The sinister mark
"The _Planet_, May 25," he read. "Somebody packed this trunk not more
than three days before----Well, I don't see where that gets you, old
top. Come get a move on."
In replacing the bundle of goloshes, he noticed that an article had
been cut from the paper, not torn out, but cut with sharp scissors. The
fact merely caught his attention in passing.
"Probably a notice of 'Dark Roads,'" he thought, and dismissing the
subject from his mind, he went on with his task. It proved somewhat
trying, owing to the camphor fumes, which became more overpowering as
he delved deeper into the trunk, and once they became so strong that he
sneezed.
He tried to choke it back, but it would come, a loud "Atchi!" which
resounded horribly in the stillness.
Peter held his breath and listened. Nothing stirred. Far away he
could hear the faint "whir--ee--ee" of a passing street car, over on
Broadway, and the low murmuring of thunder overhead, but within was the
silence of the tomb.
"Cheerful, I calls it," said Peter, to himself, drawing a long breath.
"Well, I guess that'll be about all here."
He closed and locked the trunk, flashed his light inside the open
drawers of the small white chiffonier, and found nothing that could
give him any help. Not a letter, not a card. No piece of writing of any
sort. The very few articles of clothing which remained were old and
worn. A pair of gray leather gloves, shabby with wear, still held the
shape of slender, long hands. There was something almost pathetic about
them as they lay there, palms upward, an appeal--but Peter was in no
mood for sympathy.
"Anne Blake's things, without a doubt," he thought, "and too worn
out to bother with.... And her winter stuff packed away with her
sister's.... I wonder if Sherlock Holmes would make anything out of
that. Does it mean that she plans to come back in the fall? Or are they
all things she has no further use for? And, if so, why pack 'em away
so carefully?... And just a few days before--she--quit. Was the whole
business 'sudden at the last,' as they say of people who are a long
time dying?" He shook his red head in perplexity. "Well, no use trying
to think it out now, Peter. Let's get all the dope and then patch it
together the best we can."
So saying, he slipped softly down the hall, throwing his brilliant
light over every inch of the floor and walls. Almost without sound he
drifted from the hall into the bedroom and stood still, looking about
him. There was electricity here, and he boldly switched on the lights
in the ceiling. The resulting illumination was so bright that it made
him blink.
Then he proceeded with his investigation.
Nothing in the waste basket, nothing, not even ashes, in the small,
old-fashioned grate; nothing left in the few pockets he discovered with
exceeding difficulty, in the various rich articles of women's apparel
which hung in the two closets. Nothing of any interest in the rifled
drawers of the big highboy, nor in the empty drawers of the dressing
table. A little drift of pink toilet powder still clung in the corner
of one of them and there was a tiny smear of red on the inner side of
the same drawer. Peter touched it and found that it was a trifle greasy
and made his finger-tip rosy-red.
"Rouge. Aha, my lady," he chuckled, with a little grimace, "beauty
isn't always even skin deep." And for the hundredth time he wondered if
Mary Blake was all that Morris thought her. "Not that a little paint
and powder is anything against a girl these days, when every flapper,
from fifteen to fifty, makes up for the street, and some of 'em pile
it on so thick you'd think they must have put it on with a trowel--in
the dark. Well," he looked about him, "there's no excuse for her if she
didn't do it right." He reached out and switched on the lights on both
sides of the mirror, at the back of the dressing table. His pleasant,
homely freckled face appeared in the glass, dazzlingly illuminated.
"Humph! Mary took no chances of not looking her best, I'll say that
for her," he thought. "But I wish to God she'd left me some real
light on the problem she's stacked me up against, instead of all this
spotlight stuff.... Well--I guess there's nothing here. Now for the
living room."
He turned off all the lights, and went through into the room at the
front. Here the little candle lamp on the desk threw a gentle, intimate
glow over the rather austere old furniture and neutral-tinted walls.
There was nothing here that even remotely suggested the theatrical;
none of the customary signed photographs, and but few pictures. Over
the mantel, the Mona Lisa smiled her enigmatic smile, there were a few
fine old Japanese prints, and that was all. In front of the centre
window, on a slender pedestal, was an exquisite little plaster cast
of an Andromeda, chained to a rock. Scratched in the base was the
signature, D.V.L. Morris.
All these generalities Peter could see in the quiet light, but they did
not appear to have any particular significance. He felt that he needed
all the light, both mental and material, that he could get, so without
wasting any precious moments he took off the shade of the lamp which
stood on the table and turned on both its high-powered bulbs.
Again, as on that first day, he stirred the dead, cold ashes in the
fireplace. No, there was nothing. Every particle of the paper was
consumed. He could not even tell what sort of papers had been burned.
