||||III,


|- -- - - - -
1758


. . . .
N (20
\ wevºw O, YY Wy





THE TRIPLE MYSTERY





THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
BY
ADELE LUEHRMANN
AUTHOR OF “THE CURIous case of MARIE DUPONT,”
AND “THE OTHER BROWN’’
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1920
do


116222B
CopyRIGHT, 1919
By DoDD, MEAD AND Company, Inc.


*
Qſo
WALTER KIESEWETTER
In appreciation of the pleasure and profit
derived from my study of music with him,
and in acknowledgment of the suggestion
that led to the writing of this story.





CHAPTER
i
CONTENTS
QUID PRO QUo .
A CHANCE OF EscAPE
ANOTHER BARGAIN
THE UNToUCHED WINE . .
QUICK–A DoCTOR
A SPOT on AN APRON
SoMETHING Over HEARD
A TALK IN A TAXI
A VISIT of CoNDoLENCE .
AN UN welcom E SweFTHEART .
A FACE IN THE DARK
THE FACE AGAIN
A PUZZLING CALLER .
THREATS THINLY VEILED .
SUSPICIOUs PROSPERITY
ANOTHER PERPLEXING PolNT .
THE SEcond DEATH .
THE PolicE INVESTIGATE .
ENTER THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY
A STRANGE STORY
AMAZING NEws .
PAGE
VII.
VIII.
º:
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
THE THIRD DEAD MAN
10
19
25
35
43
54
63
74
82
91
100
110
117
129
139
145
150
173
183
199
205
Wii


viii
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVI.
XXVII.
XXVIII.
XXIX.
A PAINFUL CoNFESSION .
A DISAPPEARANCE
Evading THE POLICE
A MIDNIGHT CAPTURE
A VERY SICK MAN .
THE TRUTH AT LAST
SHORT AND SweFT .
PAGE
212
222
228
246
254
259
275


THE TRIPLE MYSTERY


THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
CHAPTER I
QUID PRO QUO
LIVE Thrace had been announced to Zarady
by the doorman, and now as she crossed
the stage to where he stood her heel-taps
must have been plainly audible to him; but it was
not until she had reached his side and waited there
in silence for a moment that the great man stirred.
As he looked up from the sheet of music in
his hand the girl’s lips opened, then closed again
without a sound having passed them. Their eyes
were on a level, for he was tall, and his, black and
full, narrowed until only a malicious gleam es-
caped between the lids. Deliberately then he sent
his glance down her slender figure and back again,
noting each detail of her shabby appearance.
“I’ve come to accept your offer,” she announced
with nervous abruptness, stiffening under his
scrutiny.
The Hungarian's black brows lifted. “Really?”
he murmured in exaggerated astonishment, frown-
ing the next moment because his insolence wrought
no change in her set face.
“That offer was made a year ago,” he went
on in a cold, snapping tone. “Where have you
1


2 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
been since then? What have you been doing?
Trying to get on without me, eh? Trying every-
thing?”
“Yes.”
“You have wasted a year. You have been a
fool.”
She made no reply to this. Her grey eyes were
as before quite steady and emotionless.
“Where have you been singing?”
“In a church.”
The conductor of the famous Panharmonic Or-
chestra made a noise in his throat, expressive of
his extreme contempt.
“I had some concerts—small affairs, of
course—” began the girl.
“Of course!” He cut her short. “I told you
it would be so. I warned you. And I warned
you against church singing.”
“I had to live.”
“And have you lived?”
His glance swept her figure again significantly,
but again he drew no fire from her. It was as if
she held her face between them like a mask, so
immobile was it.
“You have been a fool,” he repeated. “Admit
it.” And when she still kept silence, “If you
won’t admit it why are you here?” he demanded.
“Because I need money.”
At the unflattering baldness of her answer he
gave her an angry glare, which she took unflinch-


QUID PRO QUO 3
ingly. And in the pause that followed, while they
stood with eyes locked, it was his gaze, not hers,
that first wavered. From his swarthy chin to the
line of his thick black hair a flush mounted, his
shoulders twitched, his hands moved toward her.
But before they had touched her he jerked them
back to his side.
“I’ll hear you sing,” he said harshly, turning
away. “That is,” he flung back contemptuously,
“if you can sing anything besides hymns.”
He crossed to a piano that stood open nearby
and motioning her to a position facing him sat
down and began to play. Instantly every other
sound on the stage ceased. The members of the
orchestra, who had been chattering noisily, in half
a dozen different languages, while putting away
the music and instruments used in the rehearsal
just ended, interrupted these activities to listen
or continued them soundlessly.
“Sing this—if you know it,” ordered Zarady,
passing from aimless modulations into the pre-
lude of a song, a composition of his own. He had
given Olive Thrace a copy of this song more than
a year ago, but he doubted that she had ever taken
the trouble to learn it and expected to embarrass
her by forcing her to admit that she had not.
She had already opened her coat and thrown
back its worn fur collar to free her throat, and
her only response to his taunt was to assume the
conventional concert pose and look over his head


QUID PRO QUO 5
voluntary recoil, but she recovered herself quickly,
her face again as still and cold as before she had
Sung. .
“Come here,” commanded Zarady sharply,
stung by her unspoken rebuff, and when she had
advanced to the piano-ledge, keeping the corner
between them, he lessened the distance by leaning
across it, his eyes again a gleaming slit.
“Did you ever hear of Elfrida Swanson?” he
asked. -
Surprised and puzzled by the sudden change of
attack, Olive Thrace hesitated, then she shook her
head.
“No,” she answered. “Who is she?”
The man gave an unpleasant laugh.
“I cannot tell you who she is—she’s dead now
for all I know,” he returned with a shrug. “But
I will tell you who she was. She was an Ameri-
can girl like you, young and with a voice and talent
and beauty. She had studied and sung abroad in
opera, as you have, and like you she stood here on
this stage one day and sang for me. I made her
the offer I have made you and she accepted it—
as you do. But afterwards she tried to play with
me, to make a fool of me—of me, Zarady! She
meant to take—oh yes, to take, but not to give.
Well—”
He broke off with another shrug, laughing again
maliciously.
“Today, eight years later,” he continued, “you


6 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
must ask me who she is—because she is nobody. I
began her career and I ended it. Do you under-
stand, my dear?”
Olive Thrace had gone white, but her gaze had
not once left his face.
“Yes,” she replied steadily, “I understand.”
The man’s black eyes softened. “You have
talent, much talent,” he said. “But talent cannot
stand alone; only genius can do that. There is too
much of talent in the world. Of American girls
alone studying in Europe there are enough to fill
all the opera stages of the world, as tins are filled
with fish. You know that. You know that all
but a few must fail, the few who are lucky—or
wise. I told you a year ago what I could do for
you, but you thought that you could do it for
yourself. Now when you have found that you
cannot and your money is gone, and you have not
even decent clothes to wear, you come back to me.
Well, I forgive that. I forget it. I repeat my
offer. I will make for you a great career. You
shall be famous and rich. Isn’t that worth the
return I ask—a little love?”
As he bent toward her on the final words, his
hand out, she again recoiled from him, despite her
Will.
“I shall keep my word,” she answered, breath-
less with the fear of his touch. “But I haven’t
come back for the sake of the career that you can


QUID PRO QUO 7
give me. I need money. I need it now. I must
have it. If you really believe I shall be rich some
day you ought to be willing to advance me a small
part of the money that I shall earn. I need—ten
thousand dollars.”
“Ten thousand!” He eyed her in amazement.
“What for?” he asked.
“What does that matter? I must have it,” she
replied. “I must have it at once. That is my
condition.”
He searched her tense face silently, waiting for
an explanation of her demand. When none came
a mocking smile curled his lips.
“Why don’t you get it from Garrison?” he
taunted. “Can’t, eh? Now you see how much
good he is to you. I told you so. But—perhaps
it is for him you want it?” His eyes flashed
suspiciously; then reassured by her blank look, he
gave his quick shrug. “No matter. I shall trust
you,” he went on. “I shall advance you the
money. But understand one thing ” He
paused while his hand closed over hers. “You
drop Garrison, drop him absolutely. I don’t
run in double harness. Don’t try that, my
dear.” -
She did not draw her hand away as he touched
her, but he felt it shrink and he frowned.
“Do you understand?” he demanded brusquely.
“Yes,” she returned in a low tone. “When can
I have the money?”


8 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
Silence for a while, his dark glance narrowing
upon her thoughtfully. “What is your address?”
he asked at last. “The same? Very well, I shall
let you know. I must arrange. I am not a rich
man, you know.”
Again a pause, then his hand tightened on hers
and his gaze warmed as he continued:
“In a few years from now you will think back
to this hour and you will laugh, my beloved. For
you will be an artist then and will know that art
is all—the one mistress, the one lover that never
grows old or stale. Think! Think, Olive, you
shall sing here with the greatest orchestra of
America, you an unknown singer shall begin
where many have counted themselves fortunate
to arrive after years.”
“When can I have the money?” repeated the
girl.
Zarady scowled.
“I can’t wait. I must have it at once—today,”
she said.
“Today?” he echoed. “But this is Saturday,
and it is now already past twelve; the banks are
closed. I can do nothing until Monday.”
“Monday then,” she agreed reluctantly. “But
not later. I can’t wait longer than Monday.”
“Not later,” he promised. “Ah, you need not
worry, my love,” he added, his eyes gleaming
significantly. “I shall not keep you waiting—not
myself. I have waited too long already. But I


QUID PRO QUO 9
forgive you for that now. I forgive you every-
thing.”
He raised her hand to his lips.
“I must forgive you,” he whispered softly as
he released it. “Your coming has made me so
very, very happy.”


CHAPTER II
A CEIANCE OF ESCAPE
LONE in the alley leading from the stage
door to the street Olive Thrace stopped. A
tremor passed over her, then another and
another until her entire body was shaken. “I
can’t do—I can’t do it,” she told herself in a
chattering whisper. But the next words of revolt
were bitten back and in another moment she had
forced her feet onward.
For half a block her way lay along the side
of the great concert hall, and as her eye swept
the panel of framed posters that announced the
approaching concerts of famous musical artists
another shiver seized her. She thought of how
many times during her student years in New York
she had passed that line of posters and had
promised herself that some day her own name
should be emblazoned there, that she should sing
with the great Panharmonic Orchestra, under the
baton of the celebrated Alois Zarady. How little
she had guessed what the realization of that dream
was destined to cost!
Oh, to be a man! In the career of men merit
alone counted. There was Rudolf Kala, for in-

10


A CHANCE OF ESCAPE 11
º
stance. His career had been made by Zarady,
as everybody knew, and with nothing to pay.
She lingered an instant before the black and
white figure of the young Hungarian pianist and
read the announcement below it, to the effect that
he was to be the soloist of the Panharmonic con-
cert on the following night, Sunday; then with
an odd feeling of revulsion she turned sharply
away. Something in the boyish face of Zarady’s
protégé had brought the image of the conductor
himself before her mental vision. It was the
eyes, perhaps; both had the same gypsy-like
black eyes, full and bold, with heavy, rough eye-
brows. And both had the over-long mop of
straight, coarse black hair, the same heavy, sen-
suous mouth.
Her shoulders contracted with a slow shudder.
She thought of that other girl, Elfrida Swanson.
Why had she not paid Zarady’s price? Had she
really tried to outwit him, as he believed? Or
had flesh and blood rebelled in the hour of reck-
oning? It might have been that. Oh yes, it
might easily have been that
She caught her thoughts up with a start. It
would not do to let them run ahead to the hour
of reckoning. That did not bear thinking of.
For her there could be no drawing back, no
escape. Her feet were set on the road they must
travel and she could not turn back.
Besides, there was another ordeal to be gone


12 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
through before that one. Tony must be told.
She quickened her pace and for a dozen blocks
held herself doggedly to it until it had brought
her to a door in an old, ramshackled studio build-
ing. Even then she did not permit herself to lag,
but knocked, turned the knob and entered with-
out waiting for a reply from within.
“Hello,” came at once in abstracted but cheer-
ful response from a brown-haired young man
standing with his back to the door, painting at
an easel.
Anthony Garrison was twenty-seven, tallish
and well-built, with an attractive though not a
handsome face, and exceptionally good shoulders,
noticeable even in the baggy painting coat that
he was wearing.
The girl waited for him to turn and see her.
She knew just how he would look, how adorably
his face would light up at sight of her. She knew
too that she would never see him look like that
again. At last, as though startled by the still-
ness of the room, he came out of his abstraction
and looked around.
“Why—darling!” He was beside her in two
strides, welcoming her with a joyous embrace.
“I was just wishing for you. See what I’ve been
doing.” He drew her to the easel. “The clouds.
Better, eh? What do you think?”
She did not answer him. She could not speak.
She could not see the picture; everything had be-


A CHANCE OF ESCAPE 13
come blurred before her eyes. His touch had
brought a new, unbearable sense of what life
would be without him. Involuntarily one of her
hands clutched his coat. But instantly conscious
of the act and fearful of again losing her self-
control, she drew herself away.
“I’ve something to tell you,” she said in a
strangled voice while one hand groped in her
bag. “Read this. It’s from my sister.” She
held out a letter to him.
He stared at her in alarm. “What’s the mat-
ter?” he exclaimed, ignoring the letter until she
had turned away without replying, then he
wrenched it from the envelope. “What's the
matter?” he repeated. “Is your mother—ill?”
He meant dead, for from her expression he could
infer no less.
She shook her head and sank down on the near-
est chair as though her strength were failing her.
“I must talk to you—explain,” she faltered.
“Sit down a minute—no, over there—” waving
him away. “No, no. Don’t touch me!” She sprang
up at his approach. “Oh, Tony, you’ll never
want to touch me again,” she added brokenly.
“What?”
He stopped short, astounded at her words.
And of course they were not at all what she had
meant to say. She had intended to explain quite
calmly about the money that she needed. How
the family purse had been emptied, filled again


14 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
by borrowing, and again emptied to prepare her
for a career in opera, that he already knew.
What he had now to learn was that the holder of
the mortgage on her home—a kindly acquaintance
who had extended the loan and allowed the inter-
est to go unpaid for years—had suddenly died
and the mortgage had been taken over from his
estate by somebody who wanted to get possession
of the property. If the debt, now nearly ten thou-
sand dollars, were not paid at once the home
would be lost. -
So much it would be easy to tell, but how was
she to make him understand that she could not
allow the impending disaster to occur? Whether
it was a noble sense of obligation to her people
that actuated her, or an ignoble pride, she could
not honestly have said. She knew only that to
meet Zarady’s terms seemed to her a more en-
durable alternative than that of shifting to her
mother's and her sister’s patient shoulders the
burden of her failure to achieve success after their
sacrifices for her.
“What did you say, Olive?” Garrison ques-
tioned slowly, as if suddenly doubtful of having
heard her correctly.
Her only reply was to turn from him again with
a gesture of despair.
He opened the letter and read it through. “Oh,
that’s too bad, dear. I’m terribly sorry,” he
said earnestly but with relief in his voice: “I wish


A CHANCE OF ESCAPE 15
with all my heart it was in my power to-”
“I have to get the money, Tony—somehow,”
she interrupted. “I can’t let my mother lose her
home. You’ll never understand, I know, but—I
can’t. I can’t. I must get the money.”
“Get it?” he echoed in Wonder. “How?”
She moistened her lips nervously, but no
words came.
“Is there any way that you can get it, Olive?”
“Yes.” Her tone was barely audible.
“How?” He stared at her.
“From-Zarady.”
“Zarady!”
“Oh, I knew I couldn’t make you understand,”
she cried. “But there's no other way. There's
no one else from whom I can borrow such a sum.
Besides, how could I ever pay it back? You know
what my experience has been. Without influence
a beginner like me has no chance at all, you know
that. Zarady would lend me the money because
he knows he could make it possible for me to
earn the money and repay him, and 2 3
“Lend you the money? Are you dreaming
that Zarady would do anything for you—or for
any woman—on business terms? If you are —”
“I’m not.”
The words were little more than a whisper and
a pause followed them. She stared down at her
hands and he watched her face, his own work-
ing with conflicting emotions.


16 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“He’s married, Olive,” he reminded her at
last, bringing a swift flush from her but no word
of reply, and at her continued silence he wheeled
and walked away. Suddenly he turned and came
back, his jaw set, his eyes hard.
“Look at me!” He grasped her shoulders so
fiercely as to make her wince. “Is it really for
your people that you want this money, or is that
just an excuse? Is it the career Zarady can give
you that you want? Is it? Tell me the truth,
Olive. I must know.”
“I want you, only you,” she sobbed, clinging
to him. “But I can’t let my mother lose her
home.”
“Her home? She would far rather lose her
life I’”
“It isn’t for her to decide. It’s for me. And
—she’ll never know.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!
You don’t know what you're doing!”
“I have no choice, Tony.”
“Olive—listen!” He started to go on, then
stopped and looked away from her. “You must
go. I want to think,” he went on, heavily, as if
the words cost him an extreme effort. “Perhaps
I can get this money for you.”
“You?” She stared in amazement. “You,
Tony? How?”
“I—don't know yet. I must think.”
“How could you get it, Tony—ten thousand


A CHANCE OF ESCAPE 17
dollars? Oh—you can’t.” Her spurt of hope
had already died.
“Understand one thing,” he answered, his eyes
burning into hers. “I shall never let you go to
Zarady. I’ll get the money—somehow. I
couldn’t let you borrow money from that—beast.”
She opened her lips to tell him that she had
already been to Zarady, but the shameful con-
fession stuck in her throat.
“You must go,” he said again. “I-want to
think.” -
“But I don’t understand,” she insisted, not
moving. “How could you get the money? Tony,
tell me! Is there any way you could get it?”
He gave a strange, short laugh that made her
start and stare. “Oh, yes, there’s a way,” he
said. Then his shoulders hunched themselves in
a violent shudder. “Please go. I want to think,”
he said again, and crossed to the door and opened
it for her.
She moved after him, but stopped at the door.
“You look so—so strange,” she said. “Tony,
what’s the matter?”
“Matter?” he cried harshly. “Isn’t the
thought of you and that man matter enough? Oh,
Olive, you’d never do that—would you? Tell me
you never would—no matter what happened.”
She caught her breath, but did not speak.
“Olive!”
“I must have the money, Tony. If you can’t


18 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
get it ” She stopped when he turned sharply
from her.
“I don’t know whether I can get it or not,”
he said in a brusque tone, evidently under the
stress of a revulsion of feeling. “I want to think.
Please go. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” she echoed mechanically, and when
he made no offer of his usual parting caress she
stepped into the hall, tentatively. But before
she could turn back he had closed the door upon
her. Amazed at the act she was on the point
of reopening the door when the key was turned.
She recoiled, not knowing what to think. It
was all so unlike him. She could hear him now
moving about the room pacing it with nervous
strides. She should not have come. She had
only made him wretched, half maddened him, as
she should have foreseen she would do. For he
could not get the money for her, of course.
She caught the sound of a door opening within
the studio. He was getting his street coat from
a closet; he was going out. Where? Was it pos-
sible he could get the money, in some way? Oh—
if he could— -
But he must not find her eavesdropping, she
thought, and hurried away.


CHAPTER III
ANOTEIER BARGAIN
HE home of Theodore Andrassy, the banker,
was spacious and beautiful, evidencing not
only the owner's wealth but his taste and
artistic discretion as well. Even the small re-
ception room in which Anthony Garrison awaited
the return of the butler had individuality and
interest, due in part to several excellent paintings
that adorned the walls—a small vanguard of the
famous Andrassy collection.
Under normal conditions Garrison, as an artist,
would have found the interval of waiting all too
brief for what there was about him to see and
enjoy; now he seemed oblivious of his surround-
ings, sitting with white, rigid face toward the
doorway in which the butler must presently reap-
pear.
“Mr. Andrassy requests, sir, that you will give
yourself the trouble to come upstairs.”
The young man had sprung up at the speaker's
entrance, and answering the announcement with a
quick nod he followed the servant through the hall
to a small electric elevator that bore him to the
floor above where he was ushered into the banker’s
private sitting-room.
19


20 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“Ah, Garrison, how are you?”
Andrassy came forward with outstretched hand,
ingratiatingly cordial. He was a man of fifty,
very striking in appearance, tall and dark with
a Mephisto cast of features, even to the eyebrows.
More than one famous prima donna had likened
him to Faust’s fascinating evil genius, but he was
growing too stout now for that particular com-
pliment. However he was still handsome and
with more than ever the air of the Maecenas that
he was, and as he had remained a bachelor he
doubtless continued to be flattered by ladies both
famous and fair.
His caller returned a perfunctory greeting,
waited until the butler had retired, then closed
the door behind him and said:
“I’ve come to tell you that I will go to Brazil.”
“Ah!” The banker’s blue eyes lighted swiftly.
“That is splendid!” he exclaimed. “I have al-
ways believed, my dear boy, that you must at
last come to your senses.”
“I will go on the terms that you offered me
before—with one new condition,” continued Gar-
rison coldly. “Part of the money that you agreed
to pay me on my arrival at Rio must be paid to
me before I leave New York—ten thousand dol-
lars in cash.”
Andrassy’s eyes widened a little with surprise,
but he answered pleasantly: “Sit down; we must
discuss this.”


ANOTHER BARGAIN 2.É.
“It is not open to discussion,” said Garrison,
ignoring the gesture toward a chair.
“But my dear boy, what guarantee have I that
after receiving this money you will not refuse to
go to Rio !” protested the older man with a
deprecating smile.
“What guarantee have you that I will carry
out our agreement if I go?”
“Ah, as to that I have no fear,” Andrassy’s
black eyes narrowed for an instant, then recov-
ered their former mildness as he added: “Your
father was a man of his word; you are his son.
That is enough for me.”
A frown flitted across the face of the artist, but
he made no reply.
“I have always believed,” Andrassy went on,
“that you would one day prove yourself the man
of action and of enterprise that your father was,
that you would at last wake up to the value of
money. I congratulate you that you have done
so. And—perhaps I shall soon have the pleasure
of congratulating you on another awakening.”
He smiled. “I have often observed that young
men discover the importance of money at pre-
cisely the same moment that they become aware
of the importance of love.”
“But please do not take offense at my little
jest,” he added when Garrison flushed. “I do
not wish to pry into your private affairs. Your
reason for accepting my offer does not concern


ANOTHER BARGAIN 23
lose. Fortunately I have a car at the door. I
will give the order.” He took up the telephone
from the table beside him. “Please do not wait,”
he said. “The stairs are to the right.”
The order regarding the car having been com-
municated to a servant, Theodore Andrassy. ...,
watched the machine leave his door, following its
progress until it disappeared around a corner. A
gleam of triumph was in his eyes when he turned
back from the window and again unhooked the
telephone réceiver. But now there came a knock
at the door, arresting his action. It was the
butler. -
“Mr. Zarady, sir,” he said.
The announcement was received by his master
with a silent stare. A novice in the butler’s place
would have inferred that his words had not been
heard and would have repeated them. But Franz
knew better. He waited.
“Where is he?” Andrassy questioned finally.
“In the library, sir.”
“He didn’t see Mr. Garrison leave then?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well. I will go down. Bring us a
bottle of wine. Then call Mr. Perez and ask him
to come here at once. You will probably find him
at the club. When you have done that call Wash-
ington and get Mr. Marsh. As soon as you have
him let me know.”
“Yes, sir.” Franz turned to go.
*.


24 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“Bring the '84 Tokay.”
The butler stopped. “Excuse me, sir,” he
said. “But it is the '94 that Mr. Zarady
prefers.”
“Very well, the '94 then,” assented the banker.
He stared at the broad, middle-aged back of his
servant as the latter again turned away. “You
have an extraordinary memory, Franz,” he re-
marked suddenly.
Franz made no reply, aware that none was ex-
pected or desired. But, unseen, his mild eyes
stirred uneasily beneath their drooping lids, as
if the comment had surprised him, and—for some
reason—surprised him unpleasantly.


CHAPTER IV
THE UNTOUCHED WINE
& 4 AM afraid that I come at an inconvenient
hour, Theodore,” Zarady began apologet-
ically as soon as the greetings were over
and the two were seated in the library. “But the
affair is urgent.” He waited, studying his friend's
face anxiously. “I want you to arrange a loan
for me,” he went on. “I must have the money
Monday. The collateral which I am able to fur-
nish falls short and—I must depend on you to
help me out. The affair is very urgent.”
The anxiety in his glance deepened as he re-
peated the phrase of appeal, a fact that did not
escape his host, who smiled quizzically as he
answered.
“Speculating again, Alois?”
“No, no—nothing of that kind,” disclaimed
the musician hastily. “Here is the list of my
collateral,”—drawing a paper from his pocket
and holding it out. “They do not cover the loan,
as you see, but—” He broke off and waited
for the list to be read.
“Ten thousand, Monday,” murmured the
banker without looking up from the paper, ap-
pearing to consider the proposition.
25


26 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“Yes. It is something that has come up very
suddenly, very unexpectedly. I 'phoned you
downtown, but you had already left and I could
not wait. I must have the money not later than
Monday.”
“Monday morning?”
“Yes.”
“I see. Ten thousand, not later than Monday
morning,” Andrassy repeated reflectively. “Very
well, Alois, I shall be delighted to oblige you.”
“Ah!” A relieved sigh broke from Zarady.
“I thank you, Theodore. You are a good
friend.”
“But,” continued the banker, disregarding the
tribute, “if, by any chance, you are borrowing the
money for Miss Olive Thrace—Ah, I thought sol
In that case, Alois, you need not trouble your-
self further. Garrison has just made arrange-
ments with me to come to that young lady’s as-
sistance.”
“Garrison!” Zarady was on his feet, glaring
furiously. “She came to me!”
Andrassy shrugged his shoulders. “She must
also have gone to him. At any rate, he has just
been here and I have agreed to give him ten
thousand dollars on Monday. That he wants it
for Miss Thrace I think there can be no doubt, as
I happen to know that that is the amount of which
she is just now in need. She wants it to pay off


THE UNTOUCHED WINE 27
a mortgage on her home, a mortgage which”—he
paused and fixed his eyes squarely on his com-
panion—“I hold.”
“You?”
“I. Ah, here is Franz. I am sure you will.
join me in a glass of your favorite wine, the '94.
At least, Franz tells me the '94 is your favorite.”
Zarady muttered something indistinctly and sat
down again, watching with sullen brows while the
butler filled two glasses from the bottle of Hun-
garian wine that he had brought in.
“You will find this excellent,” said Andrassy,
raising a glass to let the light play through the
amber colored contents before he passed it to his
guest.
The latter accepted it in scowling silence, his
hand trembling, despite his effort to control him-
self in the servant’s presence; but the instant
Franz had left the room he set the glass down
on the table untasted.
“You hold it?” he exclaimed. “I don’t under-
stand.”
His host eyed him briefly without answering
and when he spoke his tone was triumphant.
“Garrison is going to Brazil.”
“So-that's it! I see!” cried Zarady. “You
have caused the girl’s need of this money in
order to bend Garrison to your will.”
“Exactly. It was a clever scheme you must


28 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
grant. Come, drink your wine. My success de-
serves a toast. Later I will drink to yours—
with the lady.”
Zarady declined with a curt gesture the glass
held out to him. “You would be as wise to
throw your money away,” he answered. “Gar-
rison will trick you; that’s my opinion.”
“I’ll take my chance of it,” retorted the banker.
“He sails on Monday, and”—his eyes hardening
with a sudden thought—“I shall tolerate no in-
terference with my plans. You know that, I
think. But come, drink your wine, man. What
is one woman more or less compared with good
Tokay?”
The invitation met with the same brusque re-
fusal as before. Zarady rose to go.
“Be patient, Alois—only be patient,” coun-
selled Andrassy, rising also. “Once in Brazil
Garrison will never come back. Then comes your
turn with the girl, who, judging from your in-
terest in her, must be very charming.”
“She has a voice and talent,” snapped the
musician.
“No doubt, no doubtl” his host assented with a
derisive laugh.
“Good-day.” Zarady strode to the door,
furious.
“Stay and lunch, Alois.”
“Thank you. Good-day.”
The words were flung over the speaker's


