haven't been out of the house!” So for that day at least Mr. Ladley became Mr. Holcombe again, and as such accepted ice in quantities, a mustard plaster over his stomach and considerable nursing. By evening he was letter, but although be clearly Intended to stay on, he said nothing about changing his identity again, and I was glad enough. The very name of Ladley was horrible to me. The river went down almost entirely that day, although there was considerable water in the cellars. It takes time to get rid of that The lower floors showed nothing suspicious. The papers were ruined, of course, the doors warped and Sprung and the floors coated with mud and debris. Terry came in the afternoon, and together we hung the dining room rug out to dry id the sun. As I was coming in I looked over at the Maguire yard. Molly Maguire was there and all her children aroAid her, gaping. Molly was hanging out to dry a sodden fur coat that had once been striped brown and gray. I went over after breakfast and claimed the coat as belonging to Mrs. Ladley. But she refused to give it up. There is a sort of unwritten law regarding the salvage of flood articles, and I had to leave the coat, as I had my kitchen chair. But it was Mrs. Ladley’s beyond a doubt I shuddered when I thought how it had probably got into the water. And yet it was curious, too, for if she had had it on, how did it get loose to go floating around Molly Maguire’s yard? And if she had not worn it how did it get in the water? CHAPTER VI.

|HE newspapers were full of I the Ladley case, with its cuI rious solution and many aurI prises. It was considered

unique in many ways. Mr. Pitman had always read all the murder trials and used to talk about the corpus delicti and writs of habeas corpus, corpus being the legal way, I believe, of spelling corpse. But I came out of the Ladley trial—for it camp to trial ultimately —with only one point of law that I was sure of. That was that it is mighty hard to prove a man a murderer unless you can show what he killed. And that was the weakness in the Ladley case. There was a body, but it could not be identified. The police held Mr. Ladley for a day or two, and then, nothing appearing, they let him go. Mr. Holcombe, who was still occupying the second floor front, almost wept with rage and despair when he read the news in the papers. He was still working on the case in his curious way, wandering along the wharfs at night and writing letters all over the country to learn about Philip Ladley’s previous life and his wife’s. But he did not seem to get anywhere. The newspapers had been full of the Jennie Brice disappearance, for disappearance it proved to be. So far as could be learned she had not left the city that night or since, and as she was a striking looking woman, very blond, as I have said, with a full voice and a languid manner, she could hardly have taken refuge anywhere without being discovered. The morning after her disappearance a young woman, tall, like Jennie Brice, and fair, had been seen in the Union station. But as she was accompanied by a young man. who bought her magazines and papers and bade her an excited farewell, sending his love to various members of a family and promising to feed the canary, this was not seriously considered. A sort of general alarm went over the country. When she was younger she had been pretty well known at the Broadway theaters in New York. One way or another, the Liberty theater got a lot of free advertising from the case, and, I believe, Miss Hope’s salary was raised. The police communicated with Jennie Brice’s people—she had a sister in Olean, N. Y., but she had not heard from her. The gister wrote—l heard ♦ ' ’' ’ t

