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Mystery of the Boule Cabinet

<h5 id="id00640">PRECAUTIONS</h5> But it wasn't apoplexy. It was Parks who reassured us, when he came hurrying back a minute later with a glass of water in one hand and a small phial in the other. "He has these spells," he said. "It's a kind of vertigo. Give him a whiff of this." He uncorked the phial and handed it to Godfrey, and I caught the penetrating fumes of ammonia. A moment later, Rogers gasped convulsively. "He'll be all right pretty soon," remarked Parks, with ready optimism. "Though I never saw him quite so bad." "We can't leave him lying here on the floor," said Godfrey. "There's a couch-seat in the music-room," Parks suggested, and the three of us bore the still unconscious man to it. Then Godfrey and I sat down and waited, while he gasped his way back to life. "Though he can't really tell us much," Godfrey observed. "In fact, I doubt if he'll be willing to tell anything. But his face, when he looked at the picture, told us all we need to know." Thus reminded, I took the photograph out of the pocket into which I had slipped it, and looked at it again. "Where did you get it?" I asked. "The police photographer made some copies. This is one of them." "But what made you suspect that the two women were the same?" "I don't just know," answered Godfrey, reflectively. "They were both French—and Rogers spoke of the red lips; somehow it seemed probable. Mr. Grady will find some things he doesn't know in to-morrow's Record. But then he usually does. This time, I'm going to rub it in. Hello," he added, "our friend is coming around." I looked at Rogers and saw that his eyes were open. They were staring at us as though wondering who we were. Godfrey passed an arm under his head and held the glass of water to his lips. "Take a swallow of this," he said, and Rogers obeyed mechanically, still staring at him over the rim of the glass, "How do you feel?" "Pretty weak," Rogers answered, almost in a whisper. "Did I have a fit?" "Something like that," said Godfrey, cheerfully; "but don't worry. You'll soon be all right again." "What sent me off?" asked Rogers, and stared up at him. Then his face turned purple, and I thought he was going off again. But after a moment's heavy breathing, he lay quiet. "I remember now," he said. "Let me see that picture again." I passed it to him. His hand was trembling so he could hardly take it; but I saw he was struggling desperately to control himself, and he managed to hold the picture up before his eyes and look at it with apparent unconcern. "Do you know her?" Godfrey asked. To my infinite amazement, Rogers shook his head. "Never saw her before," he muttered. "When I first looked at her, I thought I knew her; but it ain't the same woman." "Do you mean to say," Godfrey demanded sternly, "that that is not the woman who called on Mr. Vantine to-night?" Again Rogers shook his head. "Oh, no," he protested; "it's not the same woman at all. This one is younger." Godfrey made no reply; but he sat down and looked at Rogers, and Rogers lay and gazed at the picture, and gradually his face softened, as though at some tender memory. "Come, Rogers," I urged, at last. "You'd better tell us all you know. If this is the woman, don't hesitate to say so." "I've told you all I know, Mr. Lester," said Rogers, but he did not meet my eyes. "And I'm feeling pretty bad. I think I'd better be getting to bed." "Yes, that's best," agreed Godfrey promptly. "Parks will help you," and he held out his hand for the photograph. Rogers relinquished it with evident reluctance. He opened his lips as though to ask a question; then closed them again, and got slowly to his feet, Parks aiding him. "Good-night, gentlemen," he said weakly, and shuffled away, leaning heavily on Parks's shoulder. "Well!" said I, looking at Godfrey. "What do you think of that?" "He's lying, of course. We've got to find out why he's lying and bring it home to him. But it's getting late—I must get down to the office. One word, Lester—be sure Rogers doesn't give you the slip." "I'll have him looked after," I promised. "But I fancy he'll be afraid to run away. Besides, it is possible he's telling the truth. I don't believe any woman had anything to do with either death." Godfrey turned, as he was starting away, and stopped to look at me. "Who did then?" he asked. "Nobody." "You mean they both suicided in that abnormal way?" "No, it wasn't suicide—they were killed—but not by a human being —at least, not directly." I felt that I was floundering hopelessly, and stopped. "I can't tell you now, Godfrey," I pleaded. "I haven't had time to think it out. You've got enough for one day." "Yes," he smiled; "I've got enough for one day. And now good-bye. Perhaps I'll look in