Part 35 (1/2)
”Probly all smudged anyway,” he muttered, squinting closely at the knife. ”But there's sure some marks on it! Gee, Mr. Stone, there's sumpum doin'!” His eyes shone and his skinny little fingers trembled with excitement of the chase.
Stone studied the gold-fringed dress. The blood stains on the flounces, though dried and brown, were unmistakable.
”Wonderful woman!” he exclaimed. ”Now, we've got this dress, and what of it? She put it here, not caring whether we got it or not. She's gone for good. She'll never be taken. This proves it to my mind.”
”And the knife?” I asked, thrilling with interest.
”There you are again. If Miss Van Allen put that there for us to discover, the marks on it are of no use. Perhaps some she had put there purposely. You see, I'm inclined to grant her any degree of cleverness from what I know of her ability so far. She is a witch.
She can hoodwink anybody.”
”Except F. Stone, Esquire,” amended Fibsy. ”You p.u.s.s.ieve, Mr.
Calhoun, the far-famed detective, is already onto her coives!”
Stone looked up to smile at the boy's speech, but he returned his gaze to the golden-trimmed gown.
”Of course,” he said, ”it is improbable that she took this off before she left the house that night. I opine she threw a big cloak round her and rushed out to the house of some friend. Likely she found a taxicab or even commandeered some waiting private car for her flight. You know, we are dealing with no ordinary criminal. Now, if I am right, she brought this gown back here on some of her subsequent trips. As to the knife, I don't know. I see no explanation as yet. Since she stabbed her victim with another knife--why in the world hide this one up here? What say, Fibsy?”
”'Way past me. Maybe she was usin' both knives, an' the other one turned the trick, an' when she got up here she seen she had this one still in her grip, an' she slung it in this here chest to hide it. I ain't sure that's the c'reck answer, but it'll do temp'rar'ly. I say, Mr. Stone, I got an awful funny thing to ask you.”
”It won't be the first funny thing you've asked me, Terence. What is it?”
”Well, it's pretty near eatin' time, an'--aw, pshaw, I jest can't dare to say it.”
”Go ahead, old chap, I can't do more than annihilate you.”
”Well, I wanna go to the Schuylerses to dinner.”
”To dinner!”
”Yes, sir. An' not to the kitchen eats, neither. I wanta set up to their gran' table with their butlerses an' feetmen, an' be a nonnerd guest. Kin I, Mr. Stone? Say, kinni?”
Fleming Stone looked at the eager, flushed face. He knew and I did, too, that there was something back of this request. But it couldn't be anything of vital importance to our mystery.
”Oh, I understand,” said Stone, suddenly. ”You've taken a desperate fancy to Mrs. Schuyler and you want to further the acquaintance. But it isn't often done that way, my boy.”
”Aw, now, don't kid me, Mr. Stone. Either lemme go or shut down on it, one o' the six! But it's most nessary, I do a.s.sure you.”
”Maybe she won't have you. Why should those grand ladies allow a boy of your age at their dinner-table?”
”Because you ask 'em, sir.” Fibsy's tone was full of a quiet dignity.
”Very well, I'll ask them,” and Stone went away to the telephone.
Fibsy stood, looking raptly at the gold gown, and now and then his eyes turned toward the knife on the dressing-table. The table was covered with silver toilet implements, and save for its unfitting suggestion, the knife was unnoticeable among the other trinkets.
”It's all right,” said Stone, returning. ”Mrs. Schuyler sends a cordial invitation for all three of us to dine with her.”
”Much obliged, I'll be there,” said Fibsy, unsmilingly.