I wrote down that he was crafty and physically strong; that he had no scruples about taking human life; that he knew my house even to the detail of the airshaft and its window; that he was—at least probably—of the same height and build as Jim Blake; that my dogs knew him; that, although since Sarah’s death the front door lock had been changed, he was still able—if Joseph’s story were accurate—to enter my house at will; and that his motive, still hidden, had somehow already involved and destroyed Sarah and Florence Gunther and possibly Howard, and might in the end affect others, God only knew who.
I was badly frightened by that time, and when just as I had finished the list I heard the stealthy padding of feet in the hall, I was in a cold sweat of terror.
It was only Jock, however, moving restlessly about, with the call of the spring night in his blood and a closed and double-locked front door between him and his kind.
Chapter Fifteen
THE NEXT DAY I went through my house, acting on Dick’s suggestion.
I imagine that the servants thought that our recent tragedies had slightly unbalanced me, as I took down one circular object after another and examined it.
One or two old daguerreotypes in round frames I literally ripped open, but at the end of these acts of vandalism I was no wiser than before.
It was that afternoon that I was sent for by the District Attorney; a disquieting interview, with accusation and suppressed anger on his part, and sheer dismay on my own.
“This is a curious case, Miss Bell,” he said.
“Two horrible crimes have been committed by the same hand, and two attacks, one of them certain; the other, on your butler, at least possible.
We have either a maniac loose in the community, or we have a motive so carefully concealed that so far we have not found it.
I think there is a motive.
Of the two women killed, one was apparently negligible, without background.
The other had no background save a certain family, to which she had been loyal and from which she had certainly received a considerable measure of confidence.
These two women became friends; the secret of one became the secret of the other.
Therefore, granting there was some detrimental knowledge, when one died the other must die. That’s simple.
But the family in question has done nothing to help the law.
It has even withheld certain matters from the police.”
“I deny that, absolutely.”
“Do you?
Is that entirely wise, Miss Bell?
If this case comes to trial, and you are put under oath on the witness stand—”
“How can it come to trial?
You have made no arrest.”
But he ignored that.
“I want to urge you to tell what you know, Miss Bell, as a public duty.
You owe that to the community.
If there is a man of this description loose, a wholesale murderer, shrewd, without conscience or scruple, defeating justice to serve his own ends, then your obligation lies plain before you.”
“I know nothing.
If you think you are describing Jim Blake, I do not.
He is as innocent as you are.”
He bent forward.
“Then why did you burn the carpet from his car?
You need not answer that.
We know that you did. We are not guessing.”
“If you are going to try to convict a man on purely circumstantial evidence—”
“What is circumstantial evidence?
It is the evidence on which we rely every day of our lives.
Your door bell rings; you have not seen anybody at the door, but you know that somebody is there, ringing that bell.
That’s circumstantial evidence.”
He leaned back and spoke more quietly.
“This cane,” he said, “the one with the hidden blade.
How wide was that blade?”
“It was very narrow; perhaps a half inch at the widest part.
It tapered.”
“And it had a double cutting edge?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You haven’t seen it since you gave it to Jim Blake?”
“Not since.”
“And when did you give it to him?”