Sighing, he rose and looked again about the room. On each side of the
fireplace were built-in shelves laden with books and magazines. There
was a good deal of fiction which Peter had never read. Thackeray,
George Meredith (Stevenson, Peter knew, and heartily approved), Henry
James, Edith Wharton, and many others, including the novels and plays
of Bernard Shaw. There was a good deal of poetry, and many plays, old
and new. On the top shelf stood a worn set of Shakespeare, in a quaint,
old-fashioned leather binding. Without knowing just why he did it,
Peter took down one of the volumes at random. It chanced to be "Julius
Cæsar," and on the fly leaf, in a bold, flowing hand, was the name,
"Winthrop Curwood."
"Winthrop Curwood," Peter repeated, half aloud. "I've heard that name
before somewhere.... Winthrop Curwood.... No, dammit, I can't place
it.... And anyway, it may not mean a thing. The books are old enough to
have been bought second-hand. I'll just see----" He ran rapidly through
a number of the older books. The name did not occur again. "However,
I'll just make a note of it. There doesn't seem to be any other owner's
name written in any of 'em," he thought, and in a little pocket
memorandum book he copied the name "Winthrop Curwood," in his clear,
microscopic hand.
In returning "Julius Cæsar" to his place on the top shelf Peter's hand
struck a pile of magazines which were closely stacked at the end. One
of the slippery pamphlets loosened, and in a rush the whole lot came
cascading down.
Peter caught his breath, and thanked his lucky stars that there was
no one in the apartment below. As he carefully returned them to their
place he noted with some surprise that besides the more popular
magazines of the day there were a number of scientific and medical
journals, and several copies of a publication called _Beauty_. He
had never even heard of this latter, and glanced through one or two
copies curiously, smiling a little, in spite of the seriousness of his
quest. There appeared to be no end of ways in which one could heighten
one's beauty, and no practical limit to the absurdities which were
recommended for the purpose. That someone had taken the suggestions
seriously there could be little doubt, for in several cases articles
had been carefully clipped from the body of the magazine. This had also
happened, in one or two cases, in the medical journals. Peter wondered,
in passing, what the subjects treated had been, but could form no idea,
since the entire article, in each case, had been cut away.
Peter had always been fascinated by people's books, their selection
was a matter so strongly indicative of character. But in this instance
the evidence was distinctly contradictory. "A lot of high-brow books,"
he thought, "and some of the rest of the stuff so low-brow it makes
even me feel intellectual. Did Anne pick out one kind, and Mary the
other--and if so, which? Oh, well, it's no use to speculate now.
Better get on." He resumed his painstaking inspection.
He had saved the desk till the last. Here, if anywhere, he was sure
he would find what he so ardently sought. And yet, never in his life
had he found so non-committal a lot of papers as were in the drawers
and scattered on the floor. A great mass of press notices, with the
little yellow slip of the clipping bureau still attached, were mixed up
with plain white letter paper and envelopes. There were a few business
letters from Frederick Jones, but not one from Mary's old manager,
Arthur Quinn. In fact, there were no strictly private letters to either
of the sisters, and he could find none at all addressed to Anne.
To avoid the smallest chance of missing anything, Peter had seated
himself beside the desk and had drawn out, one by one, each of the four
drawers, placing them upon his knees while he minutely examined the
contents.
Satisfied, at last, that there was nothing to his purpose in any of
them, with a feeling of deep discouragement he slid them back into
their places. They all ran in with the ease which one encounters only
in very good old American-made furniture--all but the bottom drawer on
the right. This slipped in smoothly until it was nearly shut, and then
stuck.
"Oh, damn," said Peter, and pushed it hard.
It would not move. He pulled it out and pushed it in again, but it
would not close completely. It did not really matter in the least. He
had found the drawers open and there was no reason why this one should
not remain so, but any one who has ever started to shut a drawer knows
precisely how Peter felt. That drawer simply had to yield before he
could go on with anything else ... and perhaps....
Peter jerked the drawer out, and dropped to his knees, while his right
hand sought and found the flashlight in his pocket. There was a slight
click, and a brilliant glare lit up the recess into which the drawer
should have gone.
Peter uttered a forcible exclamation, and stooping low, groped with his
long fingers in the back of the recess, and drew out a small rectangle
of stiff pasteboard. At some time it must have fallen from the upper
drawer and remained, perhaps for years, undiscovered. It had evidently
fallen slantwise across the corner of the back when the drawer was
pulled out, and had been slightly damaged by Peter's efforts to close
it.
He automatically straightened a bent corner as he hastily took it over
to the table where the bright light from the lamp could fall full upon
it.
Apparently, it was not an especially valuable treasure-trove. Just
a small old carte-de-visite photograph of a little girl in a plain,
somewhat countrified "best" dress of the last of the Nineties. She
appeared to be about seven or eight years old, and the childish face,
which looked up at Peter, was one of such transcendent loveliness that
he, always a lover of children, caught his breath.
Peter took an unmounted photograph from the breast pocket of his coat,
and laid the two portraits, side by side, upon the table.
There could be no doubt. They were the same, they must be the same.
The gay, laughing, exquisite child's face had developed into that of a
wonderful, sad, but equally beautiful woman. The great eyes, with their
long, dark lashes, the small, straight nose, the curving lips, were the
same. Only the expression was different, an unfathomable difference.