THE UNTOUCHED WINE 29.
shoulder and he closed the door behind him with
a deliberate slam, which only caused the target of
its insulting vehemence to throw back his head.
and laugh aloud.
“What a child!” he said to himself. What
children they all were, these votaries of art, and
what fools! Had not Alois Zarady trouble
enough with a jealous wife and that insufferable
young ape of his, Kala? And there was Garri-
son, too. Three months ago, though all but
starving, the artist had flung his offer to go to
Brazil back in his face. Now, for a woman—in
a world of women—Bah!
With a shrug of contempt, Andrassy turned
to ring for Franz when his eye chanced to fall
on the untouched glass of wine. He frowned,
staring at it fixedly for a moment before he
crossed to the bell. -
“Well—about Washington?” he questioned
when the butler appeared.
“Mr. Marsh is at luncheon, sir,” answered
Franz. “His secretary will have him call you as
Soon as he returns. Mr. Perez has just come in.”
“Send him here.”
Franz withdrew, and returning to the table the
banker stood again staring down at the glass of
golden Tokay.
“Juan l’’ he exclaimed as the door opened and
a man of thirty-five or thereabouts entered.
“You’ve no time to lose. I want Zarady watched


30 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
—watched constantly, do you understand! He's
in love with that girl himself. I didn’t suspect
such a thing, hadn’t counted on it. He must be
watched. He may make trouble for us.”
“What trouble can he make?” Perez spoke
sneeringly and with a marked foreign accent that
five years in the United States had done little
to modify.
“He has just left here,” replied Andrassy.
“He came to borrow ten thousand dollars for Miss
Thrace, and was furious when I told him Garri-
son had already been here for—”
“So he came, Garrison?”
“Yes, he came and he’s on his way now to
Washington. He sails Monday.” The banker
paused impressively. “Juan, nothing must be
allowed to interfere with our plans—nothing.
Zarady must be watched, so that if he dares to
make a move against us we can block it at once.
I don’t trust him. I believe now that he has had
no interest in our affair except as a means of get-
ting rid of Garrison. He thought that with Gar-
rison out of the way he would have a free hand
with the girl.”
“Well, Garrison will be out of the way—for-
ever.”
“Yes, but Zarady has evidently discovered that
that won’t help him with the girl, and that his
only hope is to put her under a heavy obligation
to him. He was beside himself with rage when


THE UNTOUCHED WINE 31
he heard that Garrison was to give her the money,
didn’t even drink his wine—left it standing there.
He must be watched, I tell you, every minute un-
til Garrison is gone. He'll thwart us if he can.”
“What can he do?” sneered Perez.
“This,” said Andrassy impatiently. “He can
tell the girl where Garrison is getting the money
and what we are sending him to Brazil for, and
if she knows that she will not let him go.”
“What good will that do Zarady?”
“It Will thwart me.”
“But what will he gain? Zarady’s not a fool.
If he wants the girl he will never tell her a thing
that will make Garrison out a hero to her. He’s
not a fool.”
“No, Zarady's not a fool,” assented the banker,
with a faint stress on the name that was, how-
ever, quite lost on the self-satisfied Brazilian.
“I’ll tell you what he would gain. He would gain
his whole object—the girl. For if she refuses to
accept Garrison's sacrifices she must get the
money from some other source, and apparently
she has no other except Zarady. If she accepts
his help she will pay his price. That is what he
will gain by telling her our plans.”
“But we can’t prevent his telling her—”
“We can prevent his getting the money for
her. He will have to borrow it, and if I know
where he goes for it I can prevent the loan being
made. That is why I want him watched. The


32 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
girl must have this money on Monday, and she
must be forced to take it from Garrison. Other-
wise he will not go to Brazil. Do you understand
now? After all our waiting and planning Gar-
rison will not go.”
The face of the Brazilian darkened. “If
Zarady stops that he'll answer for it.”
“He must not be allowed to stop it. If we lose
this hold on Garrison we shall never get another.
He must sail for South America Monday. Put
men to watch Zarady and report to me every
move he makes—every move.”
Perez nodded.
“Do it immediately. There is no time to waste.
The girl must be watched also.”
“That’s being done,” said Perez and without
further words went away.
Andrassy rang for Franz. “Luncheon,” he
said, passing on to the drawing-room beyond
while the butler lingered to remove the wine
glasses and wine.
At the end of the drawing-room stood a piano
and thither the banker turned his steps. He
played the piano well and was proud of the ac-
complishment, prouder still that he could afford
to treat his skill as an accomplishment and not
as a means of livelihood. For his father and
grandfather had been professional musicians and
had he not migrated to America from Hungary


THE UNTOUCHED WINE 33
in his early boyhood he would doubtless have fol-
lowed in their footsteps.
But the new environment stimulated other tal-
ents which promised greater rewards. At thirty-
five he was already a rich man and beginning to
be known as a patron of musicians and artists;
and nothing that success ever brought him was
measurable with his snobbish satisfaction in that
rôle. For years now his private concerts had
been famous and invitations to them eagerly
sought. He was fond of saying that he made art
his servant, not his master; for what were the
servants of art but the servants of men, toys that
performed their tricks of singing, painting, or
what not, for any lout with a golden key to wind
them with?
He struck the piano keys with a succession of
loud, sharp chords, measured the compass of tone
with a run or two, then modulated into a swift,
well-marked melody. Lacking the gift of impro-
visation he had a prodigious memory on which he
could draw for hours at the dictation of his mood.
.The rapid melody was soon lost in something
slower, more subdued, and this in turn in a gently
flowing movement, soft and ruminative.
A voice and talent? Perhaps—perhaps. At-
tractive the girl must be; there was evidence in
plenty of that. One might investigate. Possibly
it would be amusing to have a concert for her,


34 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
lend a hand in her career. It would annoy Alois,
and that at any rate would be amusing.
Andrassy laughed out, struck a decisive final
chord and rose.
“Luncheon is served, sir,” said Franz, who had
been standing in the doorway, his mild eyes blink-
ing patiently while he waited for a pause in the
music.


CHAPTER W
QUICK–A DOCTOR
ETER BENNETT almost raised his hand
to rub his eyes as he stared down at the
announcement on the leaflet that he had
been handed with his program.
“Miss Olive Thrace will make her debut this
evening with the Panharmonic Orchestra. Be-
tween the first and second numbers of the pro-
gram she will sing “Vissi d'arte” from La Tosca.”
Olive Thrace! Surely he was dreaming. His
glance swept again the stageful of musicians and
the crowded auditorium—so crowded indeed that
not having secured a seat in advance he was
obliged to stand—and he half expected that when
he looked back at the paper in his hand he would
discover himself to have been the victim of a
mental aberration.
“Who is she, this Olive Thrace? Ever hear of
her?” The inquirer was an elderly man at Ben-
nett’s left elbow.
The latter looked at him, hesitated, then re-
turned a negative.
“No one has, it seems,” observed the stranger.
“There has been nothing about her in the papers.
Most amazing thing I’ve ever heard of, intro-
35
*


36 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
ducing a singer in this informal, unheralded
fashion. A freak of Zarady’s to arouse curios-
ity, I suppose, but it strikes me as decidedly
undignified for an organization of the Panhar-
monic’s standing. These Sunday night subscrip-
tion concerts are the biggest musical events of
the season. Kala must be indignant. They
never have more than one soloist, you know, and
he has been announced for weeks. There’s the
Steiner piano that he always uses, and they say
at the box office that he will positively appear.
Still, it won’t surprise me if he doesn't.”
“Oh, he’ll play. He knows which side his
bread is buttered on.”
This prediction came from a man on Peter's
right, a young man so eager to air his opinions
that he proceeded to do so without the encourage-
ment of a response of any kind from his hearers.
“Zarady made Kala,” he asserted. “And he
will ruin him if he takes the notion. All he has
to do is to drop him from his list of soloists. That
will make people think Kala hasn’t come up to
his expectations and the boy will be done for—
as a first-rater. Sounds ridiculous, but it’s so.
The trouble is we Americans don’t know anything
about music and we follow blindly anybody we
think does know. You'll see tonight. They'll
go wild over this new singer simply because
Zarady is sponsor for her, and she's probably


QUICK–A DOCTOR 37
no better than dozens of others that can’t get a
chance. She looks good to him, that's all.”
A knowing glance gave point to the closing re-
mark, and its ugly implication sent a flush to Ben-
nett's face. He glared at the speaker, who how-
ever did not note the fact.
“Mrs. Zarady is not here, you’ll notice,” the
young man went on, indicating an empty box
above them to the right. “But then she never
comes, you know, when Kala plays.”
There was another significant glance with this
piece of information and doubtless explanatory
details would have followed if a burst of clapping
from the audience had not at that moment inter-
vened.
The conductor had made his appearance. Cross-
ing briskly to his stand, he turned, bowed once
very deeply in acknowledgment of his reception,
then wheeled, raised his baton, and, when com-
plete silence had fallen, began the concert.
At the end of the first number, after the ap-
plause, there came a wait, an expectant stillness.
Zarady, his back to the audience, seemed to hold
the people tense in their seats by the example of
his own motionless form.
Abruptly then he turned and looked toward
the wings and, as if at a signal, the singer entered.
She was in white, all soft and shimmering.
Her fair hair rippled back from her forehead into


38 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
a simple coil, and as her white-slippered feet
tripped girlishly across the vast stage she was
an alluring vision of youth and loveliness.
And it was she, Olive! Peter had almost hoped
it would not be. He took no part in the kindly
pattering of applause that welcomed the stranger,
hardly heard it. He merely waited, his eyes on
her face. Olive Thrace! The thing was too
amazing.
“I have lived for art; I have loved for love;
I have never harmed a living soul—”
Thus humbly, quietly, begins Floria Tosca's
prayer, the prayer for deliverance from Scarpia,
who claims her as the price of her lover's life.
With eyes upraised and palms together in a simple
pose of supplication, the singer seemed to pour
into her tones the warmth of a real emotion. The
opening mood of the aria, pious and subdued,
changed swiftly to more vehement pleading, and
reached its climax in a cry of frantic questioning
of divine justice: “Why, why, Heavenly Father,
dost thou reward me thus?” Then it sank again
to resignation and was over.
“Listen to that, will you? Didn't I tell you
so?” demanded Bennett’s right-hand neighbor
when an almost tumultuous burst of clapping
greeted the completion of the aria.
“She can sing,” snapped the older man on the
other side. “I’ve never heard that better done—
never with greater depth of feeling.”


QUICK–A DOCTOR 39
“Guess she knows how it feels, that’s why,”
was the retort. “Too bad she can’t finish her
Scarpia with a knife. Look, there he goes after
her. Can’t wait to tell her what a hit she’s
made.”
Bennett stepped back, with the intention of
taking himself out of earshot. There was no
real foundation for such slanderous deductions,
he felt confident; that sort of mud was thrown at
every successful woman singer; but since com-
mon sense forbade his knocking the slanderer
down he decided to flee from the temptation to
do so. However, as he turned Olive Thrace re-
appeared to bow, and he lingered while again and
again she came back in response to the enthus-
iastic plaudits.
“Now what's the use of keeping it up like
that?” grumbled the obnoxious chatterer. “They
know well enough she won’t sing again. Zarady
never gives encores. Never has in all the years
he—She is going to sing ! Well, what do you
know about that? And he's going to play for her
himself I Well!”
That others were equally astonished at the
overriding of custom was obvious from the sharp
cessation of applause at the conductor’s reap-
pearance, and its delighted renewal when he
walked over and sat down at the piano.
“Too bad. It establishes a precedent that—”
The rest of the lament was unspoken, for, as


40 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
Zarady struck the keys, sounds of some sort of
disturbance issued from behind Bennett's group
and caused everyone to turn.
“Somebody's fainted.”
Bennett frowned. He was a doctor and if it
were true that someone had fainted it was his duty
to find out if his services were needed. For a
moment he hesitated, loath to go, his eyes on Olive
Thrace’s face; then he followed the ushers who
were carrying a limp figure toward the exit.
Accustomed to such tasks the men hurried
across the foyer and deposited their burden on a
lounge in a small retiring room.
“I’m a doctor,” said Peter as he joined them,
and at the welcome news two of them departed
forthwith, leaving the third, their senior, in
command.
The patient was a middle-aged man, thin and
grizzled, decently dressed in worn, but clean, well-
pressed clothes. Off-hand, Bennett put him down
as a foreigner, one of the hardworking, music-
loving band that line the walls at high grade con-
certs because they cannot afford seats. That one
of them should now and then succumb to the strain
of standing was to be expected, and in a case such
as the present one it could have been confidently
predicted.
While he felt the man’s pulse Peter studied the
unconscious face with its pallid, shrunken cheeks
tuntil, struck suddenly by a suspicion, he raised


42 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
tance when the door for which he was making
was thrown violently open and one of the two
ushers who had helped with the fainting man
dashed out, so impetuously that he landed in
Peter’s arms.
“You’re wanted—quick!” he panted. “Mr.
Zarady’s very sick.”
“Sick?” echoed Peter.
“Yes. They carried him off and they want
a doctor. Come on. I’ll show you the way.”


CHAPTER WI
A SPOT ON AN APRON
HE buzz of excited whispering, like the
noise of a million bees, filled the auditor-
ium when Dr. Bennett re-entered it at the
heels of his guide. Most of the musicians were
still at their posts, their anxious glances bent upon
the door through which their leader had been
borne away, but Olive Thrace had, of course,
withdrawn.
Before he had reached the door to the stage
Peter found himself in a veritable procession of
doctors. Yet, quickly as they had responded to
their summons, several of their colleagues were
already beside Zarady’s body, which lay on a
double row of chairs, and the idleness of these
men together with their solemnity informed the
newcomers instantly that all haste was in vain.
The great conductor was dead.
“Heart failure,” one of the early arrivals told
Peter. “He must have been dead when he struck
the floor. Yes, the usual thing, just dropped.
He was playing an accompaniment for the encore
—a song that he wrote himself, they say—and Sud-
denly, he collapsed. The girl who was singing
43


44 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
was so absorbed that she didn’t seem to notice
when the piano stopped—went right on. Some of
the musicians jumped up, then the audience. That
stopped her, and when she saw what had hap-
pened she came near keeling over, herself. But
one of the men got to her in time and some of the
-others carried Zarady off. Then a man came out
and asked for a doctor. But some of us hadn’t
waited, of course, and—Look, that’s Kalal”
The young pianist was coming toward them.
His face was very pale, and with his mop of
black hair and his thick, black eye-brows and his
black evening clothes he might have been one of
the black and white posters of himself outside the
concert hall, come suddenly to life. At his ap-
proach those surrounding the dead man drew
back, and as their movements revealed the corpse
of his benefactor to his view, Kala uttered a
hysterical cry and flung himself into the arms of
a companion.
“Takes it hard. Those foreigners are always
emotional,” commented Peter's neighbor. “That
must be the manager,” he added, turning. “Guess
he’s going to dismiss the audience.”
The surmise proved to be correct. The aud-
ience was informed that Mr. Zarady had been
taken seriously ill and could not continue the con-
cert, this expedient half-truth being followed by
an announcement about the refunding of money at
the box office. At once the noises of a moving


A SPOT ON AN APRON 45.
multitude broke out and the musicians began
swarming from the stage, talking excitedly, then
falling into silence on learning the truth. They
gathered about their dead leader and stared down
at him with troubled faces, already wondering,
probably, what his death would mean to their
own future.
Peter had withdrawn to make room for them
and he now found himself standing alone, some-
what to the rear of the stage. He might as well
go, he thought; there was nothing he could do.
The other doctors were leaving, hastening to re-
join their companions. Being alone, he had no
need to return to the crowded auditorium, but
could reach the street more quickly by the stage
door.
He looked about and concluded that the stage
door must be on the other side, but he did not go
in search of it. He was held by a desire to see
Olive Thrace and thought it likely that she was
in one of two nearby rooms whose transoms
showed light—dressing-rooms, probably.
Presently the door of one room opened and
Kala and two other men came out. The pianist,
in overcoat and hat, walked between his compan-
ions, who talked to him soothingly as they hur-
ried him along.
Peter turned slowly to follow in their wake.
He had not the slightest excuse for hanging
around any longer, he told himself. There was


A SPOT ON AN APRON 47
the chair and pulled it down with her. “I found
her like this. I don’t know what—I think she—
must have fainted.”
“Is that why the window is open?” Peter
asked. He was on his knees also examining the
woman, but he paused to indicate the open window
through which the wintry night air was pouring
in upon them.
Olive Thrace rose with a start. Despite her
evening dress she had obviously been unconscious
of the cold, and she did not speak until after
she had closed the window.
“I thought the fresh air might rouse her,” she
said.
“Put something warm over that gown,”
ordered Peter.
“Oh, never mind me! Please, please do some-
thing for her. Can’t you give her something?”
“Not till I make up my mind what she needs.
In the meantime, please put on that coat hanging
there.”
She seemed about to expostulate again, but
reconsidered the matter and put on the coat in-
stead, probably perceiving that to be the quickest
way to end the discussion.
His preliminary examination completed, Peter
set the fallen chair on its legs and lifted the
woman into it. The result was to partly rouse
her. She opened her eyes and blinked at him,
then her lids dropped again and her heavy body


48 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
slumped. He promptly straightened it. As he
did so a spot on the bib of her apron caught his
eye.
It was a yellowish stain, still moist. He smelt
it, then smelt the woman’s breath. Turning, he
looked over at a tray on the dressing-table on
which two glasses stood.
“What was in that glass there?”
Olive Thrace took up the glass indicated, the
bottom of which was colored by a darkish yellow
fluid. “A gargle for the throat,” she replied
after a moment of silence, and then, before he
realized what she was about, she had turned on
the water in the bowl that filled one corner of the
room and had the glass under the stream.
“I Wanted to see that l” cried Peter.
“I’m sorry,” she answered, emptying the dil-
uted contents of the glass and refilling it with
clear water. “Perhaps if you dash cold water
in her face it will wake her up.”
He vetoed the suggestion, waving away the
glass she held out to him. “What was the gargle?
Where’s the bottle?”
“The bottle?”
“Yes. She may have drunk some of it. She
is plainly under the influence of a narcotic of
some kind, and many throat lotions contain such
drugs. Though it’s possible she takes a drug
habitually and just chanced to get an overdose.
Have you ever suspected her of a drug habit?”


A SPOT ON AN APRON 49
The girl hesitated. “No,” she answered then.
“But I don’t know much about her. She isn’t
really my maid. She is only helping me tonight.”
“Well, in that case it is possible she did take a
swig of your gargle not knowing it was not meant
to be swallowed. Was it pleasant-tasting stuff?”
“Yes—rather.”
“Patented preparation?”
“I don't—remember. A druggist recom-
mended it.”
“Where’s the rest of it? Where’s the bottle?”
“I—” glancing about vaguely—“She must
have thrown it away. But—can’t you give her
something, Peter? Isn’t there something you
could give her to counteract the effects if—she
has drunk—anything?” She regarded the un-
conscious face with frank anxiety. “Is it safe to
let her stay like that?”
“Her heart is strong. She's in no danger,”
said Bennett.
“Are you sure? Are you sure, Peter?”
“Of course. She'll be all right. She'll sleep
it—”
A knock at the door interrupted him and caused
the girl at his side to start. Her nerves had been
badly jarred, he thought, watching her as she
went to open the door. A masculine voice with-
out spoke to her, but the door was not sufficiently
ajar to reveal the speaker. Peter heard him ask
for a few minutes’ talk, and Olive, with a mur-


50 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
mured apology, left the room, closing the door
after her.
Alone with his unconscious patient, Peter looked
about for the bottle of throat lotion. Even if
empty, the odor should give him a clew. He was
rather solicitous about that lotion; Olive shouldn’t
be using such things. *
But no empty bottle nor any with yellowish
contents was in sight. He moved a box of mag-
nificent roses from a chair on the chance that
the object of his search might be behind it; but
all he found was something he would rather not
have seen—Zarady’s card. He had sent the
TOSes.
Giving up the hunt, Peter now decided to take
advantage of Olive's absence to try the effect
of cold air on his patient. Under other condi-
tions he would have simply allowed her to sleep
off the drug she had taken, but since she could
not remain where she was she must be roused.
Dragging her and her chair close to the win-
dow he threw up the sash. As the first icy blast
struck her the woman opened her mouth and
gulped it down. He raised her arms over her
head and lowered them again briskly, repeating
the movement until her breathing quickened. The
cold air in her lungs did the rest, as he expected.
After a few moments she opened her eyes and
looked at him, then around the room, vaguely.


A SPOT ON AN APRON 51
“What's the matter?” she asked, her glance
returning, somewhat enlivened, to his face.
“Nothing now,” he answered, in his quiet, pro-
fessional voice. “You went to sleep and fell off
your chair, that’s all. Miss Thrace found you on
the floor and thought you had fainted.”
“On the floor?” She stared at him, then
stood up, shivering.
He got her coat from a hook on the wall. “Bet-
ter put this on,” he advised. “I don’t want to
close the window just yet. The air is good for
you.”
She let him put the coat on her. Obviously she
was still dazed; she frowned with the effort she,
made to collect her wits. Peter watched closely,
for he was puzzled. She was a very robust-look-
ing woman of thirty-odd and had not at all the
appearance of a drug addict.
“What made you go to sleep?” he asked her,
when she showed no inclination to talk un-
prompted. “What had you been drinking?”
“Drinking?” She echoed the word mechan-
ically, for no other reason, he thought, than that
it chanced to be the last he had spoken. Her
frown deepened. She seemed now sufficiently
awake to know that she was not entirely so. Her
eyes moved slowly about the small room. “Where
is Miss Thrace?” she inquired suddenly.
“She will be back presently,” answered Peter.


52 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
The woman turned toward the door with a look
of listening. “Is she singing?” she asked.
“No, the concert is over.”
“Over?” Her eyes widened in surprise. “What
time is it?”
He hesitated. “Not late,” he told her. “Mr.
Zarady was taken ill and the audience has been
dismissed.”
Her lips opened, as if for another half-dazed
echo of some word of his, but this time nothing
came. Instead, she closed her mouth again,
firmly, and looked at him. He saw that she was
getting herself in hand.
“What have you been drinking?” he questioned.
She stared on at him without answering for a
moment, then her glance shifted toward the
dressing-table. “Nothing,” she said shortly.
“What made you so sleepy?”
“I was tired.” She shrugged her heavy
shoulders. “I was up all night, sick. And sit-
ting here, doing nothing—Are you a doctor?”
He nodded. He was tempted to add that be-
ing a doctor she must not expect him to believe
that mere loss of sleep had caused that abnormal
contraction of the pupils of her eyes; but he re-
strained the impulse. She was plainly not
stupid; she knew what ailed her.
“Miss Thrace will be going home, I guess,”
she remarked. “I’d better pack up.”
She took a traveling bag from beneath the table,
Set it on a chair, and opened it. Bennett looked


A SPOT ON AN APRON 53
into it with the idea that the missing bottle of
throat lotion might be there. But the bag was
empty. Then the door opened and Olive came
111.
“Oh—” She stopped at sight of her maid
normally occupied, and Peter noticed that her
eyes flew to him and back again to the woman
before she added: “Are you all right again,
Annie?”
“Yes, miss,” Annie replied without looking up.
“I hope as you’ll excuse me, miss, for going to
sleep. But I didn’t sleep none at all last night,
account of neuralgia.”
Bennett, listening, all but gaped at the woman,
so taken aback was he by the change in her man-
ner and speech, now those of the typical meagerly
educated domestic servant, whereas before they
had been—well, different. He found himself at
a loss how to classify her previous manner. She
had not even then suggested a person of refine-
ment, but she had seemed far removed from what
she now appeared. -
“I see,” murmured Olive in a relieved tone.
“I’m glad you’re all right again.” She glanced
at Peter and it seemed to him that she hesitated
an instant before she asked if he'd mind getting
her a cab.
Of course not, he told her; he was delighted to
be of service.
“She wants to get rid of me,” he thought.
“Why?”


CHAPTER VII
SOMETHING OVEREIEARD
ECURING a taxicab at Panharmonic Hall at
S that particular time was a thing more easily
promised than performed, as Dr. Bennett
found on reaching the street. The curb was
thickly lined with people from the concert waiting
to snap up anything on wheels that hove in sight.
Satisfied, after a survey of the scramble, that his
chances of “picking up” anything were very
doubtful, he decided to get his own machine, and
re-entering the building he inquired of the stage
doorman for a telephone. The doorman led him
to a small room nearby, a sort of combination
office and property-room. -
“This is Dr. Bennett,” said Peter when he had
his garage on the wire. “I want my car at once
at Panharmonic Hall—stage door. Blaney’s
there, isn’t he? All right. Tell him to hurry.”
Blaney was his chauffeur.
Peter was aware as he telephoned of the door-
man lingering, idly curious, at the door to listen.
But as he hung up the receiver the man’s attention
was suddenly distracted by a voice from without.
It was the voice of the woman, Annie, and Peter,
54


SOMETHING OVERHEARD 55
curious now, paused to hear what she had to say,
screened from her sight by the doorman's portly
form.
“You’re the stage doorman, aren’t you?” the
woman asked, and Peter noted with interest that
she had reverted to her first manner. “Then you
know who brought that bottle of wine to Miss
Thrace’s dressing-room. Who was it? She wants
to know.” -
“Wine?” The man was evidently at a loss.
“Somebody put a bottle of wine in her dressing-
room,” repeated Annie impatiently. “You see
everybody that comes in, don’t you? Well, who
brought that wine?”
“Wine? There was some flowers come for
her.”
“They came later. The wine was already in the
room when he got here.”
“Was it now?” queried the man. “Then you
know more about it than I do.” With this he
moved as if to turn and end the discussion; but
the next question from the woman brought his
gaze back to her in astonishment.
“Where have they taken Zarady?” she asked.
“Home or to a hospital?” -
“Hospital? What would they take him to a
hospital for when he’s dead?”
“Dead!”
“Sure. Say, where’ve you been all evening?
Asleep?”


56 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
After this crushing rejoinder the doorman
looked round at Peter. “Get your number,
Doctor?” he inquired ingratiatingly, his mind on
a possible tip.
Peter nodded, looking past him at the woman,
who seeing him stepped quickly out of sight and
hurried away. -
“That there 'phone has had a busy evening,”
remarked the doorman while Peter felt for a coin.
“They had to call up Mrs. Zarady, for one thing.
She wasn’t here. She never comes when Mr. Kala
plays, you know.”
“Is that so?” Peter eyed his informant
interestedly.
“Well—that’s what they say,” the latter re-
turned, hedging. “Of course, I don’t know, being
back here all the time. Anyhow, she wasn’t here
tonight. They had to call her up—told her Mr.
Zarady was sick, to prepare her before they
brought his body home. It would have been an
awful shock bringing him dead, you see, because
she thought the world of him—at least, that’s
what they all tell me. Thank you, sir,”—pocket-
ing the tip. “Will I look out for your car,
Doctor?”
“No, thanks,” said Bennett. “I’ll wait for it
outside.” -
He returned to the sidewalk, traversing the
passage that led to it on the trail of a couple of
musicians who were talking in low, earnest voices.