on you about midnight, on my way home, if I get through by then." I sighed. Godfrey's energy became a little wearing sometimes. I was already longing for bed, and there remained so much to be done. But he, after a day which I knew had been a hard one, and with a many-column story still to write, was apparently as fresh and eager as ever. "All right," I agreed. "If you see a light, come up. If there isn't any light, I'll be in bed, and I'll kill you if you wake me." "Conditions accepted," he laughed, as I opened the door for him. Parks joined me as I turned back into the house. "I got Rogers to bed, sir," he said. "He'll be all right in the morning. But he's a queer duck." "How long have you known him, Parks?" "He's been with Mr. Vantine about five years. I don't know much about him; he's a silent kind of fellow, keeping to hisself a good deal and sort of brooding over things. But he did his work all right, except once in a while when he keeled over like he did to-night." "Parks," I said, suddenly, "I'm going to ask you a question. You know that Mr. Vantine was a friend of mine, and I thought a great deal of him. Now, what with this story Rogers tells, and one or two other things, there is talk of a woman. Is there any foundation for talk of that kind?" "No, sir," said Parks, emphatically. "I've been Mr. Vantine's valet for eight years and more, and in all that time he has never been mixed up with a woman in any shape or form. I always fancied he'd loved a lady who died—I don't know what made me think so; but anyhow, since I've known him, he never looked at a woman—not in that way." "Thank you, Parks," I said, with a sigh of relief. "I've been through so much to-day, that I felt I couldn't endure that; and now—" "Beg pardon, sir," said a voice at my elbow; "we have everything ready, sir." I turned with a start to see a little, clean-shaven man standing there, rubbing his hands softly together and gazing blandly up at me. "The undertaker's assistant, sir," explained Parks, seeing my look of astonishment. "He came while you and Mr. Godfrey were in the music-room. Dr. Hughes sent him." "Yes, sir," added the little man; "and we have the corpse ready for the coffin. Very nice it looks, too; though it was a hard job. Was it poison killed him, sir?" "Yes," I answered, with a feeling of nausea, "it was poison." "Very powerful poison, too, I should say, sir; we didn't get here none too soon. Where shall we put the body, sir?" "Why not leave it where it is?" I asked, impatiently. "Very good, sir," said the man, and presently he and his assistant took themselves off, to my intense relief. "And now, Parks," I began, "there is something I want to say to you. Let us go somewhere and sit down." "Suppose we go up to the study, sir. You're looking regularly done up, if you'll permit me to say so, sir. Shall I get you something?" "A brandy-and-soda," I assented; "and bring one for yourself." "Very good, sir," and a few minutes later we were sitting opposite each other in the room where Vantine had offered me similar refreshment not many hours before. I looked at Parks as he sat there, and turned over in my mind what I had to say to him. I liked the man, and I felt he could be trusted. At any rate, I had to take the risk. "Now, Parks," I began again, setting down my glass, "what I have to say to you is very serious, and I want you to keep it to yourself: I know that you were devoted to Mr. Vantine—I may as well tell you that he has remembered you in his will—and I am sure you are willing to do anything in your power to help solve the mystery of his death." "That I am, sir," Parks agreed, warmly. "I was very fond of him, sir; nobody will miss him more than I will." I realised that the tragedy meant far more to Parks than it did even to me, for he had lost not only a friend, but a means of livelihood, and I looked at him with heightened sympathy. "I know how you feel," I said, "and I am counting on you to help me. I have a sort of idea how his death came about. Only the vaguest possible idea," I added hastily, as his eyes widened with interest; "altogether too vague to be put into words. But I can say this much —the mystery, whatever it is, is in the ante-room where the bodies were found, or in the room next to it where the furniture is. Now, I am going to lock up those rooms, and I want you to see that nobody enters them without your knowledge." "Not very likely that anybody will want to enter them, sir," and Parks laughed a grim little laugh. "I am not so sure of that," I dissented, speaking very seriously. "In fact, I am of the opinion that there is somebody who wants to enter those rooms very badly. I don't know who he is, and I don't know what he is after; but I am going to make it your business to keep him out, and to capture