Part 21 (1/2)
”You think they had never met before?”
”I'm sure they had not. They looked at each other with the conventional politeness of strangers, I know Miss Van Allen well, and she is not one to dissemble or pretend. I am sure she had never laid eyes on that man before. She simply _couldn't_ have killed him!”
Ariadne's further evidence amounted to nothing, nor did that of several other of the party guests who were called on.
Except Mrs. Reeves. She knew more of Vicky's home life than any of the rest of us, but even she knew nothing of the girl's origin.
She had first met her at one of Miss Gale's studio parties, and had taken a fancy to her at once.
”Where did _you_ first meet her, Miss Gale,” the coroner interrupted to ask.
”She came to my studio to look at my pictures,” was the reply. ”She admired them, and bought one. She was so pleasant and so interested in my work that she came two or three times, and then I invited her to one of my little studio affairs. She quickly made friends, and she invited us to her house. I went there first about two years ago.”
”So did I,” Mrs. Reeves resumed. ”And since then, I have been there frequently, and every time I saw the girl I liked her better. But she was always a bit of a mystery. I confess I tried at times, to learn something of her previous life. But she adroitly evaded my questions, and cleverly changed the subject. I think, however, from chance hints she let drop, that her home was somewhere in the Middle West.”
”An indefinite term,” observed Coroner Fenn.
”It's all I know.”
”Where did Miss Van Allen go on her frequent absences from her home?”
”That I don't know, either. Often she'd be away a week, and on her return would tell of a gay house party down on Long Island or a week-end trip up Westchester way, but I don't remember any definite place she visited.”
”I do,” piped up Ariadne. ”She often goes to Greenwich, Connecticut, and to Bronxville. I've heard her tell of these trips. She has a wide circle of acquaintances and, of course, she's a favorite with all who know her.”
”I have a piece of evidence,” resumed Mrs. Reeves, ”which I daresay I ought to exhibit. It is a letter from Miss Van Allen, which I received only this morning.”
This caused a sensation. A letter from Vicky Van! Just received! I found myself trembling in my shoes. And I asked myself why. Was I afraid the girl would be caught? Did I want to s.h.i.+eld a felon? And I had to admit to myself that I did. I wasn't in love with Vicky Van, but I had a tremendous interest in her, and I didn't want that little lone, helpless person haled before a court of justice. Vicky did seem terribly alone. Hosts of friends she had, but no one who was in any way responsible for her, or in a position to help her. Well, if she ever returned, voluntarily or perforce, she would find a friend and champion in one Chester Calhoun, of that I was certain!
Mrs. Reeves handed her letter over to the coroner, and he read it out.
It ran:
My dear Mrs. Reeves: You have always been such a good friend to me that I'm writing you just a line. You are everything that is good and kind, and now I'm going to ask you as a final favor to forget Vicky Van at once and forever. I am going away and I shall never return. Don't think of me any more hardly than you must, but if you can keep any loving little memory of the hours we spent together, I want you to do so. And as a remembrance, I want you to have my little electric coupe. It is in Rennard's garage, and I have written him to turn it over to you. I shall miss our happy times together, but--I can never come back. Do not worry about me, I am safe.
And I am your affectionate Vicky Van.
”You are sure this is from Miss Van Allen?” asked Fenn.
”Oh, yes,” replied Mrs. Reeves. ”There's no mistaking that writing.”
Nor was there. I knew Vicky's penmans.h.i.+p, and it was most peculiar.
Never have I seen such a hand. Angular, slightly backhanded, and full of character, it would be difficult to imitate it, and, too, no one would have any reason to forge that letter to Mrs. Reeves. She had verified Vicky's statement, and found that a letter to the garage owner had instructed him to give up the car to Mrs. Reeves, and he had already done so, that very morning.
The letters had both been mailed in New York the night before, the postmark showing that they were mailed in the district that included Vicky's residence.
Was she, then, even now in hiding near her home? Or, had she sent the letters to be mailed by some one else? By Julie, perhaps, who, I felt sure, was with her mistress, wherever that might be.
My leaping thoughts took in all this, and by degrees the slower going coroner, put it in words.