SOMETHING OVERHEARD 57
They fell silent as he neared them, he noticed, and
he had caught nothing of what they said except
Kala’s name. But he gave them no thought. He
was thinking of other things, of the woman Annie
and what she had said about a bottle of wine.
It was wine then that she had drunk, not throat
gargle. Why had Olive deceived him? Appa-
rently she did not know where the wine had come
from and sent the woman to ask—after first get-
ting rid of him.
What did it all mean? That woman had cer-
tainly been under some sort of narcotic influence,
from wine she had drunk. Why had Olive not said
so frankly? Why had the woman herself denied
drinking anything?
And what had become of the wine? It was not
in the dressing-room; there was no place where it
could have been concealed. It had been removed
then. By whom? And why?
Peter was troubled. He hated deceit. His own
nature was as candid as daylight, and he recalled
Olive Thrace as the most straightforward of girls.
Of course, it was years since he had seen her, she
might have changed. But, hang it, no! People
did not change in ways like that.
His car arrived from the garage in record time
and he went back to the dressing-room. As he
knocked he heard the sound of a window being
lowered, then Olive’s voice called to him to come
in. Involuntarily his first glance was at the


58 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
window, which he remembered having closed be-
fore leaving the room; he wondered why it had
been opened again. To throw her flowers out,
apparently, for several rose petals lay on the
window-sill and the flowers were nowhere to be
seen. Rather an odd thing to do, he thought, with
such magnificent roses.
His second glance showed him that the girl was
alone. A veil was wound about her hair, her coat
was buttoned to the throat, her bag stood ready.
“Annie has gone,” she explained. “I wanted
to take her home, but she preferred not. Probably
she lives in some poor section that she is ashamed
to have me see. She is a maid in the boarding-
house where I have been living. I got her to act
as my maid for the evening, for the sake of ap-
pearances. I have no regular maid. I’ve never
had one. You see, Peter”—smiling faintly at him
—“I’m not as important or prosperous as I hope
I look.”
Peter laughed. She had not changed at all, he
told himself with relief; she was as simple and
frank as ever.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You look your part
all right.”
“Wait a minute.” She put her hand on the bag
that he was lifting from the chair. “I want to—
there’s something I want to tell you—to ask you.”
“Yes?” He looked at her, wondering at her


SOMETHING OVERHEARD 59
“The man I’ve just been talking to is a concert
manager,” she went on. “He has made me an
offer for a tour—a splendid offer, I think. He
seems to be confident of my success.”
“Why wouldn’t he be?” said Peter heartily,
feeling from her manner that she wanted en-
couragement, though why she should want it after
her unquestionable triumph of the evening he
could not understand.
“I’ll do my best. I–it’s so hard to say,” she
broke off. “I–heard that—Mother wrote me—
that your uncle had died and left you his money.”
“He did—yes,” Bennett said, rather taken
aback. -
“Oh, '' She stopped an instant again, then
plunged ahead. “Could you lend me some money,
Peter? A lot? Ten thousand dollars? I'll pay
you back. I know I can. I’m to get my contracts
for the concert tour tomorrow morning. They will
be a sort of security for you—”
“Good lord, Olive, I don’t want any security,”
he interrupted. “Of course you can have the
money. When do you want it?”
“Tomorrow. I must have it tomorrow,” she
answered, insisting then, despite his protests, on
explaining the purpose for which the money was
to be used. “Mr. Zarady was going to advance it
to me,” she said in conclusion. “But of course
now—”
“Much better for you to borrow from me,” said


60 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
Peter, a trifle brusquely, for the thought of her
borrowing from Zarady was distasteful to him.
“I wish you had come to me in the first place.”
She turned from him with a catch in her voice
as she said: “If only I had known you were in
New York. If only I had known yesterday.”
“Well, you know now,” said he. “And I’ll lose
no time. I’ll go to the bank as soon as it opens
tomorrow morning. Shall I have them telegraph
it? That would be quicker, only—my name might
have to appear 22
“Oh, I don't mind if it does,” she put in. “I’d
like it done the quickest way. I don’t care who
knows I got the money from you, Peter.”
He looked at her gravely. “Thank you,” he
said, quite as if he considered her speech a tribute.
But the next moment his eyes stole an anxious
glance at the mirror behind her.
Did he really look so harmless? He could not
see that he did. For he looked with his man’s
eyes and saw what any other man would have
seen, that he was young—just thirty—with a big,
muscular body, a lean, rugged face and fine fight-
ing jaw. He had no way of knowing how his face
changed when turned upon a woman or a child, or
anything weaker than himself. The truth was that
if he wished to stop women trusting him at sight
he would have to get a different pair of eyes to
look through those big shell spectacles of his, or a
different heart to look through the eyes.


SOMETHING OVERHEARD 61
Olive was thanking him and he brought his
glance back to hers with a smile.
“I don’t want any thanks,” he declared. “It’s
worth the price just to see you again. And to
think I came within an ace of not being here to-
night. When I saw your name on that announce-
ment I thought I was dreaming.”
“Hadn't you heard anything about me from
home?”
“Not a word. I'm out of touch with that part
of the world. When my mother died I made a
bee line for New York. Then I was in Vienna
several years, and since then I’ve been practicing
here. By George, Olive, do you realize that it’s
eight years since we saw each other last? I sup-
posed you had married and settled down in the
old town.”
“Sometimes I wish I had, Peter.”
He laughed. “You do not. Come on; you’re
tired.”
He forbade her to talk during their drive to her
hotel, and on their arrival he went in with her
to say good night so that she need not use her
voice in the wintry air.
“Rather grand, this, isn’t it?” she asked of the
smart looking hotel lounge. “It’s all part of the
bluff I have to put up. It would never do, you
see, for reporters who wish to interview me about
my previous career to find me in a boarding-
house.”


62 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“That’s right. We all have to keep our front
painted,” Peter agreed. “Hello, isn’t that boy
calling your name?”
“Miss Thrace—Miss Thrace,” a bellboy chanted
through the lounge, then at Peter’s signal he
veered toward them and they saw that he had a
card tray in his hand.
“A reporter already, I'll bet.”
Olive took the card in silence, and as she read
the name on it her face changed. “No, it’s not a
reporter,” she said. “It’s—a—a—”
“I’ll beat it,” broke in Peter to cover her hesi-
tation. “I’ll 'phone you in the morning as soon as
I’ve fixed things. In the meantime, don’t worry.
Hear me?” He held out his hand.
She gripped it, clinging a little, as if reluctant
to have him go. “If I’d only known you were in
New York,” she said wistfully.
“Well, you know it now, and you’re not going
to be allowed to forget it,” he returned cheerily.
But when he had left her, her parting words
still echoed in his thoughts and made him wonder.
_^


A TALK IN A TAXI 65
She gave a start, but said nothing.
“Well?” he repeated irritably.
“I’m through with this job, Mr. Perez,” she
brought out in a suppressed but agitated voice.
“I’ve had enough. I want to be paid and quit.”
“What's the matter?” he asked, staring at her.
She caught her breath with an audible gulp.
“When I took the job to watch that girl you
wouldn’t tell me what you wanted her watched
for-”
“It wasn’t necessary.”
“I had a right to know the job was dangerous!”
“Sh!” he cautioned, for indignation had caused
her tones to soar. “Dangerous? What do you
mean?”
“It’s just an accident I’m not dead, too—like
Zarady.”
“Dead!” The man recoiled and stood still.
“He’s not dead,” he contradicted harshly, but his
voice shook.
His companian peered at him sharply.
“Weren't you there?”
“He’s only sick,” Perez muttered.
“He’s dead, Mr. Perez. And I might have been,
too—”
“Sh!” He gripped her arm warningly as
people came up behind them. “Come on,” he
ordered. “Don’t talk. We’ll get a cab. It’s
safer. Here’s one now.” He hailed an approach-
ing taxi. “Now,” he went on when they were


A TALK IN A TAXI 67
“What did you mean by saying it was only an
accident that you’re not dead too? Well?” His
tone sharpened. “What nonsense have you in
your head now, Mrs. Balke?”
“It’s not nonsense, Mr. Perez,” retorted the
woman. “There was something in that wine.”
“Wine? What Wine?”
Mrs. Balke leaned closer. “Then you don’t
know anything about there being wine in her
dressing-room—a bottle of it?” she questioned.
“I?” he snapped. “Of course not. How
should I know?” -
“Then she did bring it with her! I thought sol”
“What are you driving at? What wine?”
Perez scowled. “Tell me what you know—if you
know anything new. And talk fast. I’ve no time
to waste. What wine?”
“It was in the dressing-room, a bottle of Tokay.
Zarady drank some of it. I took a little too—just
a little, thank Heaven! But it was enough to put
me to sleep so that she had to get a doctor to wake
me up. He knew something was wrong, the
doctor did. He asked me what I’d been drinking.
She hadn’t told him, you see; and I didn’t tell him,
either. The bottle was gone from the tray and I
didn’t know what to make of that, so I just said
I was tired from being up all night. I didn’t
know, you see, but what—” *
“Who Was the doctor?” º
“I didn’t hear his name.” . .


68 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“Did anybody else have any of the wine?”
“No; that’s what made me suspicious when I
heard Zarady was sick 27
“Sick?” He snatched at the word. “You just
said he was dead.”
“He is, but I didn’t know it then. The doctor
told me he was sick. He must have thought so
himself.”
“How could he if Zarady was dead when they
took him off?” The Brazilian's eyes glared with
suspicion. “Are you lying to me?” he snarled.
“You tell me the truth!”
“I’m telling you the truth—he's dead. And it’s
a wonder I’m not—”
“What became of the wine?”
“I don’t know. That’s strange, too.” Mrs.
Balke yawned. “I’m sleepy yet from the stuff,”
she complained.
“Didn't you say anything to her about it?”
“No. She didn’t mention it, so I didn’t. I
thought it better not to let her guess that I sus-
pected anything. Besides, I’d started thinking.
It’s not only about the wine that’s queer.” She
paused with a significant glance. “It’s what went
before.”
“What do you mean? Talk fast, woman.”
“I mean the way she acted.” Mrs. Balke
yawned again and her voice trailed off vaguely.
“Did I tell you about the letter she got Friday
from her sister?”


A TALK IN A TAXI 69
“Yes, yes.” He spoke impatiently.
“It’s hard to remember,”—closing her eyes
with a murmur of distress.
“It’s my head.” She leaned back sleep-
ily. “The doctor said I needed air,” she mur-
mured.
Perez dropped the window beside him and the
cold air surged in. “Come, wake up,” he said,
shaking her roughly.
She drank in the air and roused herself.
“Now tell me what’s happened since I saw you
last,” commanded Perez.
“Did I tell you about Zarady coming to see her
yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes, yes, and about her trying to get Garri-
son on the 'phone afterwards, and about her get-
ting you to pack her trunks for her. What
happened after that?”
“I didn’t tell you how she acted, because it
didn’t strike me as funny then. You see, I let
Zarady in when he called, then I listened on the
stairs after she came down. The bell kept me on
the jump so I missed a lot they said, but I know
she didn’t want to sing tonight and begged him
to put it off. And after he was gone I saw her
rubbing her mouth as if she wanted to rub her
lips off. He'd kissed her, I guess. She 'phoned
then, trying to get Garrison 7 5
“I know all that. Get ahead. I’ve got to go
downtown again tonight.”


70 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“Afterwards she went out—did I tell you
that?” -
“No. Where did she go?”
“I don’t know. It was nearly nine o’clock. I
thought maybe she went to Garrison’s studio; but
if she did she didn’t see him, I guess, because she
rang his number again as soon as she got back,
and she kept on trying to get it till midnight.
That’s one reason I’m so tired now. I stayed up
till she went to bed, afraid she might get him and
I'd miss what she said to him. This morning she
'phoned again 5 y
The listener emitted an exasperated oath. “I
know all that. What happened after you 'phoned
me this evening, after you got to her hotel?”
Mrs. Balke thought a moment, Perez waiting
impatiently. “Nothing much happened at the
hotel, except I thought it was funny the way she
acted, hardly speaking a word while she was dress-
ing. We took a taxi to the concert and when we
got there—that was funny, too !” It was when we
were crossing the stage to go to her dressing-
room. She stopped and said she didn’t have any
candle in her make-up box and would I go to the
drug store for one.”
“A candle?”
“To melt the black for her eyebrows. But she
didn’t need a candle for that, there was gas. It
was just an excuse to get rid of me, I see it now,
so she could put the wine on the tray and make


A TALK IN A TAXI 71
it look as if she had found it there. I’m glad I
remembered that. It proves she brought the wine,
herself.”
“Go on, go on. What about Zarady drinking
the Wine?”
“He drank two glasses of it. He brought Kala
into the room and introduced him, and Kala said
how glad he was to have her sing on the program
with him—only he didn’t look very glad to me.
Then Zarady saw the wine and laughed and said
it was very poor stuff, but he would drink some
anyhow to her success. He poured some into the
two glasses that were there—water glasses that
belonged in the room, I guess—and he offered a
glass to her. She passed it on to Kala, and when
Kala refused it she set it back on the tray—she
didn’t drink any. Zarady drank both glasses.
He said it was bad luck not to drink wine after it
had been poured for a toast. Then the men went
out and in a few minutes the concert started.
When the first number was nearly over she left
the room—it was her turn next—and it was then
I took some of the wine. I poured out a little to
try it and that was all I had. I didn’t like it.”
“Why not? Did it make you feel sick?”
“No. I don’t remember feeling sick at all,
just sleepy. I sat down and—well, the next thing
I knew a doctor was standing over me. She
wasn’t there then, but she came back in a few
minutes. I noticed her look at me quick, then at


72 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
the doctor, afraid I’d told him about the wine.
She asked him to call a taxi for her—just to get
rid of him, I thought, and I expected her to say
something to me about the wine when he was gone.
But she didn’t. She just asked me if I was sure
I felt all right and said she’d take me home. But
I said I’d rather walk. I wanted a chance to ask
the doorman about the wine, to satisfy myself
that she had brought it, that it hadn’t been sent
in. I thought it might have been. But the door-
man didn’t know a thing about it, of course!”
Perez drew a deep breath when Mrs. Balke
paused. “Is that all?” he asked heavily.
“Yes.”
“All right. I’ll have to drop you now. Don’t
mention a word of all this to anybody, you
understand?”
“Of course. I’m no talker, you know that.”
“I want to investigate before I decide what to
do,” continued the man. “There may be nothing
in your suspicions. You were sleepy anyway—”
“There was something in the quick way she
looked at me and then at that doctor,” retorted
Mrs. Balke. “And I guess there’s something in
Zarady being dead.”
“Well, keep your opinions to yourself. Have
you left that boarding-house?”
“No. I’ll leave tomorrow—say I’m sick. I’ll
not be sorry to quit that job. Slaving in a
boarding-house—”


A TALK IN A TAXI 73
“I make it worth your while, I think,” her em-
ployer interrupted drily. He rapped on the
window at the chauffeur's back, and signalled him
to stop the car. “Get out,” he said to the woman,
“and take another taxi the rest of the way. It’s
safer.”


A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE 75
“Is that Mr. Andrassy playing?” he asked of
the footman who admitted him.
“No, sir.”
“Many people here?”
“A small party, sir.”
“I’ll go upstairs. Tell Mr. Andrassy privately.
He expects me.”
“Very good, sir. But I’d better go with you
first and turn on the lights.”
“I’ll find the switch. Deliver my message at
once.”
Perez found the switch in the upper sitting-
room without difficulty, then began to pace the
floor, his, ready frown coming and going with
the troubled progress of his thoughts. At the
sound of his host’s approach he halted for an
instant, then advanced to about ten feet of the
door, stopped there and waited, his eyes nar-
rowed.
“You’re late,” was Andrassy’s greeting.
“Well?” he questioned sharply when only silence
followed.
“Haven’t you heard?” asked Perez very
quietly.
“Heard?” echoed the other, staring. “What
should I have heard? Do you mean—there’s a
concert?”
“No. You stopped it—as you said you would.”
“Ah!” The banker smiled cynically. “The
reactions of a woman’s heart, my friend, are


76 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
like chemical reactions—they never fail. I
thought my little plan would go through.”
“It went through,” assented Perez. The
quietness of his tone was now an ominous calm.
“Zarady will never conduct another concert—in
this World.”
“What?” Andrassy’s smile of amusement had
vanished. “What—do you mean?” he stam-
mered.
“He’s dead.”
“No! Juan, no! That's not possible.”
“He dropped dead about twenty minutes after
the concert began.” Perez paused a moment.
“The doctors have pronounced it heart disease,”
he added slowly.
The gaze of the older man lost focus. He
looked at his visitor without seeing him, and the
latter waited. For a full minute the two re-
mained thus in silence, and when Andrassy broke
the pause his voice was normal again.
“What is said?” he inquired calmly.
“There is no talk—at the club, at least. I
have just been there.”
“Then there is none anywhere, unless—the
woman Balke, she was to be with the girl tonight,
you told me—she should know if there was any
talk among the orchestra. See her and—”
“I have seen her,” answered Perez, and re-
ported his talk with the woman.
“So,” murmured the banker. “So.” He fell


A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE 77
silent, digesting what he had heard. Suddenly
one finger shot up from his clenched right hand
and he spoke one word to match it.
“Kalal’’
“Kala?” Perez” expression was blank.
“Watch him! If we have anything to fear it’s
from that direction. He was in the room and
saw the wine, saw Zarady drink it. Talk to him
yourself; don’t trust anyone. I must know if he
suspects. He'll jump at the first chance to make
trouble for me.”
“How could he connect you with this?” Perez's
black eyes were very watchful.
“Zarady may have talked to him to get his
consent to the girl’s singing tonight, explained
how it would spite me. The ape hates me be-
cause I have never invited him to play at one of
my concerts, and Zarady knew that. But I’ll
have no more interference with my plans, on that
I'm determined. This Garrison affair is going
through now to a finish.”
“You think ” Perez hesitated; it was not
always easy for him to follow his more astute
associate's mental processes. “You think Garri-
son may balk—now?”
“I expect nothing else,” was the answer. “The
thing is as clear as day to me. Garrison cares
nothing about saving the girl's home. It was to
save her from Zarady that he consented to go to
Brazil. Well, he has saved her from Zarady—”


78 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“What! But Garrison is in Washington.”
“He left there at noon, with his passport.
Marsh 'phoned me. Garrison has been in New
York for hours.”
“He didn’t see the girl,” objected Perez. “Mrs.
Balke was with her from seven o’clock on. And
her 'phoning his studio last night and this morn-
ing shows she didn’t know he was out of town.
He couldn’t have found out where she was with-
out going to the boarding house, and if he had
gone there Mrs. Balke would have known of it.”
“Would she? She was upstairs in the girl's
room, packing her trunks, like a fool, instead of
doing what she was paid to do—watch. Your
agents are as clever as yourself, my friend. Be-
sides, don’t forget that your Mrs. Balke went to
a drug store. That leaves another gap in her
story. The girl may have seen Garrison then.
And she could have seen him at her hotel before
Mrs. Balke got there. A fine detective, your Mrs.
Balke! Why didn’t she leave those trunks and
follow the girl? Why didn’t she find out why
she was being sent to the drug store before she
went? She’s a fool. Don’t use her again.”
“She’s reliable; she doesn’t talk,” returned the
younger man sullenly.
“Fools are more dangerous than knaves,
Perez,” said Andrassy, controlling his irritation.
“Don’t use the woman again. See Kala your-
self. We can take no chances now. Garrison is
going to Brazil.”
-


A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE 79
“He’d be there now, if I had had my way,” the
Brazilian declared hotly. “He’d have been there
months ago. This scheme of yours, what has come
of it? Murder. Yet you wouldn’t listen when I
wanted to drug Garrison and get him on to a
tramp steamer. Afraid it might land us in prison,
you said. Where will this land us, do you think?
If Zarady told Kala our plot against Garrison,
and Kala links that up with the wine and Zarady’s
death, and Kala hates you as you say—”
“Bravo!” applauded the banker with a grim
smile. “I am delighted that you perceive our
danger. What you do not perceive, however, is
that this little episode of the wine has put into
our hands the most powerful weapon we could
wish against Garrison.”
“You mean ” Perez’ eyes had widened.
“Exactly. Kala is the only difficulty. He
may know too much. If he does, he must be—
managed. See him tonight. We have no time to
* lose. And keep Mrs. Balke in sight; she may be
needed. Now go. I must return to my guests.”
Andrassy had moved toward the door as he
spoke, but paused now, his hand on the knob.
“If this fails, Juan,” he added in a conciliatory
tone, “we will try the tramp steamer. Forget
what I have said, my friend. I understand your
value. We cannot all be alike. You are a man
of action, I of intrigue. If intrigue fails again,
you shall have your turn. Oh-that doctor, you
are sure he suspects nothing?”


A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE 81
The butler's calm face did not change expression.
He might have been responding politely to a com-
ment on the weather. -
“You will serve supper at once, and request
the guests in my name to remain and enjoy it.
I shall return very shortly. I–am going to offer
my sympathy to Mrs. Zarady. You will say that
also.”
“Yes, sir. I can reach you there, should it be
necessary?”
Andrassy frowned. “No. I don’t wish to be
disturbed—not on any account,” he said shortly.
“Besides,” he added in a milder tone, “it will
not be necessary. I shall return very soon.”
“Has a car been ordered, sir?”
“No, I'll take a cab.” -
The footman arrived now with the coat and
hat. Franz held the coat for his master, then
passed him the hat.
“You will keep the guests until my return,
you understand?” asked Andrassy as he passed
through the door, held open by the footman.
“Perfectly, sir,” said Franz.


CHAPTER X
AN UNWELCOME SWEETHEART
went home, accompanied by his two friends.
But at the elevator of his apartment house
he insisted on saying good night to them. There
was nothing to fear now, he assured them; he
had sustained the first shock of his irreparable
loss; he would not give way again. He wished
only to be alone with his sorrow.
The friends eyed the pale faced youth with
lingering concern, but felt it impossible to force
their society upon him and reluctantly departed.
Their last glimpse through the glass door of the
ascending elevator showed him standing with
closed eyes, wan and spent.
They would have carried away lighter hearts
concerning him could they have followed him, un-
seen, when he left the elevator. The instant he
passed into the hallway leading to his rooms his
manner changed. Dejection fell from him like a
dropped mantle. His slight form straightened,
his head rose, and suddenly a word broke from
him as though he could no longer restrain it.
“Free l?”
O. leaving the concert hall Rudolf Kala
82


AN UNWELCOME SWEETHEART 83
The next instant his shoulders jerked them-
selves together and he wheeled, his eyes sweep-
ing the hall in alarm. He had heard something,
a whisper, like a ghostly echo of his own softly-
breathed word.
But there was no one in sight. He looked down
the stairway that ran along the wall to his right;
it was empty. His imagination had played him a
trick, he thought, as he glanced upward, along the
railing of the ascending flight of steps.
& ‘Rudi !”
A pair of laughing eyes met his through the
banisters. He caught his breath, his face stif-
fening with anger. But this was lost on the eyes,
which had instantly vanished, though only to re-
appear as the property of a very young girl who
sprang from her crouching position on the stairs
and darted like a sprite to his side.
“Carola l'?
“Oh, Rudi, don't scold,” she pleaded in an
eager whisper. “I had to come. I had to see
you. I couldn’t help it—tonight.” There was
a joyous stressing of the final word. “Oh, Rudiſ.”
she exulted. -
“Sh!” He put his hand on her mouth to
silence her, then walked on quickly to his door,
unlocked it, entered, and paused for her to follow
him before he fastened the door.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he muttered irri-
tably as he switched on a light. “You should


84 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
have waited until tomorrow. You should have
'phoned me. We could have met—” -
“Rudi–don’t scold!” she begged again, the
words broken by excited gurgles. “I couldn’t
wait. Tomorrow seemed a year away. Besides,
I’m at school all day on Monday. I just had to
see you tonight!” She threw herself into his
arms with an ecstatic embrace. “Rudi, he's dead,
he's dead, he’s dead!”
“Sh!” the young man cautioned. “Suppose
somebody should hear you.”
“I don’t care who hears,” she flung back gaily.
“He hated me. We could have been happy
months ago but for him. I’m glad he’s dead—
glad, glad, glad! And so are you, Rudi. You
know you are!”
Springing back from him in order to see his
face better, she laughed out her accusation again,
and when he turned away with a frown and
walked on to the adjoining room, dragging off his
overcoat as he went, she followed with half-
dancing steps, like a child, quite undiscouraged by
his lack of response to her mood.
It was indeed very like a child that she ap-
peared, small and slight of build, in a boyish tweed
coat, and with short, wavy brown hair that made
a fringe between her delicately rounded face and
the boyish cap that she wore—a round cap of
squirrel skin.


AN UNWELCOME SWEETHEART 85
She was taking off her own coat when he
stopped her.
“You’re not to stay,” he said.
“It’s not late,” she protested.
“I’m tired,” he answered ungraciously.
“Oh–” A fleeting doubt seemed to assail
her, then: “Poor darling, of course!” she sym-
pathized. “The excitement’s made you ill. Come
and sit down.”
He let her lead him to a sofa in the living-
room where she curled up beside him, her cheek
against his arm.
“You’re not to stay,” he repeated uneasily.
“Oh–just a teeny while, Rudi. Not a soul
knows I’m here. I—I sneaked up,” she con-
fessed with a gurgle.
“Sneaked up?” He scowled at her. “How?”
“By the stairs. It was such fun!” She sat
back on her curled-up feet and laughed. “You
know that telephone girl? She was very snippy
to me! She looked me up and down when I asked
for you, as if she had her opinion of a girl that
called on a man. Oh, how I wanted to tell her
what a surprise she has in store for her! But all
I said was that I’d wait. And she lifted her
shoulders like this”—with an illustrative shrug—
“as if she were pushing me right off her universe.
I wanted to slap her!”
|Kala frowned again. “You shouldn’t have


86 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
come here and you know it,” he exclaimed crossly.
“It was all right, Rudi,” declared the girl. “I
went and sat down like a lamb–out in the hall
where she couldn’t see me. And then, after a
minute, it occurred to me that you might not come
home alone, and if you didn’t you wouldn’t want
to find me waiting there. I noticed a side hall
and thought there might be a stairway at the end
of it, because there weren't any steps nearer that
I could see, so when the boy at the door wasn’t
looking Islipped down the hall. And there were
steps, as I thought. I knew your room number—
I had noticed it when the operator rang your
'phone, so when I got up here I just hid on the
steps till you came.”
“You might have been seen—”
“But I wasn't—so there! And I can go down
the same way. So please let me stay a while,
Rudi. No one will see me, not even the man at
the door, because I don’t have to go out his door.
That side hall on the ground floor leads to a doc-
tor’s office. I saw his name—Dr. Bennett. And
there’s a door to the side street there. I can go
out that way and not be seen at all.”
Kala stirred nervously. “Where does your
father think you are, Carola?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Carola lightly. “What
does that matter now?” She cuddled down be-
side him with a happy little laugh. “He went
out after dinner and I slipped off to the concert.