him if you catch him trying to get in." "Trust me for that, sir," said Parks promptly. "What is it you want me to do?" "I want you to put a cot in the hallway outside the door of the ante-room and sleep there to-night. To-morrow I will decide what further precautions are necessary." "Very good, sir," said Parks. "I'll get the cot up at once." "There is one thing more," I went on. "I have given the coroner my personal assurance that none of the servants will leave the house until after the inquest. I suppose I can rely on them?" "Oh, yes, sir. I'll see they understand how important it is." "Rogers, especially," I added, looking at him. "I understand, sir," said Parks, quietly. "Very well. And now let us go down and lock up those rooms." They were still ablaze with light; but both of us faltered a little, I think, on the threshold of the ante-room. For in the middle of the floor stood a stretcher, and on it was an object covered with a sheet, its outlines horribly suggestive. But I took myself in hand and entered. Parks followed me and closed the door. The ante-room had two windows, and the room beyond, which was a corner one, had three. All of them were locked, but a pane of glass seemed to me an absurdly fragile barrier against any one who really wished to enter. "Aren't there some wooden shutters for these windows?" I asked. "Yes, sir; they were taken down yesterday and put in the basement. Shall I get them?" "I think you'd better," I said. "Will you need any help?" "No, sir; they're not heavy. If you'll wait here, you can snap the bolts into place when I lift them up from the outside." "Very well," I agreed, and Parks hurried away. I entered the inner room and stopped before the Boule cabinet. There was a certain air of arrogance about it, as it stood there in that blaze of light, its inlay aglow with a thousand subtle reflections; a flaunting air, the air of a courtesan conscious of her beauty and pleased to attract attention—just the air with which Madame de Montespan must have sauntered down the mirror gallery at Versailles, ablaze with jewels, her skirts rustling, her figure swaying suggestively. Something threatening, too; something sinister and deadly— There was a rattle at the window, and I saw Parks lifting one of the shutters into place. I threw up the sash, and pressed the heavy bolts carefully into their sockets, then closed the sash and locked it. The two other windows were secured in their turn, and with a last look about the room, I turned out the lights. The ante-room windows were soon shuttered in the same way, and with a sigh of relief I told myself that no entrance to the house could be had from that direction. With Parks outside the only door, the rooms ought to be safe from invasion. Then, before extinguishing the lights, I approached that silent figure on the stretcher, lifted the sheet and looked for the last time upon the face of my dead friend. It was no longer staring and terrible, but calm and peaceful as in sleep—almost smiling. With wet eyes and contracted throat, I covered the face again, turned out the lights, and left the room. Parks met me in the hall, carrying a cot, which he placed close across the doorway. "There," he said; "nobody will get into that room without my knowing it." "No," I agreed; and then a sudden thought occurred to me. "Parks," I said, "is it true that there is a burglar-alarm on all the windows?" "Yes, sir. It rings a bell in Mr. Vantine's bedroom, and another in mine, and sends in a call to the police." "Is it working?" "Yes, sir; Mr. Vantine himself tested it this evening just before dinner." "Then why didn't it work when I opened those windows just now?" I demanded. Parks laughed. "Because I threw off the switch, sir," he explained, "when I came out to get the shutters. The switch is in a little iron box on the wall just back of the stairs, sir. It's one of my duties to turn it on every night before I go to bed." I breathed a sigh of relief. "Is it on again, now?" "It certainly is, sir. After what you told me, I'd not be likely to forget it." "You'd better have a weapon handy, too," I suggested. "I have a revolver, sir." "That's good. And don't hesitate to use it. I'm going home—I'm dead tired." "Shall I call a cab, sir?" "No, the walk will do me good. I'll see you to-morrow." Parks helped me into my coat and opened the door for me. Glancing back, after a moment, I saw that he was standing on the steps gazing after me. I could understand his reluctance to go back into that death-haunted house; and I found myself breathing deeply with the relief of getting out of it. <h2 id="id00744" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER IX</h2> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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