later—that Jennie had teen unhappy with Philip Ladley, and afraid ho would kill her. And Miss Hope told the same story. But-there was no corpus, as the lawyers say, and finally the police had to free Mr. Ladley. Beyond making an attempt to get bail, and failing, he had done nothing, disked about his wife, he merely shrugged his shoulders and said she had left him and would turn up all right He was unconcerned, smoked cigarettes all day, ate and slept well and looked better since he had had nothing to drink. And two or three days after the arrest he sent for the manuscript of his play. Mr. Howell came for it on the Thursday of that week. I was on my knees scrubbing the parlor floor when he rang the bell. I let him in. and it seemed to me that he looked tired and pale. “Well, Mrs. Pitman," he said, smiling. “what did you find in the cellar when the water went down?” “I'm glad to say that I didn’t find what I feared, Mr. Howell.” “Not even the onyx clock?” “Not even the clock.” I replied “And I feel as if I'd lost a friend. A clock is a lot of company." “Do you know what I think?” he said, looking at mfe closely. “I think you put that clock away yourself in the excitement and have forgotten all about It” “Nonsense." “Think hard-” He was very much lu earnest. “You knew the water was rising and the Ladleys would have to be moved up to the second floor front, where the clock stood. You went in there and looked around to see if the room was ready, and you saw the clock. And knowing that the Ladleys quarreled now and then and were apt to throw things”— “Nothing but a soap dish, and that •nly once.” —“you took the clock to the attic and ;>ut it, say, in an old trunk.” “I did nothing of the sort. I went q, as you say. and 1 put up an old splasher, because of the way he throws ink about. Then I wound the clock, put the key under it and went out.” “And the key is gone, too!” he said thaughtfully. “I wish 1 could find that clock. Mrs. Pitman.” “So do I.” “Ladley went out Sunday afternoon about 3. didn’t he—and got back at 5?” I turned and looked at him. “Yes, Mr. Howell,” I said. “Perhaps you know something about that.” “1?" He changed color. Twenty years of dunning boarders has made me pretty sharp at reading faces, and he looked as uncomfortable as if he owed me money. “I!” I knew then that I had been right about the voice. It had been him. “You!" I retorted. “You were here Sunday morning and spent some time with the Ladleys. I am the old she devil. I notice you didn’t tell your friend. Mr. Holcombe, about having been here on Sunday.” He was quick to recover. “I’ll tell you all about it, Mrs. Pitman,” he said smilingly. “You see, all my life, I have wished for an onyx clock. It has been my ambition, my great desire. Leaving the house that Sunday morning and hearing the ticking of the clock upstairs I recognized it was an onyx clock, clambered from my boat through an upper window and so reached it The clock Showed fight but after stunning it with a chair”— “Exactly!” I said. “Then the thing Mrs. Ladley said she would not do was probably to wind the clock?” He dropped his bantering manner at once. “Mrs. Pitman." he said. “I don’t know what you heard or did not hear. But I want you to give me a little time before you tell anybody that I was here that Sunday morning. And In return I’ll find your clock.” I hesitated, but however put out he was he didn’t look like a criminal. Besides, he was a friend of my niece’s, and blood is thicker than flood water. “There was nothing wrong about my being here,” he went on. “but I don’t. want it known. Don’t spoil a good I story, Mrs. Pitman.” I did not quite understand that, al- ' though those who followed the trial , carefully may do so. Poor Mr. Howell! I am sure he believed that it was only a good story. He-got the description of my onyx clock and wrote it down, and I gave him the manuscript for Mr. Ladley. That was the last I saw of . him for some time. That Thursday proved to be an ex- ■ citing day, for late in the afternoon ‘ Terry, digging the mud out of the cel- < lar, came across my missing gray false front near the coal vault and brought . it up. grinning, and just before 6 Mr. Graves, the detective, rang the bell and then let himself in. 1 found him in the lower hall looking around. “Well, Mrs. Pitman.” he said, “has our friend come back yet?" “She was no fridnd of mine.” “Not she—Ladley. He’ll be out this evening, and he'll probably be around for his clothes.” I felt my knees waver, as they always did when he was spoken of. “He may want to stay here,” said Mr. Graves. “In fact, 1 think that’s just what he will want” “Not here,” I protested. “The very thought of him makes me quake.” “If he comes here better take him in. I want to know where he Is." (To be continued —) Rexall Store —•Fine line of initial box station* ery at F. L. Hoch’s. —The Mexican product problem is difficult to solve, but the flour problem is easy—GERBELLE and NEVER FAIL. —Underwear for every member of- the family. A. W. Strieby &. Son. J. W. ROTHENBERGER : Undertaker : SYRACUSE, t i IND,

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