AN UNWELCOME SWEETHEART 87
I just didn’t care if he did scold afterwards. I
had to hear you play. Poor old father.” She
sighed comfortably. “He’ll never scold again,
now that we’re to be married.”
The young man got up. “You must go home,”
he said. “He might come here to look for you.
You know what he said—”
“But that was because he thought we could
never be married.”
“We cannot be married now, either—not right
away.”
“Why not?” She was on her feet with a bound,
confronting him. “Why can’t we be married
right away?”
“Oh, be sensible, Carola,” Kala answered,
turning from her startled gaze. “We can’t be
married in a minute—just because Zarady is dead.
How Would it look?”
“When ” She broke off, biting her lip.
The color had fled from her cheeks. “How long
must we wait?”
“I—don't know yet. I must—see.”
“You promised me that as soon as you were
free—as soon as you were strong enough to go
against his wishes—”
“I said as soon as I was famous enough,”
he corrected, moving uneasily about the room.
“For a young artist to marry is ruin for his
career.”
“You said it was he who stood in the way,


88 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
not your career. You said you owed him too
much to go against his wishes.”
“If my career is gone how should we live?”
“We could be married secretly.”
He made a gesture of emphatic dissent, but
did not reply otherwise, and she waited for a
moment, watching.
“I understand why you wouldn’t marry me be-
fore,” she said finally, speaking with difficulty,
one hand against her throat, as if to steady her
voice. “He might have found it out and have
dropped you. But there's no one to spy on us
now. No one need know.”
“Everyone would know. When a man is be-
fore the public, everything he does is known. We
must wait.”
“How long?”
“Oh, I can’t tell that—exactly. You will have
to be patient.”
“I can't—”
She broke off, raising the hand at her throat
to her lip, which had begun to tremble like a dis-
appointed child’s. “I’ve been patient,” she
brought out jerkily. “I can't—bear it—any more,
Oh, Rudi, you promised l’’
“I did not promise for tomorrow, or the day
after tomorrow.”
She made no answer to that, but stared at him,
her face white and still. He stopped at the piano
and turned over some sheets of music lying there,


AN UNWELCOME SWEETHEART. 89
waiting for her to speak. Then before the silence
was broken by either of them a telephone bell
rang in the next room. Kala drew a breath of
relief and without a word of apology went to
anSWer.
“Well? Who? Mr. Perez? Ask him to come
right up.”
When he returned she was still where he had
left her, standing motionless.
“A gentleman is coming up to see me. You
must go,” he said. “You shouldn’t have come
anyway. You might have known I’d be all upset.
Some other time we’ll talk this over again. Now
for heaven’s sake, be sensible.”
He had crossed the room as he spoke and now
raised his arms to put them round her for a part-
ing embrace. The movement must have been
characteristic, for she shrank away before he
touched her. -
“You don’t want to marry me,” she said
slowly. “You never meant to marry me. My
father was right.”
She spoke the words with an odd, rising in-
flection, half-questioning, half-bewildered, as if
feeling her way among strange, incredible
thoughts, and when she paused she did not look
at him. She seemed forgetful of him, as if she
had been thinking aloud.
But he interpreted her speech as a challenge,
and his lips opened to deny her charge. Then he


90 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
appeared to experience a swift change of impulse.
His face hardened, his lips set for a moment in
a straight, determined line before they opened a
second time.
“No, I don’t want to marry you,” he told her
bluntly.
It was a blow in the face. He thought for an
instant that she was going to fall. But when he
started toward her to catch her swaying form, it
stiffened to erectness and she waved him off.
Then she turned, sped to the door and was gone.
He waited, not moving, watching the door with
narrowed eyes. A full minute passed while he
stood there, waiting for her to return. Then, of
a sudden, he was at the door and had it open.
The hall was empty.
He ran to the stairway and looked down, lis-
tening. A faint, far-away patter of hurrying feet
came back to him. She had really gone.
Returning to his room he shut the door. His
black eyes were bright; he smiled. Then he drew
a long, full breath. That was over, too. And
how easilyl


CHAPTER XI
A FACE IN TEIE DARE
HE physician’s suite in the Ayleshire, oc-
cupied by Dr. Bennett, was admirably
adapted to its purpose, and was a far more
expensive office and residence than Peter could
have afforded had he been dependent wholly on
his young practice. It was expensive for several
reasons. As Peter himself figured it, one third
of the rent he paid was for the rooms themselves,
one third for the fashionable address, and one
third for the private entrance.
This private entrance represented the latest
scheme of apartment house architects for the en-
ticement of doctors. By its means patients could
come and go without running the gauntlet of the
various guardians of the Ayleshire's main portal,
around the corner on the Avenue—door-porter,
telephone operator and elevator man. In a word,
it added one of the advantages of a private house
to the conveniences of an apartment. It was
moreover a time-saver. Peter stepped out of his
machine, crossed the sidewalk, inserted a key, and
stood on his own domain. He thought it worth
all it cost him.
Consequently, he was rather annoyed that Sun-
91


A FACE IN THE DARK 93.
for such a possibility—and it was not until he
was again homeward bound that he was free to
think of Olive Thrace and their strange meeting.
For it seemed strange to him to have encountered
her under such surprising conditions, after years
during which he had not even heard of her.
Eight years. It was all of that, for as he re-
called her last she had been not more than fifteen
or sixteen, just putting up her hair.
He broke into a chuckle as a memory popped
into his head, a vision of Olive swinging and
singing in her back yard at the full capacity of
the swing and of her lungs, while two boys in
the yard behind kept up a hooting accompaniment
of cat-calls, topping every high note with a hid-
eous yowl.
How imperturbably she had borne their har-
assment. It was not she, but her tormentors
who first tired. From his window next door he
had called out a word of praise, and what an as-
tonished stare he had got for it. No doubt, even
then as a child, she had felt that absolute confi-
dence in her gift which alone could have led her
to stake the family fortune on herself and start
out to conquer the world.
Well, the conquest was fairly begun, all but
assured indeed. Yet, as his thoughts returned to
the present Peter’s smile faded. It was that loan
—advance she had called it—that Zarady was to
have made her that he did not like thinking about.


94 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
He could not help recalling in that connection the
insinuations he had been forced to listen to be-
fore the concert. Of course one had to discount
all such gossip as malicious slander. No success-
ful singer or actress escaped it. Still—ten thou-
sand dollars seemed a large sum, under the cir-
cumstances. And those flowers; if only a pleas-
ant compliment, why had she flung them away?
An odd thought struck him. Yielding to it he
ordered his chauffeur to stop the car and he got
out.
“I’ll walk, Blaney. Good night,” he said, and
as he was in the habit of making the last lap of a
late trip afoot for the sake of air and exercise
his sudden decision brought a simple good night
from Blaney and the two went their ways.
Peter’s way was to Panharmonic Hall, only a
few blocks off. He told himself again and again
that his idea was absurd, fantastic, but that it
could do no harm to see it through.
The great building was closed and dark. The
Kala posters, which had been displayed on either
side of the entrance, were already gone, replaced
by those of another musician, and the change had
the effect of making the tragic event of the even-
ing, not yet two hours away, seem a thing remote
and forgotten. -
Taking his bearings, Bennett concluded that the
window of the dressing-room occupied by Olive
Thrace must look north and on to a court between


96 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“There’s a court, isn’t there?”
“Yes, sir, they’s a cou’t,” was unwillingly con-
ceded, and resigned to his fate the darky took
Peter to the second floor, led the way down a
corridor, unlocked a door, and touched the light
switch in the private hallway of the vacant flat.
Hardly were these preliminaries over when the
bell in the abandoned elevator summoned shrilly.
“Go ahead; I won’t steal the chandeliers,” said
Peter, and his guide departed.
Congratulating himself on the easy riddance,
Peter now wasted not a second. He chose a door
which led as he expected into a room on the court,
and aided by the light from the hall he found a
window, opened it noiselessly, and stuck his head
out.
The court was almost black; he could make out
nothing. So he took out the pocket torch that he
always carried at night. But at the very moment
that he adjusted it for use a flash of light from
below arrested his action and brought his head
back into the room with a jerk. Closing the door
at his back to exclude all light, he returned to the
window and again looked cautiously out.
Somebody was moving about in the court, a
man with a light that darted here and there as if
in search of something. Presently the light be-
gan to advance steadily in one direction and
Peter saw that it was focussed on Olive's dis-
carded roses. Reaching the flowers, the bearer of


98 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
At the corner he hesitated again, then walked
on to the alley. The block was empty, not a liv-
ing creature in sight. Now if ever was his chance
to reach the court unnoticed. A possibility re-
mained that the man he had seen there might still
be lurking about, but the danger of that seemed
to him remote. At any rate, he would risk it.
He checked his pace as he neared the alley;
then, with a swift glance about, he disappeared
within it, feeling confident that he had not been
seen, yet with his heart pounding uncomfortably
at his ribs. He was wondering what explanation
he would offer should it happen that he had been
observed and followed.
As he expected, there was a passage from the
alley skirting the rear of the building, and after
one investigating flash from his lamp he dispensed
with light until he had reached the court to which
the passage led. Even there he waited for a min-
ute in darkness, listening.
To his right, far above in the upper stories of
the apartment house, were several lighted win-
dows, but the light from them scattered and was
lost before it reached the ground. To his left,
the big music hall projected an unbroken gloom.
Hearing nothing, he finally pressed his torch and
swept the court with light; then he moved on to
the bunch of roses. And before he had reached
them he knew what lay beneath, for he felt the
crunch of glass under his feet.
He held the flowers to one side, as his prede-
cessor had done, and looked down at the remains


A FACE IN THE DARK 99
of the wine bottle they had concealed. The
bottle had been thrown out with wine still in it,
for there was a yellowish ice coating over several
square feet of the concrete floor of the court, and
in one or two fragments of the glass a few drops
of wine had frozen. Picking up the piece with
the label he noted the latter closely. On it was the
name of the brand of wine, Hungarian Tokay—
Máslás Szeged—and below, the name and address
of the local retailer from whom it had been pur-
chased.
But what was it the man had carried away?
Finding no clew to this puzzle, Peter replaced the
flowers over the glass, made his way out of the
place, and hurried home.
There his first care was to make a note of the
name and address of the wine dealer and of the
brand of the wine. That he should ever have
occasion to use this information he considered all
but impossible; but in the midst of his bewilder-
ment it was a satisfaction to have some concrete
data in hand.
For a long time then he sat thinking, trying
various theories and discarding them. Again and
again the face of the unknown in the court rose
vividly before him. That it was a young face
was the one definite fact which he could have
affirmed of it. Whether the stranger was dark
or fair he did not know, nor could he have de-
scribed a single feature. But on one point he
was confident; he should recognize the face were
he ever to see it again.
116222B


CHAPTER XII
TEIE FACE AGAIN
N awakening next morning Peter lay for a
few minutes reviewing the previous eve-
ning's history. He had gone to sleep with
the comforting hope that everything would look
different to him by daylight, but he found himself
now as troubled and perplexed as he had been be-
fore. However, churning things over in his mind
got him nowhere; and he welcomed the arrival
of his morning paper.
Zarady’s death was given large headlines
and considerable space, chiefly taken up with
biographical matter. The conductor, it appeared,
was forty-seven years old, an Austrian by birth,
and had been for eleven years the most distin-
guished orchestral leader in the United States,
also a man of international reputation.
“He was well known,” the account went on to
say, “for his encouragement of young musicians.
A number of noted singers owe to him the aus-
picious beginnings of their careers, and it is a
touching circumstance of his death that it oc-
curred in the very act of his successfully launch-
ing another brilliant young protégée, Miss Olive
Thrace, a Southern singer of rare promise.”
100


THE FACE AGAIN 101
On another page of the paper Peter found the
regular notice of Olive's debut, as complimentary
and encouraging as could be desired. The aud-
ience had been justifiably enthusiastic, the critic
said. No doubt all the papers were equally fav-
orable, thought Peter, and probably at that very
moment Olive was reading them and rejoicing
in her success.
But, somehow, the effort to conjure up a jub-
ilant Olive failed utterly. That look in her eyes
when he left her, those last regretful words,
haunted Peter still. Something had been wrong,
very wrong, for her last night. Of that much, at
least, he was certain.
At ten o’clock he was at his bank arranging to
have the money wired south for the taking up
of the Thrace mortgage, and when the transac-
tion was completed he telephoned to Olive.
“Just wanted to let you know that I’ve ar-
ranged the little matter we spoke of last night,”
he said, choosing words to evade the comprehen-
sion of the hotel operator should she be listening.
Olive, however, gave no heed to possible listeners.
“Little!” she broke in gratefully. “Oh, Peter,
I can never thank you y 2
“Will you lunch with me?” he interrupted in
turn. “There are a few details I want to explain
and I’m due now at my office. Everything is
settled. I just want to—to tell you about it.”
The words were inane; the last thing he wanted


102 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
was to talk about the service he had done her.
What he wanted was to see her, to rid himself
if possible of that feeling of apprehension con-
cerning her. -
. She replied that he must lunch with her and
he agreed to the amendment. “Everything all
right?” he questioned then. “I mean, are you
feeling all right?” he added hastily, fearful lest
the first phrasing of his inquiry should strike
her as odd. -
“I’m feeling grateful,” she answered, “so
grateful that there isn’t room to feel—” .
“All right,” he cut in. “I’ll let you tell me
about that after lunch—maybe.”
“Oh, I’m going to tell you—no maybe about
it!” she retorted with a laugh. . -
“All right. Good-bye,” he called back hap-
pily.
He left the telephone booth with a springing
step and a smile for the world at large. That
laugh of hers had lifted a weight from his spirits.
He did not know, it was true, any more than he
had before why she had thrown a bottle of wine
out of the window and fibbed to him afterwards.
But as long as she could laugh like that it didn’t
matter why.
His first glance at her when they met was
equally reassuring. She was radiant. He told
himself that her previous depression had been due
to the possible loss of her home; anyhow, he was


THE FACE AGAIN 103
going to let it go at that and give himself up to
the enjoyment of the hour.
They met in the reception room of her hotel
where other luncheon parties were assembling,
and only words of greeting were exchanged be-
tween them, and even when they were seated at
a secluded corner table they smiled silently at
each other for a moment or two before either
spoke.
In a simple blue dress with dainty white collar
and cuffs, the girl was a satisfying sight for any
eyes. She wore no hat, and with her lovely fair
hair drawn softly back from her forehead, and
her cheeks and lips free of the make-up they had
worn for the stage, she looked convincingly like
his little neighbor of eight years before.
“You don’t look a day over eighteen, Olive,”
he said, ending the pleasant pause. “But inside
information on the subject tells me you must be.”
She laughed, then grew serious. “If I look
eighteen it’s because you’ve taken six whole years
off my shoulders and off my heart, Peter,” she
answered. *
“I said after lunch,” he reminded her.
“Seeing you carries me back so,” she said.
“When I think how ignorant I was of what I was
doing when I took my mother’s money, when I
consider the awful risk—for her, not myself—I’m
appalled. How could she ever have let me?”
“Let you?” He gave an amused laugh.


104 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“Yes, I did make her, I suppose,” she ad-
mitted. “Of course I did, I know it. That’s
. why I feel so responsible. She and Mary were
satisfied to go on forever as they were, living in
the old house and the old town till they died. I
wasn’t.”
“Of course you weren’t. You had a voice and
wanted to use it.”
“Yes, and I thought a voice was all that was
needed.” She glanced away, her face clouding.
“Whatever else you needed you had, Olive,”
he returned. “You’ve justified yourself.”
Her eyes came back to his, still serious. “Not
yet, but I hope to,” she answered. “I hope to
go straight ahead now and to be able to repay
you—”
“Olive, please! If you knew how happy it
made me.”
“But I must thank you,” she insisted.
“Though there aren’t any words to tell you how
grateful I am.”
“I know. I understand,” he said. “Now let's
forget it. Did you see your notice in the Re-
corder?”
She nodded. “All the critics were nice to me.
And I’ve signed the contracts for my concert
tour. Mr. Unwin, the manager wants me to start
out at once, to take advantage of the free adver-
tising, as he calls it, that Mr. Zarady's death has
given me. But it seems horrible to me to make


THE FACE AGAIN 105.
capital of such a thing.” She closed her eyes
with a shudder “Poor Zarady.”
“How is that maid today, have you heard?”
Peter asked.
“No, and I don’t know what to think about
her,” said Olive. “I’phoned to my old boarding-
house to ask about her this morning, but she
wasn’t there. They said she had sent word she
was sick and asked to have her things sent to her
by her messenger. I got the address she gave
and went to it, because I felt rather worried about
her. But the number was that of a vacant lot. I
thought I must have misunderstood, so I 'phoned
again, but it was the number she had given. I—
don’t know what to make of it.”
Peter was silent. He did not know what to
make of it, either, and it recalled to his mind
other things that puzzled him. He looked hard
at Olive, but that she was sincere he could not
doubt. The impulse came to him to speak out
and tell her frankly how perplexed he was, but
he shrank, somehow, from putting his vague dis-
quietude into words. -
Then with the arrival of the first course of their
luncheon, his mind was distracted from every-
thing else by a ring on Olive's left hand, which
came into view for the first time as she opened
her napkin.
“Does that solitaire mean what it says?” he
asked.


106 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
She nodded, flushing a little.
“Who is he?”
“Anthony Garrison, an artist. Come to din-
ner tomorrow evening and meet him.”
“Delighted.”
“I do hope you'll like each other, Peter.”
“I’m sure we shall,” said Peter cheerfully.
“We’re not to be married for ever so long, not
till we’re both on our feet a bit. Tony paints por-
traits. It has been hard sledding for both of
us. But I’m not complaining. I’ve been very
—lucky.”
There was something in her tone that made
Peter look at her inquiringly, but she did not ex-
plain, and he said then that in his opinion there
was no such thing as luck, that she had earned
her success.
She shook her head. “Some day I’ll tell you
why I say I’m lucky,” she said.
Then they talked of other things, of the old
home and old friends. An hour passed quickly
and before he realized the flight of time Peter
found himself in danger of being late for an ap-
pointment. Nevertheless, he waited at Olive's
request while she answered a telephone summons
that came as they were leaving the restaurant.
“Oh do wait,” she begged excitedly. “If it's
what I think I must tell you before you leave.”
She was gone but three minutes and returned
with shining eyes. “What do you think?” she


108 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
decent looking one in the lot, because the minute
one got well you gave it away. Not because you
wanted to make somebody a present, but because
anything that didn’t need doctoring bored you.
Is that the way you treat your patients—forget
them as soon as you’ve cured them?”
“No, they forget me—till they’re sick again.”
“I shan’t, sick or well, rich or poor—just
reconcile yourself to that. But I'm keeping you.
Good-bye. Tomorrow for dinner, don’t forget.”
He left her at the elevator and hurried toward
the street door, reflecting amusedly on her char-
acterization of him. For it was as true as truth,
he knew, that the more people needed him the
more they interested him. Well, he was glad she
realized that; she would feel her obligation to
him less; but as for losing interest in her
His thoughts snapped off. A face, an unex-
pected, astonishing image, had suddenly con-
fronted him through the glass of the revolving
door. It was the face of the man he had seen in
the court.
Completing the full circuit of the door, Peter
followed the stranger across the lounge to the
desk.
“Please announce me to Miss Thrace—Mr.
Garrison,” he presently heard him say.
Garrison! Peter took a long, comprehensive
Survey of the young man, forgetful for the mo-
ment of everything about him except that he was


CHAPTER XIII
A PUZZLING CALLER
AN'S inability to forecast the future is
generally admitted to be a wise arrange-
ment of Providence, though no man ever
lived who did not long for the power to see ahead
at critical moments of his life—moments he be-
lieved to be critical. For just there lies diffi-
culty; the real crises of life rarely reveal them-
selves as such until afterwards—long afterwards,
usually.
Take Dr. Bennett’s case for an instance. When
he returned to his office that afternoon and found
a locksmith at work on his door, the sight caused
him unalloyed satisfaction. That clever safety
catch on his lock would prevent the use of the
door by those without right thereto, would pro-
tect him from thieves, and would save him the
need of complaining to the house superintendent.
Thus he viewed the matter, in his human blind-
ness. Yet he was destined within the week to
wish he had never heard of that ingenious device
which he now so highly valued. Within a month,
to be sure, he would be glad again that he had;
and before the year was out he would be calling
down blessings on the head of its inventor. All
110


112 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
ford.” There was a perceptible pause before
the name.
“Sit down, Mr. Garford,” Peter said kindly,
though he groaned inwardly with the conviction
that the man was a book agent whose next move
would be to extract a carefully concealed pros-
pectus of his wares from an inside pocket. “What
can I do for you?”
“I—I’d like to ask a few—questions, doctor,”
faltered Mr. Garford, taking the proffered chair.
“You were at the Panharmonic concert last night,
I think?”
“Yes.” Peter's patient gaze changed to one of
Wonder. -
“And you went back on the stage when they
called for a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“What is your opinion about Zarady’s death?”
“My opinion? I don’t understand.”
“As to the cause of death, I mean.”
“I understood the cause to be heart fail-
ure—”
“Heart failure!” There was an exasperated
edge to Garford's tone. “Everybody dies of
heart failure.”
There was a pause before Peter answered. His
impulse was to reply to the peevish outburst by
demanding his visitor’s right to come unbidden
to his office and fire questions at him. But it
was so evident that Garford was laboring under a


A PUZZLING CALLER 113
nervous strain that he thought it better not to
irritate him.
“Heart disease, I meant, of course,” Peter said
quietly. “But I know nothing about the case at
first-hand. Mr. Zarady was never a patient of
mine. Why have you come to me?”
“The man at the stage door gave me your
name,” was the answer. “He said you were there
and took Miss Thrace home in your car, and—I
thought you might have heard from her if—if
there was any talk going on.”
“Talk’?”
“Yes. A sudden death always looks suspic-
ious, doesn’t it?”
“To some people, perhaps,” conceded Peter.
“However, I heard nothing from Miss Thrace
about talk of that kind. Has there been any?”
“Well—I don’t know that there has,” Garford
returned evasively. He looked hard at Peter,
seeming to debate some question with himself, as
if tempted to speak his mind fully but doubtful
of the wisdom of doing so. Suddenly, to Peter's
disappointment, he shifted his attack.
“You didn’t examine him yourself, I suppose?”
he asked. -
“I? No. He was already dead when I got
there.”
“Who did examine him?”
“I don’t know,” Peter hesitated, then: “Why
don’t you go to Zarady’s regular physician?” he


114 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
asked. “That is, if you have the proper au-
thority to make an investigation.”
“Oh, I have authority,” said Garford with an
air of importance. “I’m with the Universal Life
Insurance Company. Of course, doctor, this is
confidential,” he added hastily with belated cau-
tion. “It’s a matter of form for us to investigate
the sudden death of a policy holder—a mere mat-
ter of form. But I oughtn't to have been so open
with you. I’d not like it to get back to the office.”
He paused with an apprehensive gaze at Peter,
waiting for an assurance that what he had said
would go no further, and when none came he
said, “There’ll be no trouble for anybody, you
know. The company will pay the claim. It is
just a matter of form for us to investigate.”
“I see,” said Peter, though he really saw
nothing except that some comment was expected
from him. He was considerably puzzled. That
life insurance companies did make it their custom
to inquire into cases of sudden death among their
policy holders he believed; but that such inquiries
were the regular business of the man before him
he did not credit for an instant.
Garford stood up. “I won’t take any more of
your time, doctor,” he said. “Just thought you
might have—heard something.” He turned away
with a worried sigh, then suddenly looked back:
“You don’t happen to be acquainted with Rudolf
Rala, do you?”


116 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“No, thank you.”
So Garford was a doctor. That let in the light.
The thing was clear enough now. Garford was
the medical examiner who had passed Zarady as
a good insurance risk—recently, perhaps. In
consequence, his employers’ wrath had now de-
scended upon him. He was probably afraid of
losing his job, and was making a desperate effort
to save himself by proving that Zarady’s death
was not a natural one.
As a doctor Garford was easy to classify. He
had been a rolling stone, never remaining in one
place long enough to build a practice, vacillating
between private and institutional work until youth
was gone. The loss of his present berth would
be a serious matter at his age. No wonder he
meant to make a fight.
Obviously, however, he was receiving no en-
couragement from his company; obvious too that
he had as yet no evidence to back his hopes.
Still, who could say what misleading facts he
might not stumble on? Circumstances had such
a devilish way sometimes of seeming to prove
what was not true. Peter thought of the circum-
stances over which he had been puzzling. Sup-
pose Garford were to get hold of a few things like
that?
However, nothing could be done about it, so far
as he could see, so he rang for his next patient.


CHAPTER XIV
THREATS THINLY VEILED
HE familiar voice of Miss Ellis, the house
operator, came over the wire to Peter that
evening about ten o’clock, just after he re-
turned home from a call.
“Dr. Bennett, can you go upstairs right away
to see Mr. Rudolf Kala, in Six B?” Miss Ellis
asked. “I’ve been trying to get you for him
since eight o’clock.”
A startled pause at Peter’s end, then he said,
“He is not a patient of mine. Why didn’t you
call Dr. Simpson?” Simpson was the other
physician resident in the building.
“I did suggest him, but Mr. Kala wouldn’t
have him. He won’t have anybody but you,
doctor. And he’s been so impatient. Shall I
tell him you’re coming?”
“Wait a minute. How long has he been liv-
ing here?”
“Only a few weeks. He's a sub-tenant in Mrs.
Craig's apartment. Perhaps she recommended
you, doctor.”
“All right. Tell him I'll be up presently.”
Peter turned from the telephone with the odd
feeling that this summons from Kala was what
117


118 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
he had been expecting, the thing that for hours,
ever since Garford’s visit, he had been vaguely
waiting for. Garford, he had felt sure, would
set some sort of ball rolling.
Kala was of course not ill at all. If he had
been any other doctor would have done him as well
as Peter, of whose existence he had probably not
been aware until made so that afternoon by Gar-
ford. Garford was the connection. He must
have gone to Kala straight from Peter’s office.
What for? And why did Kala now want to see
Peter? Why did he conceal that desire under a
pretense of illness?
“I am in here, doctor,” a voice called weakly
in response to Peter’s ring at the door of Six B,
and following the voice Peter passed through the
living-room to the chamber beyond. It was a
road he had traveled before, during the occupancy
of the regular tenant, and it struck him now that
the grand piano which had been added to the fur-
nishings was like a huge, three-legged monster
sprawling there. Equally an invader did the
pianist himself appear in the dainty bedroom,
rumpling the delicate silk bed coverlet on which
he had stretched himself, half-dressed. Happy
Mrs. Craig, sunning herself in ignorance in
Floridal ar
“My head, doctor,” complained the young man,
after a sharp glance at Peter from under his low-
ered eye-lids.


THREATS THINLY VEILED 119
Peter drew up a chair. “Where does your
head hurt?” he asked, feeling his patient's
pulse.
“Oh—all over.”
“Bothered much with this sort of thing?”
“Yes—no, not much—sometimes.”
“I see,” said Peter, dividing his attention be-
tween the second hand of his watch and the pale,
tense face of the musician, who appeared even
younger at close range than on the stage—not
more than twenty-three.
“Let me see your tongue.”
Kala sat up. “My tongue is all right,” he
declared impatiently. “It-it's my heart, doctor.
I am worried—terribly. Some day I may drop
dead, who knows—in a minute!”
“What reason have you for thinking your heart
is not strong?” Peter inquired in as casual tone as
he could manage with those black, hawk-like eyes
fixed on him, as if watching for something. “Ever
troubled with shortness of breath, or palpita-
tion?”
Kala frowned. “I wish to be examined. I wish
to be examined carefully,” he said.
He sank back to his pillow and lay, scowling and
silent, while Peter applied the stethoscope and
listened to the beating of the heart beneath it, a
sound organ if ever there was one, functioning a
little too rapidly, perhaps, but that was easily ac-
counted for by the youth's excitement. To what
the excitement was due was not so clear.


120 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“You needn’t worry about your heart,” Peter
announced presently. “Now, about your head-
ache 2 3
. “Never mind that,” the patient interrupted, sit-
ting up again, a determined gleam in his eyes.
“You say I needn’t worry about my heart, but the
doctors said that to Zarady also. Then when he
is dead they say it is from his heart.”
Peter was putting away his stethoscope and
took advantage of the fact to consider his reply.
Was Kala's concern about himself genuine and
due, as he implied, to Zarady’s death, or was
that merely a pretext?
“I know nothing whatever about Mr. Zarady’s
case,” he answered, “but for yourself—”
“You were there last night!” Kala broke in.
“I saw you.”
“Yes, I was there,” returned Peter, speaking
as quietly as before, convinced, however, that Kala
had not seen him but had learned of his presence
on the stage from Garford. “But I did not exam-
ine Mr. Zarady’s body or talk to any of the doctors
who did. I know only what was in the papers.
It may be true, as you say, that Mr. Zarady was
ignorant of his condition, true also that the doctors
made a mistake.”
“You mean he died from something else?” Kala
flashed back.
“No. I mean that the doctors who examined
him from time to time may either have been wrong


THREATS THINLY VEILED 121
as to his condition or have kept the truth from
him. Dying as he did leaves no doubt that the
cause was heart disease.”
“Then people cannot die like that, in a minute,
from—anything else?”
“Not normally. In an accident, of course—”
“‘Or—murder?”
Peter met squarely the tense stare of the black
eyes, but his pulse quickened. “We were dis-
cussing natural causes,” he answered evenly.
“Do you wish me to give you something for your
headache?”
“No-yes,” muttered the pianist; then when
the prescription was written and Peter had risen
to leave he flung out at him impulsively: “There
are people that think Zarady did not die of heart
disease.”
Peter deliberately folded the prescription.
“Shall I send this to a drug store for you
Or 7 7
For answer Kala thrust out his hand and took
the paper. “Zarady was insured for his life, and
now the company will not pay maybe till they
know if he died of heart disease or—something
else.”
“I have heard that they are investigating the
case,” said Peter, “but that is only customary.
It doesn’t mean that they are suspicious.”
“They are suspicious !” The black eyes wid-
ened, then narrowed again. “And if the man who


122 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
goes about speaking of this makes trouble for—
somebody, maybe if somebody knows something
he must tell it.”
Peter made no reply to this enigmatic remark,
for he was at a loss what to say. Kala's expres-
sion showed plainly that there was a hidden mean-
ing in his words, that the words were indeed a
covert threat.
“You are a friend of Miss Thrace, I think?”
he said abruptly, with a change of tone. “Ah,
what a beautiful voice she has 1 Zarady wished
to make for her a career. What a pity for her he
died!”
“I dare say his interest in her career
would have been of great benefit,” said Peter
coldly. -
“Indeed, yes! A pity. Let us hope nothing else
will happen to stop her career. A most charming
person. I was with Zarady in her dressing-room
last night. She had some wine there for him,
Tokay. He has been always a lover of good
Tokay. But this was not good. It was very
bad Tokay, the worst in the world, I think.
But Zarady drank it, two glasses, for her
success. Poor man, he will drink no more
Tokay.”
Peter's face had become rigid with his effort
to show no astonishment at what he heard, to be-
tray no understanding of its import.
“You do not like it that I speak of Miss


THREATS THINLY VEILED 123
Thrace,” said Kala, with a derisive smile. “Do
you not know she is fiancée to Anthony Garrison,
the artist?”
“Yes, I know it,” Peter managed to answer
lightly. “I have known Miss Thrace since she
was a child.”
“Indeed?” murmured Kala. “Please beg her
to accept my sympathy. But perhaps she is not
too sorry that Zarady is dead, for she has now not
to pay for her success. If he had not died then she
would have had to pay—like the others. She knew
that. For a long time she said no to him, be-
cause she loved Garrison; but at last she said yes.
Now she has made a success and still need not
pay, because he is dead. Is she not lucky,
doctor?”
The word “lucky” struck Peter unpleasantly.
It was the word Olive had used. Had she meant
what Kala meant?
“What a pity now if anybody makes trouble
for her,” continued the pianist. “This man from
the insurance company is very stupid, and stupid
people make great trouble sometimes.”
“The insurance company is making its inquiry
merely as a matter of form. They are not going
to make trouble for any one,” answered Peter,
seeking to allay Kala’s apprehension which was
very evident, though of what he was apprehensive
was not clear. Whatever it was it was on his
own account, not Olive’s. “Now, as to that head-


THREATS THINLY VEILED 125
What sort of trouble did Kala fear from Gar-
ford's inquiry? Were there suspicious circum-
stances connected with Zarady’s death that in-
volved him, and that he feared Garford would
bring to light? He had pronounced Olive lucky
to be free of Zarady. How about himself? Peter
recalled the remarks he had overheard at the con-
cert about Kala's dependence on Zarady’s good
will. Was the conductor’s death not as great a
release for him as for Olive?
But what could he, Peter, do about it all? Try
to call off Garford? That would only rouse the
latter's suspicions. Warn Olive? He could not
imagine himself broaching the subject to her. He
might speak to Garrison, who also knew about
the wine.
Yes, he could go to Garrison. But it would be
better not to do so until after he had met him
formally at Olive's dinner and had an opportunity
to take his measure. The dinner was only twenty-
four hours off, not too long to wait. Until then
he would do nothing.
One thing he did do, in the meantime. He paid
a visit to the wine dealer whose address he had got
from the broken bottle in the court. While re-
turning next morning from a professional call it
occurred to him that he was near the place and
that it could do no harm to stop there, though
he could imagine no way in which the visit was
likely to serve him.


126 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
The store was small and inconspicuous, and its
fat, Hungarian proprietor was its sole occupant
when Peter entered.
“I want a small bottle of this wine.” Peter
presented a written memorandum of the wine’s
unpronounceable name.
“Um.” The dealer raised round, friendly eyes
from the paper and regarded his customer curi-
ously for a moment. He seemed on the point of
offering some comment, but changed his mind and
waddled off to the back of the store and disap-
peared from sight. Then his voice was heard call-
ing to an assistant downstairs.
“Louis! Louis! Bring me yet up a bottle of
that Máslás Szeged. Yes, another.” He laughed.
“A Small one.”
A second laugh came now in answer to some-
thing heard from below, and was repeated again
when steps sounded on the stairs. A broad smile
still lingered on the proprietor's countenance
when he came back with the wine to Peter.
“This wine has a good sale, I see,” said Peter,
to start a conversation.
“Um—well—” The Hungarian broke off
and pursed his lips. “No, not so good,” he went
on. “That is why my boy he laughed. Not a
bottle of Máslás Szeged do we sell since two years
—three maybe. My Louis he must hunt all over
when a lady she come Saturday night for a bottle.
Then yesterday morning comes a man, and now


THREATS THINLY VEILED 127
you yet. Is funny, how it goes in business, yes?”
Peter had taken the bottle, and, to gain time,
was comparing the label with his memorandum.
“The man he had the name written also,” re-
marked the Hungarian idly. “But the lady not.”
“Perhaps she was Hungarian.”
The dealer smiled. “No, I do not think she
could be Hungarian and buy Másläs Szeged,” he
answered.
“Why not? Isn’t it a good wine?”
“Um—well—it is not the best Tokay. If you
want good Tokay I like better you take another
brand. You are a new customer and I like to
please you. You come again maybe.”
A hopeful smile accompanied this suggestion
and Peter smiled back cordially. “Did the lady
let you persuade her to buy something else instead
of this?” he asked.
“The lady? The young lady who was Saturday
night here? No, she took this.” The dealer
laughed deprecatingly. “The young man also.”
“Then I’ll take a chance on it,” said Peter.
“If I don’t like it I’ll take your advice next time.”
“I give you along my catalogue.”
At the door on leaving with his package Peter
paused for a final question. “Do you keep open
late on Saturday night?”
“Ten o’clock,” was the answer.
Peter put the bottle of wine on a back shelf in
his office closet without unwrapping it, regretting


128 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
that he could not dispose as easily of his anxious
thoughts. Was Olive the young lady who bought
the wine on Saturday night? Who was the second
purchaser, the young man? What did he want
with it on Monday? And why, by all that was
puzzling, had they bought that particular brand
of Tokay—the worst in the world, according to
Kala?


CHAPTER XV
SUSPICIOUS PROSPERITY
S it turned out Peter did not make the ac-
quaintance of Anthony Garrison on Tues-
day, as he had expected to do. About noon
Olive telephoned requesting a postponement of
their dinner until the following evening, because
she feared she might be late in returning from
Zarady’s funeral. After that Peter heard noth-
ing more from her until Wednesday afternoon
when he in turn asked to have their engagement
shifted to Thursday to make way for an operation
at which he wished to be present.
“Everything all right?” he inquired when the
matter of the dinner had been adjusted.
“As right as rain,” she replied happily. “Mr.
Andrassy has just been here to talk over my pro-
gram for his concert Saturday night. Such a won-
derful man!”
“Is he?” said Peter, to whom the banker was
only a name. “I saw in the paper this morning
that Rudolf Kala is also to play at that concert
of his.”
“Yes,” she answered. “You see, Mr. Andrassy
was a great friend and admirer of Zarady, and he
wants the concert to be a sort of memorial to him.
129


130 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
We are to do some of Zarady's own compositions,
and Mr. Andrassy feels that as we were both pro-
tégés of Zarady our interpreting his music will be
a sort of additional tribute to him. That shows
the sort of person Mr. Andrassy is, Peter—I mean
his putting the thing to me that way. Because I
am sure he is having us just because he thinks it
will help our careers, and for that reason would
have pleased Zarady. I think it wonderfully kind
and generous, don’t you?”
Peter conceded that Andrassy must be a very
decent sort.
“Because,” she further elucidated, “Mr. Unwin,
my manager, says Mr. Andrassy has never had
Kala to play before—didn’t consider him im-
portant enough. And he certainly can’t think I
am, either. It's for Zarady’s sake, of course. But
I’ll not keep you, Peter. Please don’t let anything
interfere with our dinner tomorrow night. Tony
is, so anxious to meet you—to thank you.”
“Now look here, Olive,” said Peter. “Unless
it is distinctly understood that there is one topic
absolutely barred from the conversation I'm not
coming. You hear?”
“What did you tell him for, anyhow?” he de-
manded.
“Oh, Peter! I had to tell him!”
“I don’t see why.”
“Because he knew how I was placed, and if I
hadn't told him how I got out of my difficulty he


SUSPICIOUS PROSPERITY 131
—might have thought—all sorts of things. You
don’t really mind, do you?”
“Of course not. Are you getting so famous
you can’t see a joke?” Peter bantered. “There's
only one thing I mind, and you know what that is.”
“All right. I won’t talk about it any more.
But that won’t mean that I’m not feeling grate-
ful.”
“You’re hopeless,” he laughed. “Good-bye.”
Thursday passed without event, as had the two
preceding days, and Peter gave a relieved sigh
when he entered Olive's hotel that evening. For
he had worried a bit over the delay. Still, his do-
nothing policy had apparently done no harm so
far, and now that he was to meet Garrison he
would be able to decide definitely whether to tell
him about Garford and Kala or to continue pas-
sive in the affair.
Garrison was with Olive in her small sitting-
room when Peter was ushered in, and with the
first clasp of the artist's hand Peter liked him.
It was as if the contact of palm with palm had
worked some sort of magic. Peter’s doubts sud-
denly evaporated, the feeling of suspense fell from
him, and he had the pleasurable sensation of one
awakening from a bad dream to find his room
flooded with sunlight. Garrison’s clear glance,
his frank smile, the warm, sincere pressure of his
hand made Kala and Garford seem as negligible as
a pair of noisy mosquitoes.


132 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
It was not until dinner was half over that Peter
began to notice that he and Olive were doing all
the talking. Garrison’s smile and occasional mur-
mur of assent were so ready that his silence was
not conspicuous. But having finally noted it,
Peter noted too that the artist’s face in repose
looked drawn and tired.
He remarked this latter fact for the first time
during a eulogy of Theodore Andrassy delivered
by Olive, and he fancied that her praise of the
banker did not please her fiancé. The latter sat
with lips drawn into a tense line, as if held shut
by sheer force of will. Was he jealous of
Andrassy? Small wonder if he were at least
envious of a man so rich, so able to offer a woman
what he himself could not.
However, the conversation was for the most
part impersonal, of music and art, the opera and
the theatre. Again and again Peter drew Garri-
son into the discussion, watching him all the time
as closely as he would have watched a patient,
making note of each familiar symptom of nervous
strain that the artist unconsciously betrayed to
him.
That Garrison had something on his mind, he
was convinced. But what? Certainly it was noth-
ing shameful or criminal, and as for Kala's in-
sinuations, to repeat them to Garrison Peter felt
would be an insult.
However, he did tell him of them, as it turned


SUSPICIOUS PROSPERITY 133
out. That was on Saturday, after the second talk
with Garford. It was, in fact, that second appear-
ance of Garford that Peter ever afterwards looked
back to as the beginning of the rapid and astonish-
ing succession of events in which he himself be-
came so strangely involved.
“Doctor Galford,” Miss Ames announced dur-
ing the Saturday morning office hour. “He says
he will take only a minute.” And at Peter's nod
she admitted the examiner of the Universal Life
Insurance Company.
“Sorry to trouble you again, doctor,” began the
latter with a business-like briskness that made his
hearer stare. “I just dropped in to ask you not
to mention our little talk the other day. About
Zarady, you remember? Our investigation was
only a matter of form, and we should be sorry to
have any discussion of the affair. I’m sure you
understand, doctor?”
Peter studied his visitor curiously. A striking
change had come over the man and he wondered
what had caused it. On Monday Garford had
looked the typical failure in life; today he bore
himself importantly, authoritatively. Gone were
the apologetic manner and harassed glance.
What had happened to him?
“Do you mean you’ve dropped your investiga-
tion?” Peter made his tone as uninterested as
possible.
“Oh, entirely!” said Garford.


134 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“Then you have found your suspicions ground-
less???
“Quite.”
“I see.” Peter was as puzzled now by his
caller's change of attitude as by the change in his
appearance and manner. “Your company made a
bad gamble on Zarady?”
A frown crossed Garford’s face. “That sort of
thing is bound to occur now and then,” he
answered.
“Of course,” agreed Peter. “Has the claim
been paid?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so. I–well, the fact
is I’m no longer associated with the Universal
Life.”
“Is that so?” Peter murmured. “I hope this
affair did not—”
“Oh, not at all—nothing of the kind,” put in
Garford. “I received a better offer and re-
signed.”
“Then you are not here today as the company’s
representative?”
“Well”—the question was plainly not a wel-
come one—“well, yes—in a way. I’m just
winding things up—loose ends here and
there.”
“I see,” said Peter again, though he was con-
vinced that the man was lying, as he had lied be-
fore in claiming to act for his company. His com-
pany probably knew nothing whatever about his


136 • THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
great pleasure to make your acquaintance. If you
ever get down to Rio look me up.”
“Thank you, Mr. Garford,” said Peter. “Or is
it Doctor Garford? I fancied Miss Ames an-
nounced you as Doctor—”
“She did. I am a doctor.”
“I don’t think you mentioned the fact when you
were here before. Were you one of the Univer-
sal’s examiners, may I ask?”
“Yes.”
The admission was made reluctantly, and after
it the speaker appeared to hesitate, wavering be-
tween discretion and desire, between self-interest
and self-pride. Then the latter won.
“I know what you’re thinking, Dr. Bennett.
You're thinking it was I who examined Zarady
and passed him, and that I lost my job in conse-
quence. But you’re wrong. I didn’t lose my job.
I resigned it for a better one, as I’ve told you.
And as for passing Zarady—well, all I care to say
about that is that—you'd have passed him your-
self. We’ll let it go at that, eh? That’s all I
feel at liberty to say.” He gave Peter a meaning
glance.
“Do you intend me to infer that Zarady’s death
was not a nat—”
“I haven’t said so! I say only that you, your-
self, would have passed him as a good risk, a
month ago, as I did. And I’m saying more than
I ought to in saying that, but—well, a doctor feels


SUSPICIOUS PROSPERITY 137
some professional pride about a matter like that,
and—I feel that you’ll respect my confidence.”
“I’m not in the habit of discussing such things
indiscriminately,” answered Peter.
“I’m sure of that, doctor. That is why I've
been so frank with you.” He grasped Peter's
hand. “Good-bye. Don’t forget me if you ever
come to Rio.”
“Thanks,” said Peter. “What is your address
there? Rio is a pretty big town, I’m told.”
“Why—I don’t know my address yet, myself,”
stammered Garford. “You see, Mr. Andrassy has
not yet decided just where he will place me. But
if you call up Andrassy and Co., or address me
in Rio, in their care, you can always reach me.”
There was an emphasis on the “always” that
lingered in Peter’s mind after his caller had gone.
That Garford considered himself fixed for life, to
borrow his own phrase, was evident. It was a great
thing to be in with a man like Andrassy, he had
said. But how had he achieved that good fortune?
Why should the astute financier take such an ob-
vious weakling into his employ? Why was he
sending him to South America? To get him out
of the way? It would seem so, since, as he had
not decided what to do with him he could have no
real need of his services.
But why did Andrassy want Garford out of the
way? To stop his investigation of Zarady's
death? That was the only plausible inference, for


138 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
it must have been that inquiry that had brought
him into contact with the banker. Then Andrassy
was in some way involved, or at least interested.
He had been Zarady’s friend, according to Olive.
And certainly he was losing no time in showing,
by the concert he was to give, his friendship and
admiration for the dead man. A wonderful per-
son Olive also thought him.
The memory of her praises brought back to
Peter the recollection of Garrison's expression
while she sang them. Mere jealousy did not seem
an adequate explanation of it.
Peter formed an abrupt decision. He would go
to Garrison and tell him of his talks with Garford,
and tell him also what Kala had said. He had
made Garford no promise of secrecy, and he would
welcome an opportunity to share what he knew of
the man with somebody. For the more he con-
sidered the matter the deeper his conviction be-
came that Garford’s change of fortune was not an
honest one. And Garrison was honest, he felt
sure of that. Yes, he would go and have a frank
talk with him.


CHAPTER XVI
ANOTHER PERPLEXING POINT
IS talk with Garrison was less frank than
H Peter had planned to make it. Reaching
the studio in the early afternoon he found
the artist at work and obviously somewhat sur-
prised to receive a call at that hour of the day.
His welcome was hearty enough, but when greet-
ings were over there came an awkward pause.
“Happened to be passing,” said Peter, “and
thought I'd accept your invitation to drop in and
see your things. I’ve always been interested in
pictures. Mind if I look about?”
A quarter of an hour passed in the discussion
of art and artists, and the longer Peter deferred
speaking of the real purpose of his visit the more
difficult it became to broach the topic. The more
he saw of Garrison, the more he heard of his ear-
nest talk about his work, the more grotesque it
seemed to doubt him.
Still, the feeling that in Garrison's place he
would wish to be told anything so closely concern-
ing himself caused him to linger on, hoping for
some opening that would permit him to come to
his point without appearing to do so deliberately.
At last the chance came. Garrison was showing
139


ANOTHER PERPLEXING POINT 141
chill over Peter. He did not know what he had
expected, but he was not prepared for that sudden
stiffening of the artist’s figure into tense alert-
IleSS.
“Has there been talk?” The reply was com-
posed enough.
“I don’t know,” said Peter. “But I had a visit
Monday from one of the medical examiners of the
Universal Life Insurance Company, in which
Zarady had recently taken out a policy. This man
had heard from the stage doorman at Pan-
harmonic Hall that I had taken Miss Thrace home,
and he was anxious to know if I had heard any-
thing that indicated suspicion on any one’s part
that Zarady’s death was not a natural one.”
“Had he heard anything?”
“Apparently not. His company was making an
investigation merely as a matter of form, he said.”
“I see.” Garrison placed another canvas on
the easel for Peter's inspection. “But—we were
speaking of Andrassy. You were saying you had
heard something about him that puzzled you.”
“Yes, I was coming to that,” said Peter. “This
chap—his name is Garford—turned up again to-
day. The investigation has been dropped, he told
me, and he asked me not to speak of it to any one.
Then I discovered that although he claimed to
represent the Universal Life Company he was no
longer connected with them. He had been offered
a position of some kind by Andrassy and was


ANOTHER PERPLEXING POINT 143
“Andrassy evidently didn’t think so—if he
bought him off.”
“That doesn’t follow,” said Peter. “Garford
may have impressed Andrassy as an irresponsible
person likely to make a lot of trouble for in-
nocent people, or, at least, to start gossip that
would be unpleasant for Zarady’s family and
friends.” -
Garrison shook his head emphatically. “No, if
Andrassy bought the man off, as you think he
did, it was for his own advantage,” he replied.
‘‘I know him.”
“But surely you—”
Peter stopped, struck by the realization that a
curious change had come over the situation be-
tween himself and Garrison. He had been seeking
to impart to the latter, as indirectly as he could,
the fact that suspicion as to the nature of Zarady’s
death was in the air, intending then to leave him
to make of the information whatever he chose.
And here he found himself anxiously trying to rid
Garrison's mind of the very ideas he had himself
put there.
“Surely,” he began again, “you can’t think that
Andrassy—”
“I don’t know,” interrupted Garrison. “I’m
going to find out. You’ve given me just the clew
Ineeded.” He got a coat and his hat from a closet
as he spoke, then: “Will you excuse me?” he
asked. “I must find this Garford at once.”


144 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“Find Garford?” exclaimed Peter. “What
for?”
“I can’t explain now—not yet. But I’m more
grateful to you than I can say.” He wrung
Peter's hand. “The Universal Life, you said?
They’d have his address, of course.”
“I hope you’ll do nothing hasty, or unwise,”
said Peter anxiously. “Remember, anything you
do may involve Olive—drag her name in, I mean.
You must think of her.”
“I am thinking of her. That’s why there’s no
time to lose. She sings at that man's house to-
night.” -
To this enigmatic remark Peter made no
answer, and the two parted at the entrance of the
building. Garrison paused only to grip Peter's
hand again.
“You can’t imagine what a service you’ve done
me,” he said.
Peter could not imagine. It was something else
to wonder about.


CHAPTER XVII
THE SECOND DEATH
INE o'clock. Peter put his watch back in
his pocket and tried to fix his attention on
the medical journal open in his hand. Nine
o'clock; Andrassy’s concert must be under way
by now. Perhaps at that very moment Olive was
singing, or Kala playing. -
And Garrison, where was he? Despite all
Peter's efforts to keep his mind from the artist,
he found it returning to him again and again.
All afternoon he had tried in vain to shake off
the feeling that something would come of his
call at the studio—something unfortunate.
He read a paragraph in his journal, then realiz-
ing that he had read it before, he threw the maga-
zine aside and got up. It was absurd to waste
time like that; better to go to the theatre or to
drop in somewhere for a social call. There were
a dozen he really ought to make. To get a couple
of them off his conscience would be something to
the good, anyhow. -
However, a play would be more of a distraction,
he concluded, and went into his waiting-room for
an evening paper to look up the theatrical news.
145


146 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
He ran his eye down the list of attractions and
back again without arriving at a choice, and he
had just started down the column for the second
time when he heard a rush of feet along his pri-
vate hallway. He dropped the paper at once, glad
of any interruption.
But the steps passed. Then he caught the sound
of fingers at the lock of his street door. He smiled.
The steps had been very light and quick, a girl’s
steps—a maid perhaps from another apartment,
through with the day’s work and in a hurry to
meet her young man. It was too bad to
block the way of true love, but he could not
have his office left at the mercy of sneak
thieves.
He gave a start. A panting, whimpering cry,
low and distressful, had reached his ear. Auto-
matically his feet moved toward it, he threw open
the door, there came a frightened gasp from with-
out, and the next thing he knew he had a fainting
girl in his arms.
She was a little thing, a featherweight for him,
not much more than a child, with short brown hair
curling beneath her round fur cap. And she was
not a servant. So much her soft, well-tended
hands told him.
She swallowed the stimulant he poured between
her lips, and in a moment opened her eyes.
“Don’t be afraid. You’re all right,” he said,
and continued to repeat the soothing phrases while


THE SECOND DEATH 147
expression crept back into her eyes, a faintly won-
dering look at first, then an alarmed stare.
“You’re all right,” he said again gently. “I
frightened you by opening the door so suddenly.
You just fainted a little, that's all, so I brought
you in here to my office. I'm Dr. Bennett. You
were in the hall trying to open the door, don’t you
remember?”
She inhaled a long, fluttering breath, still gaz-
ing at him, dumbly, childishly. Then she sat up,
trembling. He let go her hand and moved away,
on the pretext of putting aside the glass he had
used, but really to give her a chance to recover her
bearings. Who was she, he wondered, and where
could she be going alone at that hour?
At a movement from her he looked around. She
was standing up.
“I want to go,” she said, her voice full of
alarm. “I must go.”
“Of course, whenever you like,” he answered.
“But I think you’d better wait a few minutes,
you’re weak yet and you might faint on the way
home.”
She sat down immediately—just like a child, he
thought.
“You are going home, I suppose?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it pretty late for you to be out alone?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“How far have you to go?”


148 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
She did not answer that, but looked toward the
door.
“I’m not asking out of curiosity,” Peter ex-
plained, “but because you don’t look very strong,
and if you have far to go you should have some
one with you.”
She started up. The telephone bell in his office
was ringing and the sound seemed to alarm her.
“You see, you’re still weak and nervous and
you’d better wait a while before you try to go
home,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me I'll answer
the 'phone. I’ll be right back.”
On the wire there was first an excited jumble of
voices. “Well? Hello?” he said impatiently,
thinking it a case of crossed wires.
“Doctor Bennett?” The house operator's voice
rose suddenly over the others. “You’re wanted
at once. Mr. Kala has just been found dead in his
apartment and—”
“Dead!” gasped Peter. “Kala!”
“Yes. Won't you please go up? Doctor Simp-
son wants you. He has already gone up. I told
him about Mr. Kala's having you a few days ago
when he was sick, and he said for you to come
up as soon as you could.”
“What happened to Kala?”
“I don’t know. Nobody knows. Doctor Simp-
son said to ask you to hurry, please.”
“All right.”
Peter hung up the receiver. He had known


THE SECOND DEATH 149
something was going to happen, but not this—
not this.
He stood for a moment staring at the wall,
trying to adjust his mind to the sudden turn of
affairs. Then he remembered the girl in the
waiting-room. She must he looked after first.
He had better get her a cab or induce her to wait
quietly until he returned. On the whole he
thought it would be better for her to wait. It
would take time to get a taxi, and besides, he
wanted to find out something about her. She
could not be at all well, poor child, to faint like
that at next to nothing.
Switching off the light in the office he went back
to the reception room, but in the doorway came to
an astonished halt. The room was empty, the
girl had gone. -
The outer hall was empty too. And since she
could not have opened his door she must have
gone out by the main door of the building. By
hurrying he could perhaps overtake her and have
a cab called for her.
But she was nowhere to be seen when he reached
the main hall, and with the hope that she would
get home all right he dismissed her from his mind
and turned to the more serious business that
awaited him.


CHAPTER XVIII
THE POLICE INVESTIGATE
ENDING the arrival of the coroner, Rudolf
Kala's body still lay where it had been
found, on the bedroom floor between bed
and chiffonier, with wide eyes staring up at the
ceiling. The dead pianist was in evening dress,
his thick black hair unruffled and with no mark
of disorder about his person or in the room.
So much a glance told Peter, then he looked at
the men standing over the body. Two were police-
men called in from the street and in charge of
the case until those summoned from headquarters
should arrive. The other three men present were
Dr. Simpson, an acrid, elderly individual with
whom Peter had some slight acquaintance, Bangs,
the house superintendent, and a middle-aged, mild-
looking man whose face seemed familiar to Peter
but whom he could not at the moment identify.
“I sent for you, doctor,” said Simpson, “be-
cause having attended Mr. Kala recently I thought
you would be able to throw light on the cause of
his death. Was his heart bad?”
Peter bent over the body without replying. He
wished to size up the situation before answering

150


THE POLICE INVESTIGATE 151
questions—that particular question, at any rate.
“Was he found stretched out like this?” he asked.
“No-huddled up,” answered the other phy-
sician. “I had to move him a little in making my
examination, but I thought it better to leave the
body where it was found until the coroner had
seen it.”
“When did it happen?”
“That’s what nobody knows, sir—or 'ow it
'appened.” This from the superintendent, an ex-
citable little man whose London aitches deserted
him in perturbed moments.
“He hasn’t been dead an hour, in my opinion,”
declared Simpson very positively. “Feel his
skin.”
Peter nodded assentingly.
“It was this person that found 'im,” resumed
Bangs. “If 'e 'adn’t come arsking for 'im the
poor young man might 'ave been 'ere alone all
night.”
The “person” referred to spoke up. “I am
Mr. Andrassy’s butler, sir—Mr. Theodore An-
drassy’s,” he explained in a voice as mild and
apathetic as his face. “Mr. Kala was engaged to
play at Mr. Andrassy’s concert this evening—as
perhaps you know, sir.”
He paused politely for a reply from Peter,
whereupon Dr. Simpson took up the narrative
again.
“He says that when Kala did not arrive he


152 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
tried to 'phone him, but was told by Miss Ellis
that Kala did not answer and must be out. He
'phoned several times, with the same result, he
says, and finally as the concert was being delayed
Mr. Andrassy sent him here to find out if any-
thing was wrong. And when Miss Ellis failed
again to get a response from the apartment he
asked her to send somebody up here.”
“I thought, sir, that the telephone might be out
of order,” explained the butler.
“Miss Ellis told him,” continued Simpson,
“that he could go up and satisfy himself, and she
told Joseph, the elevator man, to show him where
the apartment was. When they got up here and
saw a light they rang several times and knocked,
and then Joseph tried the door and found it un-
locked. He looked in and seeing a light in the
bedroom thought Kala might be asleep. So he
went in. The next moment he came rushing back
to the door.”
“He was badly frightened, sir,” observed An-
drassy’s butler calmly. “I had considerable diffi-
culty in learning what had occurred. Then I came
in here myself, not thinking it possible Mr. Kala
could be really dead. When I found he was I
telephoned down to the operator at once.”
“Joseph was meantime rushing his car up for
Bangs,” put in Simpson, “and as I happened to
walk into the building as Miss Ellis got the news
she told me. I directed her to notify the police


THE POLICE INVESTIGATE 153
and then call you. When I got up here I found
Bangs, and by the time I had looked the body over
those policemen arrived. The case is obviously
heart disease. There’s no evidence whatever of
violence. The poor fellow was already dressed
for his concert. Death must have come in an in-
stant.”
“Of course my opinion is subject to correction
from you, Dr. Bennett,” Simpson added when
Peter did not reply. “I know nothing about
Kalá's health except”—pausing with a significant
glance—“what I infer from his—heredity.”
Peter stared at his colleague. Kala's heredity?
What was Simpson driving at?
“And the fact that he was taken ill very sud-
denly a few days ago led me to conclude that he
was subject to heart attacks and had finally suc-
cumbed to one. Am I right?”
The moment had arrived for Peter to answer.
To continue to evade the issue might arouse sus-
picion in the mind of someone present that would
prove troublesome later on.
‘‘I never saw him but once—”
That was as far as Peter got, for chance fav-
ored him by selecting that moment to bring on the
scene several officers from police headquarters.
“It’s Captain Barbee,” said one of the patrol-
men, hurrying into the living-room to greet his
superior.
The unexpected respite was very welcome to


154 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
Peter, for he was anxious for more light on the
case before committing himself to an opinion.
Not that he had any thought of concealing the
truth; but what was the truth? He did not know
what had been Kala's motive in feigning illness on
Monday evening, and to repeat the extraordinary
conversation that took place between them on that
occasion could not fail to give wrong impressions
and to start false conjectures. Seizing the oppor-
tunity given him by the pause, he turned to
Simpson.
“I didn’t catch your meaning just now,” he
said in a low tone. “What about Kala’s her-
edity?”
“Don’t you know the gossip?” asked Simpson.
“He was believed to be Zarady’s son.”
“Oh–I see.”
Involuntarily Peter’s eyes sought the dead face
on the floor. Why had he not thought of that
before? It was so obviously the explanation of
those remarks about Mrs. Zarady’s absence from
the pianist’s concerts.
“Zarady died of heart disease, too. That's
what I was thinking of,” added Simpson.
“I see,” said Peter again.
“I guess there’s no doubt about the relation-
ship. Zarady had his life insured for him.”
Here Captain Barbee's entrance into the room
prevented further talk, and while the officer was
being put in possession of the known facts of the


156 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
when he addressed him, but was already turning
to the superintendent to issue a few orders before
taking his leave. Peter’s reply therefore sur-
prised him.
“No, I do not think Mr. Kala died of heart dis-
ease,” said Peter, bringing every living eye in
the room upon himself in an astonished stare.
“What do you mean?” snapped Barbee. His
glance was frankly suspicious, a warning that no
struggling saw-bones need try to get free adver-
tising out of a case with him on the job.
“I was about to state my opinion to Dr. Simp-
son when your arrival interrupted me,” answered
Peter. “As he is aware I was called in to see
Mr. Kala Monday evening and—”
“Were you his doctor?”
“No.”
“Dr. Bennett lives in the building, sir,” ex-
plained Bangs. “Mr. Kala being suddenly ill
riaturally called the nearest doctor.”
“Umph,” grunted Barbee. “What was the
matter with him? Was he very sick?”
“No,” said Peter. “He told me he had a
headache. Then he said it was really his heart
he was worried about and he asked me to examine
it. I did so and found it perfectly sound.”
“Then what was he worrying about it for?”
“I don’t know. People often get ideas of that
kind about themselves without any reason what-
ever.’’


THE POLICE INVESTIGATE 157
“Don’t you think, doctor, that what I told you
probably accounts for his worrying?” Simpson
put in.
“Yes, if it’s true,” said Peter.
“What's that?” Barbee demanded, and Simp-
son repeated to him the gossip concerning the
dead man’s paternity, taking care that the others
did not hear.
The police officer was plainly impressed.
“Umph, died the same way, too,” was his com-
ment. “Maybe you made a mistake about his
heart being all right,” he suggested to Peter.
“That’s possible, I guess?”
“Yes—possible.”
“All the evidence points that way.”
‘‘It seems to.”
“Umph,” Barbee frowned. “What do you.
think killed him?”
“I have no idea,” said Peter.
The frown on Barbee's face deepened. “Has
he been sick any more since that evening?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t send for me
again.”
“Has he?” This to Bangs, impatiently.
“Why—I 'ardly know as to that, sir,” stam-
mered the superintendent. “It’s not likely I’d
'ave heard of it if he was, sir.”
“Miss Ellis, the telephone operator, may be
able to tell you,” Peter suggested. “She might
know if he had had a doctor again.”


158 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“I’ll ask 'er at once, sir.” Bangs caught up the
telephone from the table beside the bed.
“Tell her to come up here; I’ll ask her myself,”
ordered Barbee. “And get that elevator man,
too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here, boys.” The captain beckoned to a
group of his subordinates and motioned toward
the dead youth. “Put him on the bed. I want to
look him over.”
The looking-over took very little time. Bar-
bee’s eyes traveled downward from the well-
brushed hair to the jaunty bows on the patent lea-
ther pumps; then more slowly they traveled up
again, pausing while he lifted in turn the once
valuable hands and carefully scrutinized them.
From the pocket of the immaculate white waist-
coat he drew out a handsome watch, compared its
time with that shown on his own dial, and re-
placed it. Lastly he bent the dead man’s head in
various directions, bringing into view above the
collar the entire circumference of the throat. It
bore no sign of injury.
Turning about, the officer next surveyed the
room, sending his keen glance methodically over
every foot of visible space, the spectators moving
aside unbidden to give him a clear field. The
circuit completed, he crossed to the chiffonier and
inspected at closer range the articles on it, toilet
articles, nothing else. Opening a drawer or two


160 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
moment, was amused by the neat reprisal. What
the relative social standing of a banker’s butler
and an apartment-house superintendent might be
he neither knew nor cared. Nor did this proof
that the butler had learned his business and the
English language in England interest him. He
had already inferred that from the man’s accent
and demeanor. What did interest and surprise
him was the discovery that the impassive, weary-
looking creature had either the spirit or skill to
hit back so deftly. Where had he seen the man
before? Some place where he had been em-
ployed? His face seemed curiously familiar.
“He was greatly excited, sir. I think it very
likely—if I may be permitted to pass an opinion,
sir—that he was quite unaware of what he was
doing.”
This verdict appeared to render poor Bangs
inarticulate, with emotions too deep for utterance,
and Barbee did not wait for him to recover him-
self.
“What were you doing here?” he demanded of
the butler.
“I came up with the elevator man, sir. I was
waiting at the hall door when he came in and
discovered Mr. Kala, and I–”
“And 'e was 'ere all alone, 'e was, sir, while
Joe was going for me. 'Ow do I know it wasn’t
'im as turned on the light?”
Captain Barbee looked at the accused.


162 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“About a year, sir.”
“Umph,” growled Barbee thoughtfully, while
Peter gave the butler another close scrutiny. Odd
that the man’s face should seem so familiar to
him, as if he had seen it somewhere recently. Yet
where could he have seen Theodore Andras-
sy’s butler? Hofer? No, the name conveyed
nothing.
“What do you think of this case?” asked
Barbee. -
“I, sir.” Hofer's quiet voice was faintly tinged
with astonishment—at having his opinion asked,
apparently.
“Yes. You knew him, didn't you?”
“I, sir? Oh no, sir.” The mild eyes widened
a little on his questioner, then shifted to the figure
on the bed. “I never saw him until this evening,
Sir.”
“Wasn't he a friend of Mr. Andrassy’s? Didn't
you say he was going there tonight?”
“Merely as an artist, sir—to play for Mr. An-
drassy’s guests.”
“Then Andrassy didn’t know him either?”
“I couldn’t say as to that, sir. He was not a
visitor at the house.”
“Umph.” Captain Barbee withdrew his at-
tention from Hofer. “Say, where's that girl?”
he snapped. “And that elevator man? What's
the matter with this house, anyhow?”
“There’s been a little delay, sir,” apologized


166 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“I have to have to give good service.”
“Umph. Then maybe you can remember if you
ever saw the lady wearing this?”
Miss Ellis expended but one glance on the fur
boa, then her upper lip took on a curve of disdain.
“Oh no, Mrs. Craig never wore squirrel,” she
said.
“This was found in the other room under the
sofa,” said Barbee. “How would you say it got
there?”
“Under the sofa?” Miss Ellis regarded the
despised neckpiece with somewhat keener interest.
“Does any woman have occasion to come in
here, to clean or for laundry?”
“A maid comes in every morning, but I don’t
think that can be hers. It’s rather good squirrel.”
“Umph, is it?” said Barbee. The unknown
owner of the fur, it appeared, was some one of
more exalted station than a char-woman but less
illustrious than a lady who went south for the
winter.
“The cleaners leave their things in the base-
ment,” put in Bangs, but nobody listened.
“You say somebody comes in to clean up every
day? Then she was here today? Do you think
she could have overlooked a thing the size of this
lying under a sofa?”
“I don’t see how she could,” said Miss Ellis.
“Then some woman’s been here since she left.
Who Was it?”


THE POLICE INVESTIGATE 167
“Nobody could come up without Miss Ellis
knowing it, sir,” protested Bangs. “It’s a rule
of the 'ouse to announce all visitors by telephone.”
“A rule not always followed, I guess.”
“But Miss Ellis would 'ave seen the woman.
The switchboard is just opposite the elevator.”
Barbee turned to the operator. “Well?”
She looked up at once from the fur in his hand,
at which she had been intently staring, and her
eyes had an oddly absent expression. -
“I took the switchboard at noon,” she said,
“and as far as I know nobody has been here to
see Mr. Kala except one person, and that was a
young man, a Mr. Garrison.”
At the name Peter felt a shiver pass down his
spine. Garrison? What could he have been
doing there?
“What did he want?” asked Barbee.
“I don’t know. He was here about four o’clock,
but did not stay long. At half-past five Mr. Kala
went out to dinner and returned in about an hour.
He always had dinner early when he was going
to play in the evening. About eight o’clock he
'phoned down to ask about a package of laundry
he was expecting 2 y
“At eight, you say?” exclaimed the officer.
“As late as that?”
“Yes. I remember looking at the clock and
telling him I didn’t think there was much chance
of the package coming after that.”


168 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“Then he was alive at eight o’clock.”
“I said he hadn’t been dead any time,” com-
mented Simpson.
“And you’re sure, are you,” Barbee went on
to the girl, “that nobody came up here after
that?”
“Perfectly sure, but ” Miss Ellis broke off,
her glance dropping again to the piece of fur.
“But what?” prompted Barbee, watching her.
“Why—I hardly think that—” She paused
again.
“Speak out.”
“Well—it can’t have any bearing on the case,
of course,” she said, “but a girl came here one
evening to see Mr. Kala and she had on a squirrel
cap—a round cap like a boy’s.”
Peter gave a start, then cursed himself roundly
for it. But the thing was so unexpected, so as-
tonishing, that his nerves were powerless against
the shock of it. All he could see for the moment
was a girl's frightened face under a gray fur cap.
He glanced about him hastily, and found all
eyes on Miss Ellis except two. Those two be-
longed to Theodore Andrassy’s butler. The man
was standing somewhat back of the others, as
was natural for a servant, and he was staring at
Peter. Staring is the word, for so intent was
his gaze that for a second or two he appeared
unaware that it was being returned. Then he
looked away, his face impassive once more.


THE POLICE INVESTIGATE 169
Had he been watching, Peter wondered? Or
had that start of his attracted his attention? The
latter probably. Good servants were always
observant.
Thus Peter reassured himself while listening
to what Miss Ellis was saying.
“It was last Sunday that she was here. I
know, because when I told her Mr. Kala was at
Panharmonic Hall playing she said no, he wasn’t,
that the conductor had dropped dead and the con-
cert was stopped, and that Mr. Kala ought to have
got home by that time. And when I said he had
not she said she would wait for him.”
“Umph. She don’t seem to have made a hit
with you,” observed Barbee drily as the telephone
girl's eloquent upper lip again registered disdain.
“I don’t think much of a girl that runs after
a man.” -
“How do you know she didn’t want to see him
on business?”
“She was too pretty,” said Miss Ellis. “Be-
sides, it was after nine o’clock,” she added, flush-
ing when the men about her smiled.
“So she was pretty, was she?” queried Barbee.
“They always are, that kind,” returned the
operator tartly.
“Umph. So she was ‘that kind,” eh? How do
you know?” -
“I judge from appearances.”
“What appearances?”


THE POLICE INVESTIGATE 171
went to the door a few minutes later to give an
order to the porter there the hall was empty.”
“What did Kala say when you told him about
her?”
“I didn’t tell him. I didn’t want to embarrass
him.”
“Umph.” Barbee looked down at the dead
pianist with fresh interest. “Do you think it
would have embarrassed him?” he queried scepti-
cally.
“I don’t know.” Miss Ellis vented her annoy-
ance in an audible sigh. “But I knew if she
wanted him for anything important she’d come
again.”
“And did she?”
“No.”
“Would you know her if you saw her again?”
“Yes.”
“Sure she wasn’t here this evening?”
“Perfectly.”
“Sure there wasn't any other woman here?”
Another sigh. “Perfectly.”
“Perfectly sure, eh? Then”—holding up the
boa so that the heads on it nodded at the girl—
“do you think these squirrels came in through the
window, looking for nuts?”
Miss Ellis did not deign to smile, though sev-
eral of Barbee's subordinates guffawed appre-
ciatively. She did not even deign to reply.
“Umph.” The captain's characteristic grunt


CHAPTER XIX
ENTER THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY
ETER passed a restless night. After think-
ing for several hours, setting up theories
like ten-pins only to knock them down again
with facts, he resolutely banished thought and
went to sleep. But he slept badly, dreaming and
waking, sleeping and dreaming again. And al-
ways in his dreams a gray fur cap and a gray boa
and a girl's face appeared, grotesquely combined
with incongruous things.
It was not that his conscience troubled him for
concealing the fact of the girl’s presence in the
house that evening. He felt no qualms whatever
about that. His deepest instincts justified his si-
lence. He could not have spoken. She was so
young and so little—and so frightened.
Why was she frightened? He forced himself
to face that question. She had been to Kala's
rooms and had come down by the stairs, just be-
fore the discovery of the body. That was nine
o'clock. At eight Kala had been alive. What
had happened in the intervening hour?
She must have gone up by the stairs also, long
as the climb was. For it was possible, easy in
173


ENTER THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY 175
course, be questioned. What would he have to
tell?
This, at least, was answered by the morning
papers, scant as were their accounts of the pian-
ist’s death. They had obviously been gagged,
pending further inquiry. No mention was made
of the fur boa and its mysterious presence under
Kala's sofa, nor indeed of any suspicious circum-
stance. Dr. Simpson, it was stated, had exam-
ined the body and pronounced death due to heart
disease. The attack had evidently been very
sudden, since Anthony Garrison, an artist, who
had called on Kala during the afternoon—with
reference to painting the latter's portrait—was
quoted as saying that the musician appeared when
he saw him to be in excellent health.
Peter frowned over this reported statement of
Garrison's, wondering what the real purpose of
his call had been. Garrison must have gone to
Kala from Garford. Why?
Andrassy had, it appeared, not permitted
Kala's untimely end to interrupt his concert.
Olive had sung, filling Kala’s numbers on the pro-
gram as well as her own. There was a flattering
reference to her on another page of the paper.
Indubitably she had arrived.
Yet she, too, was somehow caught in this mael-
strom of mystery and death. How was it all to
end?
The corpse had already been taken away, by


176 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
the coroner’s order, so Peter presently learned
from Bangs, who came ostensibly to impart the
information, but really with the hope that after
a good night's sleep Dr. Bennett might be induced
to alter his view as to the condition in which he
had found Kala’s heart. Heart disease, in the
superintendent's opinion, was a perfectly respec-
table phenomenon for a high-class apartment
house. A lady’s boa under a gentleman’s sofa
was not.
Dr. Simpson seemed likewise to entertain the
idea that morning—or the morning papers—might
have brought counsel to his colleague; for when
by chance, an hour or so later, Peter encountered
him getting into his car the older physician re-
marked with a satisfied smile that the newspapers
didn’t seem inclined to make any fuss about the
CaSe.
“Yes, I noticed that,” Peter meekly answered.
He might have added that there was nothing he so
ardently desired as that the papers should not
make a fuss. But this might have started Simp-
son to wondering.
It was noon on Sunday before anything of real
importance occurred; then a telephone call came
from the district attorney requesting that Dr.
Bennett should drop in at the Fleming home that
afternoon for a little talk. Peter went, arriving
about four o'clock.
He had never met nor seen District Attorney


178 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
elimination,” the district attorney continued, end-
ing the brief silence. “Heart disease because it
could be nothing else.”
“Captain Barbee suggested an alternative,”
said Peter.
“Poison, yes. But a chemical examination of
the stomach was made this morning and no trace
of poison was found. So that disposes of the al-
ternative—the only alternative, since you have
none to offer.”
“No, I have none,” replied Peter. “And of
course I do not expect my opinion to outweigh Dr.
Simpson’s—considering the lack of evidence to
support me.”
“Do you mean that you may have been mistaken
as to Kala’s condition?”
“No. I mean that while he did not have heart
disease he may have had some other malady that
I failed to discover. I made no examination ex-
cept of his heart.”
“Some other malady that could have caused
sudden death? What, for instance?”
“I know of none; but there are many things we
doctors do not know.”
Another pause, while Fleming regarded Peter
fixedly, though now his gaze was too thoughtful to
seem searching. He might merely be weighing
carefully the last remark, or following up some
idea suggested by it. Still, Peter felt that the
calm eyes were again measuring and appraising


180 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“Is it true that Zarady’s life was insured for
Rala?”
“Yes. I got in touch with the Universal Life
officials this morning, and learned that the policy
was issued less than a month ago, that less than
a month before he dropped dead, presumably of
heart disease, he had been accepted as a good in-
surance risk.”
Peter received this in silence, as if it were news
to him, for he had not yet decided what line to
take.
“Now that in itself means nothing. Insurance
examiners are not infallible.” Fleming consulted
a notebook. “This one’s name is Garford. I
shall look him up. If he impresses me as an able
and responsible man and sticks to his guns as you
do, doctor, I shall be nearly convinced that neither
Zarady nor Kala died of heart disease, but of
something else. And what that something else
was must be discovered. If it was some obscure
malady it is beyond my province, but not beyond
yours.”
“Beyond my power, however, I'm afraid,” said
Peter.
“Very well, since that hypothesis gets us no-
where let us discard it. What remains? If crime,
what crime? Not poison. What then? The
bodies tell us nothing. They show no trace of
poison or of violence of any kind. Also, death
seems to have come in an instant, without any


ENTER THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY 181
previous symptom of illness. Do you wonder that
the dozen or more doctors who witnessed Zarady’s
death were one in their opinion that he died of
heart disease? And if a dozen doctors had been
called in last night would they have sided with
Dr. Simpson or with you?” -
“With Simpson, of course.” Peter smiled.
“You’re a good sport, doctor,” said Fleming.
“Captain Barbee had a notion you were trying to
make professional capital out of your connection
with the case, but I saw at once you were not that
sort, that you were sincere and that all I had to
do was to show you how untenable your posi-
tion is.”
“And you have shown me,” said Peter, rising
to go, very much relieved to get off so easily.
“I’m glad of that.” Fleming stood up and held
out his hand. “I’m very glad. I should have
disliked dragging that girl into the affair. You've
heard, I suppose, that she was in Kala’s rooms
when he died? We’re sure of that.”
“Why—no,” faltered Peter. “I hadn’t heard.”
“Yes. We don’t know just when she went up,
but we know she left after his death, because the
door porter saw her leave the house. He said she
began to run as soon as she reached the side-
walk, which was why he noticed her. She was
wearing a fur cap, so she must have been the same
girl who was there before. She probably crept
down the stairs in terror, poor thing. A girl of


A STEANGE STORY 185.
“I’m going,” he said then, “because if I don’t
go I shall be accused of poisoning Zarady.”
Peter recoiled, staring.
“Oh, I’m not running away!” cried Garrison.
“I’m not guilty and I’m not afraid of Andrassy
for myself. It's for Olive. He'll drag her in.
But I’d better explain. You have no idea what
I’m talking about, of course.”
“I’ll be glad to have you explain,” answered
Peter, dropping into a chair. He did not think it
necessary to add that he had a better notion of
what he was to hear than his visitor suspected.
“I can give you the situation in a few words,”
said Garrison. “Three months ago Theodore
Andrassy made me an offer to go to Brazil to do
some special work for him there. I refused.
Then a week ago, last Saturday, I agreed to go. I
did it to get money for Olive, for the mortgage on
her home. Then Sunday night when I returned
from Washington, where I had gone for my pass-
port, Olive told me that you were to lend her the
money, so I notified Andrassy that I had changed
my mind. He took the matter calmly enough—
apparently. But this afternoon he came to my
studio and told me that if I did not sail for Brazil
tomorrow morning to carry out our agreement he
would have me indicted for Zarady’s murder, al-
leging as my motive—jealousy.”
Garrison’s grip on the arms of his chair
tightened until the bones in his hands showed


186 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
white through the stretched skin. “I’ve got to go,
you can see that,” he went on. “I can’t risk
dragging Olive's name through the mud. And I
can’t tell her why I'm going. But I’d like her to
know—some day. I’d like her to know it was
for her.”
“What does she think now?” -
The artist made a despairing gesture. “She
believes what I’ve told her—that I’m tired of the
struggle and grind of art, that I’ve a chance to
make money, that I’ll be back in a year. And I
shall never come back, I’m sure of it.”
Peter studied the grim face. “Why not?” he
asked at last. “Is the work you are to do so
dangerous?”
“No. It is Andrassy who is dangerous. He is
a spider sitting at the center of a web. Anything,
everything that gets enmeshed with him is done
for. My father was only one of many. I shall
never be able to prove it, but I believe Andrassy
to have been deliberately responsible for my
father’s death. He and Perez.”
“Perez? Who is he?” asked Peter.
“A Brazilian, an agent of Andrassy’s. It’s my
belief that the two are mixed up in all kinds of
shady schemes. Here Andrassy’s standing is
good, I know, and what I say against him may
strike you as absurd. But down in Rio there are
men like me who know what he is, though it has
been impossible so far for us to prove anything.


A STRANGE STORY 187
My father was a mining engineer, and on one of
his prospecting trips through the mountains of
western Brazil he came on what he believed to be
‘blue ground’—diamond-bearing clay. He wasn’t
able, however, to investigate thoroughly because
the place was an Indian burial ground and the
tribe refused to allow him to excavate.
“He returned to Rio and got in touch with
Andrassy, who happened to be there at the time,
and who was known to be ready to back any
gamble that looked good to him. Andrassy and
my father came to terms and an expedition headed
by my father and Perez started out. Of course
the greatest secrecy was necessary, because a mere
rumor of a diamond find would have sent a mob
stampeding after us. I was with the party and
my father and I alone knew just where we were
going. He had kept the location of the place from
Andrassy, not trusting him, and after a few days’
association with Perez he turned over to me the
record of his former trip. He feared treachery
and warned me.
“We had hardly got into the mountains, the un-
explored country, when he was killed, shot by one
of Perez's men—by accident, it was claimed. Im-
mediately they searched his body for his records,
and I sensing my danger managed to make my
escape. No need to go into details. I reached the
Indians finally, almost dead fromystarvation. To
have attempted the long trip back to Rio without


188 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
supplies would have been madness, so I went
ahead, guided by my father's record of the previ-
ous journey.”
Garrison paused now and looked intently at his
auditor as if uncertain how to proceed.
“Dr. Bennett, I don’t know how you will judge
me, whether as a silly sentimentalist or other-
wise,” he resumed. “After a few weeks with
those Indians, fed and cared for by them, far from
the sham and meanness of civilized men, I began
to see things differently. I came to realize that
to excavate that burial ground would be impossible
without killing or driving from their homes the
entire tribe. To them the place was sacred, and
they would have fought to their last man and last
woman to protect it from profanation. And what
would be gained by the slaughter, I asked myself.
A few more jewels to hang about the necks of rich
women, a little more money for a few wealthy
promoters. I, for one, would have no hand in it.
I made my way west to the coast of Chile, and
from there to Paris.
“Andrassy gave me up as dead. His expedition
returned home, a failure. Since then he has sent
others to try to find that precious plot of ground,
but without success. My father had given them no
clew as to its whereabouts. It was not till I came
to New York that Andrassy learned I was still
alive. Since then he has been on my track. He
is wary. He tried fair means first. When I re-


A STRANGE STORY 189
fused all his offers to lead an expedition into the
mountains he began to scheme to force me. Now
he has succeeded. I am going to Brazil to do his
bidding. After all, the extermination of those
Indians must come some day with the march of
progress. That is what I tell myself, but I shall
not survive those who were my friends. I do not
wish to. And I should not if I did. Andrassy
will see to that. He will serve me as he served my
father. Now do you understand my position?”
Peter nodded silently.
“I cannot tell Olive all this, of course. That
is why I have come to you, to ask you to promise
me that some day, when it is all over with me,
you will tell her the truth.”
Peter got up and crossed the room. He pushed.
a chair standing out from the wall back into its
place. The chair was in nobody's way, but he
needed the relief of physical action. He was in a
mental state that he particularly disliked: his
sympathies were fighting his common sense. He
was moved, thrilled, by the heroism of Garrison’s
sacrifice for Olive. There could be no question
of the poor chap's sincerity and courage, his con-
viction that he was taking the one course open
to a true man and lover. But when Peter pic-
tured himself reporting the scene to Olive after
Garrison's death, its aspect changed, and he saw
it through her eyes. He could imagine her face
as she listened, her fearless gaze upon him, first


190 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
in amazement, then in indignation, then in ever-
lasting reproach.
He came back to his chair. There were ques-
tions he must ask at any rate before he could
promise anything.
“Let’s talk about this a little, old man,” he
said, falling unconsciously into a soothing, pro-
fessional tone. “You say Andrassy threatens to
have you indicted for Zarady’s murder. How can
he do that?”
“I don’t think he can, really,” said Garrison.
“But he can make the charge, and drag in Olive's
name, coupled with that of Zarady. It will be
in all the papers, all over the country. It will
never be forgotten. Zarady was married and his
reputation was such—”
“I understand all that,” Peter interrupted.
“But on what grounds can Andrassy base such
a charge against you? You say you are innocent
and I believe it; but Andrassy must have some
plausible grounds, some evidence—”
“Yes, the evidence he has made for the pur-
pose!” cried Garrison. “You don’t believe that,
perhaps? You don’t know him. He would stop
at nothing. When his first scheme failed he
started another 2 3
“Wait a minute,” said Peter. “I don’t follow
you. Suppose you begin at the beginning and
tell me exactly what happened between you.”
“Very well,” said Garrison. “I will tell you


192 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
apron and guessed that she had had some of
the wine. But—you know all this. You were
there.”
“I was there, yes,” Peter assented. “But
Olive did not tell me anything about the wine.”
“She was afraid to. The horrible thought had
come to her that I had sent the wine, knowing
she would not touch it and that Zarady would, so,
in her fright, she threw the bottle out of the win-
dow to get rid of it before calling in a doctor.
Meantime I had returned from Washington. I
telephoned to her boarding-house and was told
she had moved to a hotel and was to sing that
evening at the Panharmonic concert. You can
imagine my feelings, can’t you? I walked the
streets for hours, trying to calm myself. I told
myself over and over that I would never see her
again, never think of her. But when the concert
hour came my feet dragged me to Panharmonic
Hall.”
“You were there then at the concert?”
“Yes, and if thoughts could kill I should be
Zarady’s murderer. But my thoughts did not
kill him. Andrassy killed him. He had that wine
put in Olive's dressing-room.”
“Have you proof of that?”
“None that a jury would accept, perhaps,
but—”
“Just a minute,” Peter begged. “Let me get
all the facts you're sure of first. What happened


A STRANGE STORY 193
next—after the concert? When did you see
Olive?”
“That evening at her hotel. You had brought
her home and had just gone, she told me.”
“I remember,” said Peter. “A card was
handed her as I was leaving. Well?”
“We had a long talk. She told me all that had
happened since I had seen her, all I have just
told you, and she told me too that she was to get
the money she needed from you. You didn’t
dream, of course, all your kindness meant. If
you had not come to her assistance I should have
got the money from Andrassy and should have
gone to Brazil.”
“I was glad to be of service,” said Peter
simply. “But please go on.”
Garrison sighed, as if suddenly realizing that
the escape from Andrassy had been merely tem-
porary. “How happy Olive was when she found
I had had nothing to do with the wine,” he said.
“How lucky she thought herself, too. For my-
self, I was worried, knowing Andrassy. I didn’t
suspect him at first. I didn’t know what to think.
I went back to Panharmonic Hall and into the
court where she had thrown the bottle, thinking
the label might give me a clew.”
“Did it?” Peter leaned forward; the narra-
tive had reached an interesting point. Later, he
thought, he would tell Garrison that he too had
been in the court that night.


194 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“I hardly know.” The artist frowned. “That’s
one of the things I don’t understand. I found a
piece of the bottle with a little of the wine frozen
in it and took it away with me, and next morning
a friend of mine, a chemist tested it in his labora-
tory. He tested it for various poisons, but found
none of them. But there was something in it, be-
cause a drop that he gave to one of the guinea
pigs that he keeps for his experiments put the
animal to sleep—just as it did that maid—and
the same quantity of wine from the bottle I’d
bought had no effect at all.”
“The bottle you’d bought?”
“Yes, I stopped at the dealer’s whose address
was on the label and got a bottle of the wine to
compare it with the other. There was a difference
between them. Of that there can be no doubt.
Something was put into the wine Zarady drank,
but what it was I don’t know. It killed him, but
only put the woman to sleep. How do you ac-
count for that, doctor?”
“I can’t account for it,” said Peter. It was
in his mind to speak of his own visit to the wine
dealer and to tell what the latter had said about
the poor quality of the wine, but as he hesitated
Garrison went on.
“It was bought by a woman—a young girl,” he
said. “The man in the store couldn’t describe
her. “He seemed to remember only that she
was very young and had come late Saturday eve-


A STRANGE STORY 197
“She will refuse to let me go.”
“Yes, but that need not prevent your going.
If you want to sacrifice yourself without her con-
sent, all right; but don’t do it without her knowl-
edge. No man has a right to place a woman un-
der such an obligation to him. And no man has
a right to ask of another man what you ask of
me. Olive would never forgive me.”
“Then don’t tell her,” said Garrison. “I
should rather she never knew than have her know
now. Surely you understand my feeling. This
situation has come about through me—”
“Not through your fault.”
“No, but I can’t let Olive's loving me bring
her unhappiness and disgrace.”
“You can’t help the unhappiness now. As for
the disgrace, put that up to her.”
“I can’t,” Garrison stood erect, his eyes grim.
“I withdraw my request to you. I sail tomor-
row, and you will oblige me by forgetting what
I have told you.”
“Is that final?” Peter asked. “You are de-
termined to go without telling her the truth?”
“Yes.” -
“All right,”—reaching for his overcoat.
“Then I shall tell her.”
“Doctor Bennett!”
“Now look here.” Peter planted himself
Squarely before his companion. “What we need
is a little common sense. I can’t forget what


198 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
you’ve told me, and I’m not going to pretend to
forget. Olive should know the facts, not after
it is too late to do anything about them, but now.
If, when she has heard them and spoken her mind,
you still insist on sailing tomorrow I’ll see you
off myself and wish you luck.” He gave Garri-
son’s arm a hearty grasp. “Well? Will you tell
her, or shall I?”
The surrender was plainly unwilling. “I’ll
tell her.”
“Good.” Peter looked at his watch. “I’ll
give you an hour. Then I'll call Olive.” And
with that understanding Garrison took his leave.
Before the hour was up Olive called Peter.
“Will you go with Tony and me to see the dis-
trict attorney?” she asked, omitting preliminaries.
“But Olive—”
“It’s too late to object,” she put in. “I’ve al-
ready 'phoned him and made an appointment. I
hoped to see him this evening, but he hasn’t the
time. We’re to see him at his home tomorrow
morning at eight-thirty. Can you be there? You
see, you know some of the facts of the case at
first hand, and I intend that he shall hear every-
thing. Will you come?”
“Why—of course,” he began.
“All right. Eight-thirty. Don’t be late.”
She rang off.
Peter hung up the receiver, still gasping a little
with astonishment.


CHAPTER XXI
AMAZING NEWS
ETER was the first to reach Fleming's
house next morning, but Olive and Garri-
son arrived almost on his heels, the latter
looking tired and pale, as if the night had been
sleepless for him.
Olive appeared her usual self, or more than
that. There was in her expression a superser-
enity, so to speak, that recalled to Peter the little
girl in the swing, singing against hoots from the
next yard. She was charmingly dressed in a
tailored suit, soft, flattering furs, and an upturned
hat that gave her blonde hair a chance to add its
brightness to the color scheme. And as she smil-
ingly held out her hand and thanked Peter for
coming he had an awkward moment—such as one
might feel who has been bidden to a wake and
finds himself at a wedding, so unruffled was her
countenance, so gallant her bearing.
Her fiancé, Peter guessed, did not share her
exalted mood and was there against his own will
and judgment. No doubt he had already sent his
baggage to the dock and ordered a taxi.
When greetings were over silence fell upon the
three. Peter was at a loss what to say, Garri-
199


200 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
son plainly had no impulse to speak, and Olive’s
thoughts appeared to soar far above their
heads.
The district attorney did not keep them wait-
ing, but came in almost immediately, newspaper
in hand, as from the breakfast table. His first
glance was naturally for the girl, and not until
he had greeted her did he see and recognize Peter.
On Garrison he expended only a short, curious
stare.
Constituting herself spokesman Olive told her
story, told it calmly and clearly, with the events
in chronological order, and to the events she added
no comment whatsoever. She was not there to
make an appeal but to state facts; such, at least,
was the impression she gave. And yet, the very
directness and bareness of her narrative and her
quiet tones and serene eyes were more potent
arguments than any avowal of innocence would
have been to the man she was addressing.
He listened in unbroken stillness until she had
finished, betraying no astonishment or incred-
ulity, though he must have felt both. When she
paused he began to ask questions, first of her,
then of the others, pinning points down with de-
tails that they personally vouched for.
It was on Garrison that he spent most time,
and with him only did there creep into his ques-
tions a certain sharpness suggestive of cross ex-
amination.


AMAZING NEWS 201
“Have you ever attended a murder trial in
Italy?” he asked suddenly.
The question was as unexpected a one as he
could have hit on and Olive and Peter regarded
him in astonishment. Garrison did not answer
at once. He frowned and moved slightly in his
Seat.
“You have, I see,” said Fleming.
“No,” said Garrison.
“But you know what its most striking feature
is—the confronting of the accuser with the
accused?”
“Yes.”
“It has always interested me,” said Fleming,
addressing the three of them. “And though it
is utterly opposed to the principle and practice of
our criminal law I have often wished for the right
to employ it; it proves so effective at times.
Well?” He paused, smiled a little, then continued
in a whimsical tone: “I believe my chance to do
so has come at last. With your permission I am
going to ask Mr. Andrassy to come here and speak
for himself. He lives nearby, and I think if I
'phone at once I may catch him before he goes
downtown.”
Fleming rose, then waited for possible objec-
tions. No one answered for a moment. It was
not Peter's affair, so he merely looked from one
to the other of his companions until Olive, after
a glance at her fiancé, said quietly:


202 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“Nothing could be better.”
The district attorney turned to Garrison. “You
don't object?”
“Certainly not,” the latter replied, as calmly
as Olive herself had spoken, and Fleming went
off to telephone.
Garrison took out his watch, glanced at it, and
returned it to his pocket. Automatically Peter
did the same. Olive rose and walked to a window.
As she passed her lover she let her hand rest
lightly for an instant on his shoulder. He looked
up, but neither spoke, and when she reached the
window she stood there with her back to the
I’OOIT).
Then in the stillness Peter became aware of the
ticking of a clock, which emphasized the silence
so sharply and unpleasantly that he got up too
and began to walk about the room. Once he
stopped before a framed parchment on the wall,
the certificate of an honorary degree conferred on
Fleming by some obscure university, and read it
through. Then he looked around once more at
Garrison. The latter had taken out his watch
again.
The door opened and Fleming returned. Peter
wheeled at the first sound of the knob and Olive
started back to her chair. But something in the
district attorney's face brought them both to a
halt. He himself had stopped and was looking


AMAZING NEWS 203
from one to the other and then at Garrison with
a curious, arresting intentness.
“Well? Is he coming?”
The voice was Olive's and it betrayed to Peter's
ear that her nerves were slipping from her
control.
“No,” answered Fleming, not looking at her
but at Garrison. “He has just been found dead
in his bed.”
“What!” Garrison took a step toward Flem-
ing. “Dead? That's not true,” he cried, staring
at the older man. “You’re just saying it.”
The district attorney stared back at him. “It
is true,” he replied. “His butler told me so. He
has just been found.” Fleming turned to Peter.
“The butler thinks his death was caused by heart
disease,” he added.
Peter said nothing. Olive had not moved. And
now that conviction had replaced unbelief Gar-
rison too stood dumb. He looked at his com-
panions blankly, then down at the open watch in
his hand. Mechanically he snapped it shut and
put it in his pocket.
The sound broke the spell of amazement that
seemed to possess the others, as if it had startled
them back to a sense of reality, as well it might
indeed. For what mattered the time, now that
Andrassy was dead? -
It was Fleming who put the feeling into words.


204 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“Further discussion here seems to have become
superfluous,” he said. “So I must ask you to
excuse me. I am going to walk over to Andrassy’s
house. I’d be glad to have you come with me,
Doctor Bennett.”
“Doctor, this case begins to interest me,” he
remarked a little later, after they had parted with
Garrison and Olive and were on their way.
“Three of a kind is a pretty fair hand. I’m in
this game to the finish.”


CHAPTER XXII
TEIE TEIIRD DEAD IMAN
FOOTMAN opened the door. His excited
A face reflected the condition of the house-
hold, and the announcement of Fleming’s
identity rendered him speechless—or almost so,
for he did succeed in conveying the fact of their
arrival to the butler, who appeared to be in com-
mand.
The latter, at the district attorney’s request,
took them to his dead master’s bedroom.
“Raise the shade, please,” said Fleming on
finding the room in semi-darkness. “Have you
notified the police?”
“Yes, sir.”
The shades up, the two men crossed to the bed
where Andrassy’s head alone was visible above
the covering.
“Pull down the covers,” directed Fleming.
“What a physique!” He exclaimed in admiration
of the big, finely muscled body.
Peter made an examination which revealed no-
thing. “I think Mr. Andrassy’s regular physi-
cian should be called,” he said.
“I have already telephoned to Dr. Taussig,
205


206 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
sir,” replied the butler. “He should arrive at
any moment now.”
Peter regarded the speaker searchingly, tan-
talized again by the feeling he had had in Kala's
rooms that he had seen him before. Franz Hofer?
But there was no time now to fine-comb his
memory.
“It was you who found him?” the district at-
torney was saying.
“Yes, sir,” answered the butler. “I had orders
never to let him sleep after nine o'clock, no matter
how late he went to bed. He was most particular
about getting downtown at the same time every
morning. Usually he woke of himself, but if he
had not rung for me by nine I woke him.”
“Had he no valet?”
“His valet has been ill for a fortnight. I have
been performing his duties as well as my own.”
“I see. Did Mr. Andrassy complain of feel-
ing sick yesterday?”
“No, sir—at least, not to me, sir.”
“How did he spend the day?”
“He lunched at the Hispanic Club with a
friend, Mr. Perez. I 'phoned and made the ap-
pointment. It was about five, as I remember,
when he came back, and after dinner—he dined
alone—he went out again. I don’t know where
he went nor when he returned. I went to bed at
eleven.”
“Who is Mr. Perez?”


THE THIRD DEAD MAN 207
“A South American, sir. I don’t know his
business.” The butler turned toward the door.
“Someone is coming,” he said. “Dr. Taussig,
perhaps. I heard the door-bell ring.”
The newcomer was Taussig, a stout, intelligent-
looking, middle-aged person. Fleming intro-
duced himself and Peter, and he gave the history
of the case as he had just heard it.
Dr. Taussig listened closely, asked a few ques-
tions, then examined the corpse. “Been dead
some time,” he observed, with a glance at Peter,
who nodded assent.
“Is this the position he was found in?” The
question was to Hofer and at his affirmative
answer Taussig frowned and focussed his glance
more sharply on the man. Then he looked around
the room slowly and attentively, after which he
walked over, opened the bathroom door and
looked in.
“May I see you alone for a few minutes?” he
asked, turning and addressing himself to Flem-
ing. “You will pardon us, doctor?”
“Certainly,” Peter replied, moving as he spoke
toward the door.
“Please don’t leave the house, Doctor Bennett,”
Fleming said, and Peter answered that he would
wait downstairs. -
Hofer took him down in the elevator, which
gave him a chance to study the butler unobserved.
His first impression was that he looked older by


208 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
daylight and less wooden. He was, in fact, hag-
gard, and had the sort of look about the eyes
that always made Peter ask a patient how he was
sleeping—the same strained look that Garrison
had had. Hofer, he thought, had reason to be
disturbed; a good post such as he had had with
Andrassy was not easily found. But where had
he seen the man before?
“Would you care to see the pictures while you
wait, sir?” the butler asked when they arrived
at the ground floor, and at an indifferent assent
from Peter he led the way to the drawing-room.
“A gloomy morning, sir,” he remarked as he
crossed to a window to raise a shade.
Peter looked after him idly, watching his de-
liberate yet deft movements. Then, in a flash, as
Hofer's face came into full daylight, Peter saw
another face, the one this so hauntingly resem-
bled—the face of the man who had fainted at the
Panharmonic concert.
It was almost grotesque, a likeness between
faces so unlike; one, wild-eyed, twitching, fright-
ened, the other, stolid, with quiet, steady gaze.
Despite his relief at having tracked down the
elusive memory, Peter stared after Hofer's re-
treating figure with a feeling of disappointment
that his perplexity about the man had sprung
from a mere chance resemblance. -
He turned to the paintings on the walls about
him, but found himself in no mood for them, and


210 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
stomach will be made, as was done with Kala’s,
but the result will doubtless be the same. The
three deaths were probably caused in the same
way and by the same person; but who the person
is, and how and why he committed these murders
remains to be discovered.”
“It is certainly very puzzling,” said Peter.
“Yes, and yet the fact of there being three of
them ought to simplify the problem, for there
must be points common to all that should guide
us. The motive, for one thing. It must have
been the same in all of them. And there isn’t a
wide choice in murder motives—robbery, jealousy,
revenge, and a few others. Now, robbery was ob-
viously not the motive here. And a man is not
jealous of three other men at the same time—to
the point of killing them. No, I do not think this
is a woman case, at all. The motive, I feel sure,
must have been revenge.”
“Then the three had a common enemy.”
“Say, rather, a common victim. Doctor, did
you ever see James O'Neil play Monte Cristo?”
“No, but I’ve read the book.”
“That's not the same thing. If you had seen
the play you would remember, if you remembered
nothing else, his tone and manner when he counted
“One,” “Two,’ ‘Three,” after the successive
deaths of the men against whom he had sworn
vengeance for the wrong they had done him in
his youth. Perhaps it is fantastic, but I have a


THE THIRD DEAD MAN 211
notion that somebody has echoed that count after
these three deaths.”
“Somebody whom all three had wronged?”
“Yes—years ago, perhaps.”
“But Kala was so young.”
“He was Zarady’s son.” Fleming paused, the
light of a new idea in his eyes. “I wonder if
there might not be some special significance in
that fact,” he mused, then added: “But this is
wild speculation. We’d better stick to facts.
What is the name of that wine? I may wish to
ask Mrs. Zarady about it. If her husband was
fond of Hungarian wines she may know some-
thing about them. There must have been some
reason for using that particular brand.”
“Máslås Szeged is the name,” said Peter.
“Thanks. I haven’t told Dr. Taussig about the
wine, nor about Miss Thrace and Garrison, and I
should prefer you not to mention them unless I
bring up the subject. Ah, here's the doctor now.”


CHAPTER XXIII
A PAINFUL CONFESSION
Zarady’s apartment, and Fleming and
Peter were left in the big, two-storied
studio that served as living-room while Taussig
went to fetch Mrs. Zarady.
The two men examined their surroundings with
interest, partly for whatever they might reveal
of the life of the do ad musician, and partly for
their own sake. High, frosted windows that
stretched to the ceiling formed one end of the
long room, the adjoining walls were hung with
tapestries, and the far end was cut by a staircase
leading to a balcony and upper story. Fine rugs,
old carved furniture, rich embroideries, rare
bibelots, all beautiful in themselves and beauti-
fully blended, combined to produce an effect that
was artistic and luxurious and made a stranger
look forward with curiosity to the appearance of
the mistress.
The waiting in this instance was not long, Mrs.
Zarady appeared after a very few minutes at
the top of the stairs and descended them leaning
on Dr. Taussig's arm and looking so ill that
D OCTOR, TAUSSIG’S car took him to Mrs.
212


A PAINFUL CONFESSION 213
Peter wondered at her physician’s subjecting her
to what could not but be an ordeal.
She greeted them with gentle graciousness and
took a seat in one of the big, carved chairs, a frail
looking woman of forty with charming features
but sallow skin and graying hair. Her dark
eyes moved uncertainly from one to the
other.
“It’s very good of you to see us,” said Fleming.
“Dr. Taussig has no doubt told you why we have
come.”
She inclined her head silently.
“We hoped you might be able to throw a little
light on several points that are puzzling us in con-
nection with Mr. Zarady’s sudden death,” con-
tinued Fleming, thinking it better to be direct
and make the interview as brief as possible. “To
begin with, may I ask if you yourself feel en-
tirely satisfied with the accepted view as to your
husband's death?’”
“That it was his heart? Yes.”
“Then he did have heart disease? You knew
that?”
“Yes.”
The questioner paused here, baffled by the un-
expected replies.
“It was a doctor in Hungary who told me years
ago,” Mrs. Zarady explained. “He did not tell
my husband for fear of alarming him. But he
warned me that the disease might develop very


214 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
quickly under any unusual excitement or strain.
That was why I tried to persuade Mr. Zarady to
give up the concert that evening. He was not
well, he admitted it. But he was unwilling to
disappoint the audience.”
Another pause. Fleming looked at Taussig,
and as if reading the glance the widow said quick-
ly: “Did Dr. Taussig not tell you this? He
knew it.”
Taussig answered. “I told Mr. Fleming only
what I knew personally of Mr. Zarady’s health,
which was that I had never known of his being
ill,” he said.
Mrs. Zarady stared at him, a glint of suspicion
in her eyes, then she turned to the district
attorney.
“Dr. Taussig did not know of my husband be-
ing ill,” she said, “because Mr. Zarady never con-
sulted a doctor in this country. He had no confi-
dence in American physicians. But he always
took medical advice when we went to Europe in
the Summer.”
“I’m interested to know that,” Fleming re-
plied. “I had the impression that your hus-
band’s death was quite unexpected to you. You
must pardon me if I insist upon questioning you,
but there are some very puzzling sides to the case.
I have learned, for instance, that your husband
was recently examined for life insurance and was
found in excellent physical condition.”


A PAINFUL CONFESSION 215
“Life insurance? My husband carried no life
insurance,” said Mrs. Zarady.
“It-seems that he did,” returned Fleming,
faltering a little over his unpleasant task. “He
took out a policy about a month ago in favor of,
—Rudolf Kala.
The woman’s pale face flushed, then whitened,
and her dark eyes showed an instant of fire be-
fore the lids dropped to screen them.
“I know nothing of such a policy,” she an-
swered with excellent self-control.
“There is no doubt that it exists,” said Flem-
ing, going doggedly ahead. “And that is why
Mr. Kala’s death, following so quickly on Mr.
Zarady’s, has raised a question as to the real
cause—”
“I know nothing about the cause of Mr. Kala's
death.”
“Of course not. I spoke rather of Mr.
Zarady's,” said Fleming. “However, we will
leave that for the present. Now, as to Mr. An-
drassy, do you object to telling me something of
your husband’s relations with him? They were
friends, were they not?”
Mrs. Zarady did not reply at once. But her
tense form relaxed and she sat back in her chair,
as if the change of subject had eased a strain.
Nevertheless her eyes searched her questioner's
face with a half-frowning stare.
“Yes, they were friends,” she said.


A PAINFUL CONFESSION 217
“He was found dead in his bed this morning.”
She half-rose, then sank back again. Her eyes
flew to Taussig for confirmation of the statement,
received it in a solemn nod of his head, then re-
turned to Fleming. Again she made a movement
as if to rise, but again sank back. The three men
watched her in amazement, so incomprehensible
was her perturbation.
At last, with a sudden lift of her head and a
deep-drawn breath, as of utter relief, she spoke.
“I can tell the truth now,” she said. “My
husband did not die of heart disease. I killed
him.”
It was incredible. Yet it was also incredible
that she should make such an assertion unless it
were true. It must be true. But, as Peter and
Fleming tried to grasp it as a reality, they were
assailed by the questions it failed to answer, the
puzzles it left unsolved.
Her story was pathetic, and so humiliating a
one for a woman to tell that the three men who
listened marveled at her composure. Fleming
understood it better than the others, for he had
heard such stories in the courtroom, told with
the same lack of visible feeling, and he knew that
when a woman thus cast aside feminine vanity
and natural human pride and calmly laid bare
her life she had, for the time, ceased to be her-
self; nature had mercifully inhibited normal emo-
tion in her.


220 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“Yes.”
He heaved a sigh of relief. “Then you didn’t
kill your husband,” he said emphatically and ap-
pealed to Peter, naming the drug the powders
contained. Peter confirmed his assertion.
“That wouldn’t have done anything more than
make him drowsy,” Taussig went on to Mrs.
Zarady, “even if his heart had been weak, and
it was not weak, was it?”
“No,” she spoke tremulously, not yet daring
to believe herself guiltless of her husband's death.
“It was not true, what I said about a doctor in
Hungary, or about my husband being ill before
the concert. Mr. Andrassy told me to say that.
My husband was never ill.”
“I thought not,” said Taussig. “And that
being the case he did not die of heart disease.
What then killed him? That is what the district
attorney is trying to discover. That is why he
asked you if Mr. Zarady had an enemy.”
“I’m sure he had not,” she began, and then,
overcome by the greatness of her relief she lost
her self-control and broke into sobs.
Dr. Taussig took her back to her room and
the ministrations of her maid, then returned.
“Thank heaven,” he exclaimed fervently, “this
has turned out as it has. I suppose you won-
dered at my bringing you here. It was for her
sake. I knew she had something on her mind
connected with her husband's death, something


A PAINFUL CONFESSION 221
that was wearing her life out. I had tried to make
her talk about it and had failed. Thank God, all
she needs now is time to compose herself and—
forget that beast.”
He turned away and his companions exchanged
glances, thinking that he also seemed in need of
time to compose himself. His feeling was cer-
tainly beyond the normal solicitude of a physician
for his patient, but as he was unmarried no one
could find fault with him for that, and no one,
after hearing Mrs. Zarady’s story, could help
hoping that she might indeed forget “that
beast.”
“I’ll talk to her later,” Taussig went on. “It
is possible she may remember something of value
to you.” -
“Thanks,” said Fleming, and he and Peter
took their leave.
“Well, doctor,” said the district attorney,
“that disposes of our best clew, the wine. And,
unfortunately, we have no second best. There’s
nothing for it now but to hunt up that girl in
the squirrel cap.”


CHAPTER XXIV
A DISAPPEARANCE
ITH the district attorney’s permission
Peter at once telephoned Olive that her
troubles were over, that something had
been discovered which completely exonerated her
and Garrison. What this was he promised to ex-
plain later, but he made the promise with a men-
tal reservation. Mrs. Zarady’s story would not
be easy to tell her, considering her part in it, so
he meant to tell it to Garrison and let him pass
it on to Olive.
The fact was, Peter was in no mood for seeing
Olive. He shrank from the sight of her happi-
ness, her radiant face, for even the thought of it
brought back another face, not happy. That poor
little girl, that helpless, frightened child, hunted
down by the police, like a criminall It was as
well for Peter that he had a busy day.
About six o'clock Fleming called up. He was
on his way home, he said, and would appreciate it
if Peter would meet him there for a few minutes'
talk. Peter went with a heavy heart. They had
222


A DISAPPEARANCE 223
found the girl, he thought, and put her on the
rack, and now they wanted to know why he had
not told of his encounter with her on the evening
of Kala’s death?
This surmise, however, was wrong. They had
not found the girl. The district attorney an-
nounced that fact at once.
“Kala seems to have been quite a ladies’ pet,”
he said. “We’ve tracked down several women
who consider his feeling for them to have been
more than friendship. One of them is sure he
committed suicide on her account, and she offers
to consent reluctantly to having her picture in
the papers as the object of his unrequited passion.
But, unfortunately, neither she nor any of the
others has ever been known to wear a squirrel
cap. And the young person who does wear one
doesn’t seem anxious to have her picture in the
papers. However, we shall soon find her.
“Not that I expect it to do us much good,”
Fleming went on. “As I’ve said before she is
probably some silly young thing, in love with his
music, who happened to be with him when he
dropped dead and naturally took to her heels. If
we weren’t so entirely at sea, I’d leave her alone,
but as it is we can’t afford to neglect the slightest
lead. This is a very baffling case, doctor.”
Peter nodded in agreement but said nothing.
He was wondering what he had been summoned
for.


224 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“These three men were poisoned, there's no
doubt of that,” continued Fleming. “But how?
The drug was not taken into the stomach, that
seems sure. It must have been administered in
some other way. Tradition has it that the old
Italians poisoned by means of flowers and gloves,
but no suspicious object that might have served
as a carrier of poison was found near Kala
or—”
“Andrassy died in his sleep, apparently,” said
Peter.
“Yes—apparently,” replied Fleming after a
pause. “So you see we don’t get far along that
line of inquiry. I’m inclined to think we shall
never know how these murders were committed
until we discover who committed them. And,
having no direct clew to the murderer the only
thing to do is to look about for somebody with a
motive for the crimes. So far I have found only
Garrison. Perez—the friend of Andrassy’s, with
whom he lunched yesterday, you remember—came
to see me today. He accused Garrison flatly of
all three deaths, and I must admit that he made
out a fairly good case against him. He says that
Garrison killed Zarady with poisoned wine in
order to save Miss Thrace from him, and then
killed Kala and Andrassy because they knew of
his crime and were about to accuse him of
it.”
“Mrs. Zarady’s story disposes of that theory.”


230 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
and when she stepped into the hall, “A fur boa,
you say?” he asked.
“Oh—isn’t it here?” She was quick to catch
the vagueness of his tone.
“What kind of fur is it?” he asked, waving
her toward the reception room and following her
TIl.
“Squirrel—like my cap,” she answered anx-
iously.
He looked at the cap, wondering how best to
handle his difficult problem. It was clear that
she knew nothing of the search being made for
her and he shrank from telling her of it, shrank
from the new terror it would bring to her eyes,
already so full of trouble. How big they looked
in her small, white face, smaller and paler even
than when he had seen her before.
“Why did you run away from me the other
evening?” he asked, smiling down at her gently,
hoping to reassure her by a quiet, friendly
Iſlanner.
“I—was in a hurry. I couldn’t wait,” she
answered. “Oh, please give me my boa.”
“I don’t believe that's altogether true—is it?”
he went on, in the same easy, kindly tone.
She gave him a quick glance and drew back.
“I want my fur. I—want to go,” she faltered.
“Something has happened to frighten you,” he
said. “But there’s nothing to be afraid of here
with me. I'm your friend and I’m going to help


EVADING THE POLICE 231
you. Something has—gone wrong for you, I
know that, and I’m going to help you to make it
all right again.”
“It can’t be made right again,” she whispered
brokenly, and then, alarmed at her incautious
words, she added in haste: “I must go. Please
give me my fur.”
“I can’t,” he told her gently. “You didn’t
leave it here. You left it—up there.”
A gulp of fright broke from her blanched lips.
He took her trembling hands in his. “Don’t be
afraid,” he said. “You’re all right with me,
and I don’t believe you have anything to be really
afraid of anyhow—not for yourself, have you?”
She stared a moment, then shook her head.
“I knew it. I was sure of it. Now come and
sit down a minute and tell me what’s worrying
you.”
“No, no, I can’t tell you anything!” She pulled
her hands free of his and made for the door. “I
must go.”
He barred the way. “Where are you going?”
“I can’t tell you. Please let me out.”
He shook his head. “I can’t do that, for your
own sake,” he said, gently still but in a firmer tone
than he had used before. “I can’t let you leave
here now, because—they are looking for you.”
She stared. “Who?”
“The-the people who are investigating Mr.
Kala's death.” He hesitated, then blurted out


EVADING THE POLICE 233
in her chair, but in a moment her small figure had
drooped again and anguish came into her eyes.
“He was already dead,” she wailed despair-
ingly. “I was too late.” Sinking against the
chair arm she broke into a storm of sobbing.
Too late? Then she had come to warn Kalal
He looked down at the slender, shaking form.
What wretched secret was the poor child hiding?
Whom was she shielding?
He let her have her cry out, knowing that it
would relieve her nerves and put her in a more
normal and rational state of mind. Nevertheless
it took all his self-control to sit dumbly by and let
the medicine do its work. The minute her sobs
grew quieter he patted her and implored her not
to cry any more, promising recklessly that every-
thing in the world was going to be all right from
that time forth.
At last she sat up and wiped her eyes, digging
a handkerchief from her coat pocket for the pur-
pose. “I’m sorry I cried and was such a bother,”
she said, her eyes averted. “But we-were en-
gaged—once.” -
“Engaged?” he echoed, surprised. “To be
married? You and Kala?”
“Yes. But he didn't—” She broke off,
struggling against a renewal of her tears. “He
wanted to wait,” she finished finally. -
“Well—” Peter stopped, not knowing what
to say, for he wanted her to talk and was afraid


EVADING THE POLICE 235
thing, that you went to Mr. Kala's rooms to warn
him about something. What was it?”
“I—” She thought a moment and deciding,
apparently, that she could answer without reveal-
ing anything vital, she went on: “I went to beg
him not to go to Mr. Andrassy’s.”
“Why not?” -
“That’s all I can tell you.”
“All right. And when you got there he was
dead?”
“Yes.” She shivered as if reliving a terrible
moment.
“How did you get into the room?”
“The door was unlocked.”
“Why didn't you go upstairs in the elevator?”
“I should have had to give my name to be
telephoned up, and I was afraid he might refuse
to see me.” Flushing at the painful admission,
she hurried on. “I knew he must be at home,
because he wasn’t at the Andrassy house. I had
just been there and they told me he hadn’t come
yet.”
“Who told you?” A sudden idea had seized
Peter.
“A man—a servant—that opened the door.”
“What sort of looking man was he?”
“Why—I don’t know.” She seemed surprised
by the question. “I didn't notice him.”
“Don’t you know whether he was young or
middle-aged?”


236 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
She shook her head. “Why?” she asked.
He did not explain. The thought that had
prompted his inquiry was a most disturbing one.
Had Hofer seen the girl and noticed her fur cap,
and was that the reason he had stared so at Peter
when mention of the cap caused the latter to
start? If so, he could hardly have failed to won-
der. But that was not a thing to tell her now.
“I’m sorry I didn’t notice him,” she said in a
meek little voice when her question went un-
answered. “But—I was so excited.”
“Of course you were,” assented Peter in his
former tone of quiet sympathy. “Then you came
right here? And you found the door unlocked
and went in, and—what then?”
“He was on the floor—dead.” She shuddered
again and hid her face with her hands.
Gently Peter drew the hands down and held
them in his, looking squarely into her eyes. “What
killed him?” he ventured to ask in the quietest
way.
“I don’t know,” she whispered back.
“Who killed him?” -
“I—Oh, I can’t tell you! I can’t tell you any-
thing!” She sprang to her feet. “I told you I
couldn't!” she cried reproachfully.
“That’s true, you did,” he admitted, manner
and voice contrite. He felt indeed that he had
been unfair, justifiably or not, and would press
her no further. “I am not going to ask you to


240 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
before the machine was at the door. A minute
or two later when no one was passing they slipped
away.
They stopped once before leaving the city for
Peter to telephone Mrs. Ryan that they were com-
ing. A booth telephone was safer for that pur-
pose than his own, he thought. The message
given he hurried back to his car, half fearful of
finding it empty, but to his relief a pair of wide,
sweet eyes peered up at him from the fur collar
of his motor coat.
Snug in her warm wrappings the girl sat at
his side in silence, answering only direct ques-
tions, and for long stretches of the journey he
was silent, too, wondering what she was thinking,
what concealing. Would she tell him everything
later when he had succeeded in gaining her con-
fidence?
Mrs. Ryan’s home was not above an hour’s
ride and was a modest, farmlike place, somewhat
off the popular lines of travel. A hearth fire was
blazing in their honor in the living-room, a coffee
pot was steaming in the kitchen, and Mrs. Ryan's
arms were open at the open door.
“A new patient, Mother Ryan,” said Peter
smiling encouragingly at his companion, “Miss—
er ” He stared blankly, glancing at the girl,
having utterly forgotten to prepare for this mo-
ment. “Miss—er—Smith,” he finished lamely,
when no help came from her.


EVADING THE POLICE 243
was so little and so alone, and because “friend”
sounded formal and cold, and not at all as he
felt toward her, he added: “And because I—
like you.”
“I like you, too.”
He almost smiled, her polite little return of civ-
ility was so quaint; but not for the world would
he have spoiled the innocent gravity of the
moment. *
“I’m glad. Then we can be good friends,” he
answered, as simply and seriously as she herself
had spoken, giving her hand another little Squeeze
before dropping it at Mrs. Ryan's approach.
Speeding back to New York he relived that little
scene and it brought him then no wish to smile.
Instead, he stared frowningly before him with
bent head.
“My lord!” he exclaimed aloud to the night
suddenly. “Like her? Why, I love her! And
I don’t even know her name.”
If it be true that all the world loves a lover,
it is also true that a lover loves all the world.
From the moment Peter knew himself to be in
love all that had seemed so wrong gave way to
a magic certainty that everything was most glor-
iously right—or soon would be. It was simply
impossible that in such a wonderful world any-
thing should ever be wrong again.
A born defender of the helpless, love made him
only the more himself, with his innate desire to
N


244 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
help and heal and protect doubled and redoubled.
He would soon, he promised himself, have the
color back in her cheeks, joy back in her eyes.
And he would change her “I like you,” into some-
thing that chimed better with the song in his heart.
Her face blotted out every other mental image.
He wanted only that and the stars, and he chose
the less-traveled roads in order to avoid distrac-
tions. But when he neared New York he roused
himself. The world was a place for work, not
for dreaming, and he was likely to need all his
wits at any moment now. To begin with, he had
better replenish his gasoline supply, merely as
a precaution to avoid possible inquiry later as to
his long night trip.
He did this at the first opportunity as it turned
out. Then as he continued westward from the
bridge after entering the city and found himself
near Garrison’s studio he remembered his unful-
filled intention of going there that evening. Why
not now? It was barely past eleven. If there
was a light he would stop.
There was a light, but when he rang the artist’s
street bell there came no answering click of the
lock. Either the ‘bell was not working or Garri-
son had gone out and left his lights on. However,
as the door of the building was unlocked—as
usually happened in such places—Peter decided
to go upstairs and knock at the studio door, just
to make sure. -


EVADING THE POLICE 245
He knocked, not expecting a response, but one
came, instant and amazing. The door flew open,
a low voice said: “Hands up,” and he found him-
self facing a pistol with behind it the impassive
countenance of Theodore Andrassy’s butler.
“Oh–it’s you, doctor,” said Hofer the next
moment, lowering his weapon. “Come in.”
Peter hesitated, then entered.
“Mr. Garrison is not here,” observed Hofer
in his quiet voice. “He appears to have left in
a hurry,”


A MIDNIGHT CAPTURE 247
the second switch on the wall near the door. “I
will explain later.”
“No, you’ll explain now,” said Peter firmly.
“You wasted several minutes asking questions,
you can waste a few answering them. What has
happened? Why has Garrison gone away?”
“You ought to know, you’re his friend, aren’t
you?” With the words Hofer touched the switch
and the room turned black. “Now, doctor, we'll
settle this right here. Remember, I’m armed and
you're not.”
“Turn on that light,” ordered Peter, indig-
nant at the trick. At the same time he felt for
his pocket torch and the next moment it flashed
on the spot where the ex-butler had been stand-
ing. There was no one there.
Peter wheeled automatically, and just in time
to meet a spring at him from behind as the torch
was knocked from his hand. But with the im-
pact of the other’s body against his own he was
master of the situation. The attack was a fam-
iliar one to a wrestler and his muscles knew the
answer to it. In a trice his hands had gripped
his assailant’s legs and at the same time giving
them such a twist that when the two men
went to the floor the next instant Peter was on
top.
“All right, doctor,” said Hofer. “You
win.”
Peter did not move to release him, fearing an-


248 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
other ruse. Pinioning his opponent’s arms with
the weight of his body he felt for the pistol in
his hand. Both hands were empty.
“In my pockets, doctor,” said Hofer. “There
are two of them. But hurry, please. There is
no time to lose.”
Peter drew out the two weapons, then he got
up, groped for the switch on the wall and brought
back the light. Hofer had picked himself up,
none the worse apparently, for he was smiling.
“You’ll do, doctor,” he declared in his calm
way. “I wasn’t quite sure of you, you see. Size
doesn’t always mean strength and courage. Now
for your questions. Smell this.” He caught up
a handkerchief from the floor and held it to
Peter’s nose. “Chloroform—very careless work,”
he said. “As for the rest,”—his glance indicat-
ing the surrounding disorder—“very amateurish.
Just what I should have expected from Perez.”
“Perez?”
“Garrison has been drugged and carried off by
Perez to be put aboard a tramp steamer bound
for Brazil. Several attempts were made by An-
drassy to induce him to go voluntarily. Now
Andrassy is dead and Perez is using force. My
guess is that he will be taken first to a house I
know of on the New Jersey coast, and will from
there be transferred by motor boat to the ship. I
am going to that house tonight—with you or with-
out you. Which is it to be?”
“With me,” said Peter, holding out the pistols. -


A MIDNIGHT CAPTURE 249
Hofer took one and slipped it into his pocket.
“Keep the other,” he said.
The lights out and the studio locked they left
the place and were presently heading rapidly for
New Jersey. Peter thought of his full gasoline
tank with thankfulness, and when they reached
their ferry in the nick of time he felt that luck was
undoubtedly with them.
The question of roads had first to be settled,
and when the route was decided upon silence fell
between them. Questions occurred to Peter that
he would have liked to ask his companion, but
he put them aside. He had made up his mind
to trust Hofer. Still, he could not keep out of
his thoughts the district attorney’s theory that
Hofer and a subtle plot of revenge were at the
bottom of the three mysteries they were seeking
to solve. If it were true, as Fleming believed,
that the ex-butler had lied about the time of his
employer’s death, why had he done so, if not to
shield himself. Was he really in the government
service? What if that, too, were a lie? It had
been nothing short of foolhardy to take his word
and rush off with him into the lonely Jersey coun-
tryside in the dead of night. Yet, foolhardy or
not, with Garrison’s fate in the balance it had
not been possible to do otherwise.
Hofer stirred suddenly and looked up, and
when he spoke his words seemed to be an answer
to his companion’s thoughts.
“I shall not ask you to take any risks tonight,


252 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
gestion could not have pleased him, but it was too
reasonable to be rejected without rousing sus-
picion.
“You are very kind,” he returned, somewhat
brusquely, motioned the man at his side to join
the other, and closed the door.
The car started. With one eye on it, Peter
kept the other on Hofer, waiting for what was to
come. Hofer’s head was bent to avoid scrutiny
from behind. His right hand was in his pocket,
gripping his automatic. From the dark bundle
that was Garrison issued only stertorous breath-
ing. Perez was perfectly still.
The road ran for a mile or two through un-
settled land before they finally struck a crossroad.
“Turn here,” directed Perez.
“Straight ahead,” ordered Hofer, and on the
word he started up, whirled about, and thrust his
pistol in Perez’ face. “Put up your hands,
Perez,” he said quietly.
The Brazilian’s hands rose automatically, then
his head shot out, staring. “Franz” he ex-
claimed, taken aback. But the next moment he
snapped with his old arrogance: “What’s the
meaning of this?”
“I guess you understand,” replied the secret
service man. “If you don’t they’ll explain in
Washington.”
Perez” answer was an oath, mere futile rage.
The car was stopped now while Peter, directed
by Hofer, searched and disarmed their prisoner


A MIDNIGHT CAPTURE 253
and adjusted handcuffs. The task was novel and
unpleasant and he made quick work of it. Then
he satisfied himself as to Garrison’s condition.
That done they resumed the journey back to the
city.
“How about the men we left behind?” Peter
whispered to Hofer.
“Mere tools,” was the answer. “We already
have more of that small fry than we want.”
Hofer and Perez were deposited at the nearest
New York police station. With his charge in safe
hands, Hofer lingered for a parting word with
Peter. After having thanked him for his help
he said, glancing back at the unconscious form
in the tonneau:
“You can tell Garrison for me that his troubles
are over.”
“But are they?” questioned Peter. “Perez
went to the district attorney today and accused
him of murdering Andrassy.”
“Naturally.”
“You mean—” Peter paused, staring at the
inexpressive face before him. “You mean that
Perez did it himself?”
“I wish to God he had!” replied Hofer, and
turning went into the police station.
“I wish to God he had.” The words rang in
Peter’s ears all the way uptown, not so much for
what they seemed to imply, but because of the
depth of feeling they had suddenly revealed. And
he had thought Hofer incapable of feeling!


A VERY SICK MAN 255
“You’ve saved me again, doctor,” said the
artist. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Well, I owe you a unique and thrilling ex-
perience, so we’ll call it square,” Peter said.
“How are you feeling?” -
“All right.” r
“You’re still a little white about the gills. I
prescribe a holiday, to begin with breakfast with
Olive. I’ll call up and tell her you’re coming.”
“You’re to have a guest for breakfast,” he an-
nounced to the girl a minute later when he had
her on the wire.
“You, Peter? How lovely 1” she answered.
“No, not me—your best young man.”
“Tony? Why, what's happened?”
“Wonderful things. He'll tell you.”
“Why don’t you come too?”
“Couldn’t think of it. It would make me lone-
Some.”
She laughed. “Oh, Peter 1”
“Fact. Wish I’d picked your star, Olive. You
are lucky.”
“If I am it’s because you are you, Peter.”
“Yes, because I am I, and you are you, and
because Tony is Tony and the world’s the world.
Well—bless you, my children, and all that sort
of thing.”
“Why, Peter, what's the matter with you?
You sound positively lugubrious.”
“Got green eyes.”


258 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
moving picture place that he had engaged a
young girl of her description to play the piano.
But she didn’t turn up—got wind of her danger,
probably. However, she must be without money,
so she can’t go far. We ought to have her in a
few days. And I’m anxious now to get hold of
her. She is evidently seriously involved in the
case or she wouldn’t have run away.”
“What does her father say?”
“Nothing. The poor devil's desperately ill,
dying, his doctor says. A dope fiend in the last
stages.”
“A dope—” Peter swallowed his startled
echo before it was fully out, and was thankful
that it escaped his companion's notice.
“Here’s the address,” said Fleming, reading
from a paper he picked up from his desk, “Paul
Hamel, 796 West 118th Street. I wish you'd go
up and have a look at him. The report is that
he is unconscious and likely to die so. I’d be glad
to have your opinion on that point, though the
police are convinced that he knows nothing. He
never speaks, they say, except to moan the girl's
name—seems to know she’s gone. Very sad case.
Will you go up and see him?”
“Certainly,” said Peter.


260 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
of having had in their time more congenial
housing.
A grand piano filled one corner of the room,
beside it there stood an overflowing music rack.
Both piano and rack were old, but like everything
else inoffensively so. On the walls were many
framed photographs of men and women—mus-
icians, all of them, judging from their costumes
and the musical instruments that abounded.
“A mon cher ami, Paul Hamel, 1894,” Peter
read on one near him, but was unable to decipher
the signature below.
In 1894 Paul Hamel had been a young man, a
prosperous one, perhaps. What had brought him
to such an end?
“‘Carola, l’’
The name, clearly spoken this time, and with
a poignant insistence, resolved Peter doubts. He
must bring the girl back. His decision made he
lost no time, realizing that there was none to lose, *
and in little more than an hour he was at Mrs.,
Ryan's home.
The girl was at the gate when he reached it,
and greeted him with a shy, warm little hand
that sent a thrill through him.
“I knew you’d come,” she said. “I was watch-
ing at the window. And Mrs. Ryan's made
doughnuts.”
“That's fine,” he answered absently. 4.
“You must be frozen. Let's hurry,” she said,
*-*-


THE TRUTH AT LAST 261
slipping her hand back to her protecting coat
pocket.
“Wait a minute.” He buttoned her coat which
was flying in the wind, then looking down into
her eyes, “I have something to tell you—Carola,”
he said.”
At her name her glance widened with alarm.
“You are Carola Hamel, aren’t you?” he asked.
“How did you know?” she faltered.
“I’ll tell you that later. First I must tell you
about—your father.”
The color fled from her lips. “My father?”
she whispered.
“He is very sick,” said Peter gently.
“Oh.” Her tone sounded oddly relieved, but
it was anxious enough as she asked: “Very sick?”
“I’m afraid he—isn’t going to get well.”
“Oh—what shall I do?” she cried.
“He asks for you, Carola—calls your name
*over and over.”
“Oh-oh 2 3
“And—he isn’t going to live till morning.”
“Then I must go to him. We must hurry.”
She turned to the car. “Hurry, please,” she
begged. “Don’t wait for anything.”
“I must explain to Mrs. Ryan and get you a
coat.”
“I’m warm enough. Oh, please hurry!”
But Peter continued his way to the house, re-


262 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
turning presently with a veil and coat for her.
Then, with Mrs. Ryan's sympathetic farewells in
their ears they started.
Carola sat forward, watching the road and
never speaking except to say again “Hurry—0h
hurry,” when for any reason he slackened pace.
She asked no questions and he refrained from
questioning her, seeing that her whole mind was
filled with the fear that she would be too late to
see her father alive. Why had she left him then?
Why had she said she had no father?
When they finally reached her home she was out
of the car before it stopped and up the stairs with-
out a word to Peter. He followed slowly, not
wishing to intrude, yet feeling that in his profes-
sional capacity he might be needed. Finding the
door of the flat ajar he went softly in.
From the room where the sick man lay her voice
could be heard in short, quick snatches of words,
of which he caught only their tender cadence.
Once the nurse spoke, and thinking she was per-
haps protesting in behalf of quiet for the patient,
he went forward to see what was happening. But
he stopped again when he heard a man’s low
tones follow those of the nurse. The doctor in
charge of the case was evidently there, he thought,
and retreated to the living-room.
Here the voices reached him only faintly and
he wandered about absently inspecting the photo-
graphs on the wall and hardly seeing what he


THE TRUTH AT LAST 263
looked at. He was thinking, wondering again.
The dying man would certainly not last till morn-
ing, and when the end came, what then? The
girl could not go away now, she must give herself
up, tell what she knew. Her secrecy and flight
had not been for her own sake, she had said.
For whom, then?
“Doctor Doctor l’’
It was her voice and it sent Peter plunging
through the narrow hall to her side.
“Oh, doctor!” She looked up at him piteously,
then back at her father’s still face. All was over.
She read it in Peter’s eyes and with a despairing
cry sank beside the bed, sobbing.
Peter bent to raise her, but another’s arms were
ahead of his—Hofer’s. It was his voice, not a
doctor's, that Peter had heard.
“Pauvre enfant!” He commiserated the girl
tenderly, lifting her to her feet and holding her
close in his arms until her first flow of tears had
spent itself. “Wiens, cherie,” he said then, and
led her into an adjoining room, with “Just a
minute, doctor,” to Peter as they passed him.
Peter went back to the living-room to wait,
leaving the nurse with the dead man, and in about
ten minutes Hofer came to him there.
“He was my brother, doctor, as you may have
guessed from the resemblance between us,” began
the secret-service man, in the calm, even tone
that long practice in self-control had made second


264 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
nature. “My real name is François Hamel.
Now that my poor brother no longer lives I am
free to speak the truth about Theodore Andrassy’s
death. He was the man responsible for it.”
“Responsible?” repeated Peter, struck by the
word. “Do you mean that he-killed him?”
“No, I should not put it in quite that way,”
answered Hamel. “However, with your per-
mission I will defer my explanation until we can
see the district attorney. I must explain to him
and I wish you also to hear what I have to say.
My niece has just told me what you did for her and
how very kind you were. We shall not forget it,
either of us, I assure you.”
“She was so young and so frightened. I could
not have done otherwise,” Peter said.
“Being what you are, that is true,” agreed the
other gravely. “Permit me to say—as one who
knows men well—that your qualities of heart are
very rare and admirable.”
“Thanks,” returned Peter, much embarrassed
by the formal compliment. “But when are we to
see the district attorney?”
“At once. I telephoned an hour ago to Mr.
Fleming and he said he would see me whenever I
came, as it is necessary for me to go to Wash-
ington tonight. So if you are free now—”
“I am, and we can go down in my car. But—
your niece—we can't leave her here alone—”
“The nurse is to stay.”


THE TRUTH AT LAST 265
“Have you no relatives, no friends, you can
Send for?”
“No-unfortunately. The nature of my work
made it impossible for me to form social ties, and
my poor brother's affliction caused Carola to
shrink from people. I have wished to send her to
boarding-school so that she might have a more
normal life for a girl of her age, but she would
not leave her father. Now she is willing to go,
and I should like to ask your advice as to a proper
school for her. But we can discuss this on our
way.”
The discussion was brief, for Peter knew just
the school, one near New York, but in the country
where the pupils had plenty of outdoor life. The
daughter of one of his patients was there, a
charming girl of Carola’s age. It would be ex-
actly the place for Carola. And—if Mr. Hamel
wished—he would be very glad to keep in touch
with her.
Mr. Hamel was most grateful for the offer and
accepted it instantly. He should never forget Dr.
Bennett's kindness, he affirmed warmly, to which
Peter responded with equal ardor that he should
be only too happy to be of service. And that was
literally true.
The district attorney kept his promise to see
Hamel at once, and the latter lost no time in be-
ginning the story he had come to tell.
His task was not easy, but so composed was his


THE TRUTH AT LAST 267
be in Lohdon, and shortly before the end she con-
fided to me that he sometimes took morphine and
she was fearful of the habit growing upon him.
“Her fears were justified. I did what I could,
so did poor little Carola, then about thirteen; but
this second loss seemed to leave him nothing to
live for and he went downhill rapidly.
“About that time I became interested in some
diamond smuggling that was baffling the United
States secret-service and I gave up my work in
London and came over here to lend a hand. I
had run up against a shady enterprise of Theo-
dore Andrassy's while on a case in Brazil and
felt that I had a possible key to the smuggling
here. I brought my brother and niece with me,
hoping the change of environment would benefit
him.
“All this, however, has nothing to do with what
we are discussing, except that had I not been An-
drassy’s butler and in the house at the time of
his death, I should now know no more than you
what killed him. My discovery was an accident.
His death indeed was an accident—his and Za-
rady's. My brother did not intend their deaths,
only Kala’s.”
“And why Kala’s?” asked Fleming.
“His motive was mixed, as most motives are,”
replied Hamel. “The psychology is simple, how-
ever. He envied Kala his success. Kala had
everything he had lost, and now was about to


268 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
rob him of the one thing left, his child. And Kala
did not want her honorably—there was that fear,
too. He had promised to marry her, she consid-
ered herself engaged, but he insisted on secret
meeting, because his career would be ruined, he
said, if Zarady heard of the affair.”
“How had she made his acquaintance?”
“Through a singing teacher at whose studio she
played accompaniments. It was his music and
success that fascinated her, which was natural
enough, brought up as she had been. Her father’s
protests had no effect. She had watched over
him and mothered him until he seemed to her more
like a child than a parent. And I saw her so
rarely; the nature of my work made it necessary
to conceal from them even where I lived. Then
her sensitiveness about her father’s condition
made her shrink from possible friends. Alto-
gether, her life was such as to make her very
mature in some ways, very immature in others.
I do not feel that she can be blamed for what
happened.”
“Certainly not,” put in Peter eagerly.
“When Zarady died,” continued Hamel. “I
suspected Andrassy of being concerned in it, just
how I don’t know. But Kala’s death puzzled me.
I had no suspicion of the truth, though I knew
my niece had been in his rooms because I found
her boa there. It was I who hid it under the
sofa. There was no time to do more than that,
i


THE TRUTH AT LAST 269
for just as I recognized it and picked it up I heard
people coming. I hoped to be able to take it
away later. I thought of going to see her that
night but did not dare, for fear of being followed.
I had an idea that Dr. Bennett suspected me.”
He looked at Peter. “I fancied you stared at
me when the telephone operator mentioned the
fur cap that Carola had on,” he explained.
“Did I?” murmured Peter. And all the time
he had thought it was Hamel who stared.
“That was Saturday night,” Hamel went on.
“The next evening Andrassy died.”
“The next evening?” said Fleming. “I thought
So.”
“It happened shortly after dinner, in the music-
room. I found him there about ten o’clock when
I went in to see if the windows were fastened.”
“And you took him upstairs on the elevator
and put him to bed?”
“Yes. I knew then that my brother was re-
sponsible for his death. After arranging the body
in the bed I went to him. He was in a dreadful
state, phsically and mentally. Carola had left
him; he had not seen her since the previous eve-
ning. He had told her that Kala would not live
through the Andrassy concert, and, terrified by
his wild words and manner, she had gone to warn
Kala. That was what took her to his apartment,
after she had failed to find him at Andyssy's.
This I have just learned from her.”


270 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
“She knew then that her father had killed
Rala?”
“Yes, but not how death was caused.”
“How was death caused?” asked Fleming, and
both he and Peter leaned forward for the reply.
“In a most unusual way. You know, probably,
that concert pianists are nearly always under
contract to some piano maker to use only his
make of piano. It is an advertisement for which
the manufacturer pays according to the pianist's
fame, and he furnishes an instrument whenever it
is needed. My poor brother tuned pianos for the
Steiner Company. It was all he was fit for, ow-
ing to the curse of morphine, and after the piano
for Kala was sent to Panharmonic Hall he went
there and tuned it. That done, no one was per-
mitted to touch it but Kala, and if the concert
had taken its regular course that evening Kala
would have died, and Zarady and Andrassy would
be alive today. They had the misfortune to use
pianos meant only for Kala, Zarady to play for
Miss Thrace's encore, as you know, and Andrassy
to amuse himself for a few minutes after dinner.
He asked me for the key, which my brother had
left with the footman, and I gave it to him, sus-
pecting nothing.”
“Your brother did not know that you were at
Andrassy’s?”
“No, and when the footman reported to me that
the piano tuner had come I, of course, kept out of


272 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
above, emptied into his finger, through the needle,
a drop of the poison it contained—hydrocyanic
acid.” -
“Is that possible, doctor,” Fleming asked of
Peter. “Could death be caused instantaneously
by such means?”
“Undoubtedly,” Peter answered. “One drop
in the blood and death would result instantly—
or one whiff, for that matter. Let me tell you
something that happened in a college laboratory
where a friend of mine was studying. The pro-
fessor came in and asked one of the students,
whom he found working under a hood, what he
was doing, and before the student could answer,
the professor bent his head and took a sniff, and
dropped dead. That is what hydrocyanic acid
Will do.”
“But Kala’s case must have been different,”
said Fleming. “He was not playing the piano
at the time; he was in his bedroom.”
“Yes, but in his bedroom there was a clavier, a
silent keyboard that musicians sometimes use for
the practice of technique. Kala’s looked like a
miniature organ. You must have noticed it
standing against the wall beside his chiffonier.
Death was not instantaneous in his case, I think,
for he evidently tried to get to the 'phone to call
help. It was by means of the clavier that my
brother first meant to kill Kala. There was, he
thought, practically no chance of anybody else



274 THE TRIPLE MYSTERY
So I think you will agree with me that you and I
will only be paying our country’s debt in keeping
silence about matters that concern Mr. Hamel and
his niece, and nobody else.”
That Peter agreed to this goes without saying.