The Million-Dollar Suitcase Part 22

"I believe I've the motive here," I said and thrust the mutilated volume into her hand. "Some one stole these leaves out of Mr. Gilbert's diary.

The books are filled with intimate details of the affairs of people--things which people prefer should not be known--names, details and dates written out completely. It's likely murder was done last night to get possession of those pages."

She went to the desk and glanced over the book; not the minute examination with the reading gla.s.s which I had given it; that mere flirt of a glance which, when I had first noticed it the night before at Tait's, skimming across that description of Clayte, had seemed so inadequate. Then she turned to me.

"Mr. Gilbert cut these out himself," she p.r.o.nounced.

That brought Worth's head up and his face around to stare at her.

"You say my father removed something he had written?" he asked. Barbara nodded. "He never changed a decision--and those books were his decisions."

"Then this wasn't a correction, but he cut it out. Can't you see, Mr.

Boyne? Those leaves were removed by a man who respected the book and was as careful in his mutilation of it as he was in its making. It is precisely written--I'm referring to workmanship, not its literary quality--carefully margined, evenly indented on the paragraph beginnings. And so, in this removal of three leaves, the cutting was done with a sharp knife drawn along the edge of a ruler--" I picked up from where they lay on the blotting pad, a small pearl-handled knife, its sharp blade open, and the ruler I had seen when looking down from the skylight, and placed them before her. She nodded and continued,

"There is a bit of margin left so no other leaves can be loosened by this removal. The marking out of the run-over has been neatly ruled, done so recently that the ink is not yet black--done with that ink in the stand. It was blotted with this." She lifted a hand-blotter to show me the print of a line of ink. There were other markings on the face of the soft paper, and I took it eagerly. Barbara smiled.

"You will get little from that," she said. I had not even seen her give it attention. "Scattered words--and parts of words, blotted frequently as they were written. Perhaps, with care, we might learn something, but we can turn more easily to the last pages of his diary and--"

"There are no last pages," I interrupted. "The 1920 book is missing."

"Gone--stolen?" she exclaimed. It brought a smile to my face. For the first time in my experience of this pretty, little bunch of brains, she had hazarded a guess.

"Gone," I admitted coolly--a bit sarcastically. "I've no reason to say stolen."

"But--yes, you have--you have, Mr. Boyne! If it is gone, it was stolen.

Is it gone--are you sure it is gone?" Eagerly her eyes were searching desk, cabinet, the shelf where the other diaries made their long row. I satisfied her on that score.

"I have searched the study thoroughly; it is not in this room."

"Was here last night," Worth cut in. "I saw it on the desk."

"And was stolen last night," Barbara reaffirmed, quickly. "These books are too big to be slipped into a pocket, so we can't believe it was left upon Mr. Gilbert's person; and he wouldn't lend it--wouldn't willingly let it go from his possession. So it was stolen; and the man who stole it--killed him." She shuddered.

That was going too swift for me to follow, but I saw on Worth Gilbert's face his acceptance of it. Either conviction of Barbara's infallibility, or some knowledge locked up inside his own chest, made him certain the diary had been stolen, and the thief was his father's murderer. In a flash, I remembered his words, "putting every d.a.m.n' word of our row into it," and I shot straight at him,

"Did you take that book, Worth?"

He only shook his head and answered,

"You heard what Bobs said, Jerry."

If he took the book he killed his father; that was Barbara's inference, Worth's acceptance. I threw back my shoulders to cast off the suspicion, then reached across to place my fingers under the girl's hand and pull from it the only record of that last written page, the blotter.

"Will you read me that?" I asked her. "Every word and part of a word--every letter?"

Her eyes smiled into mine with a rea.s.surance that was like balm. Worth rose and found her a hand-gla.s.s on the mantel, pa.s.sing it to her, and with this to reverse the scrawlings, she read and I wrote down in my memorandum book two complete words, two broken words and five single letters picked from overlying marks that were too confused to be decipherable. Though the three of us struggled with them, they held no meaning.

Worth's interest quickly ceased.

"I'll join Jim Edwards in the house," he said, but I stopped him.

"One minute, Worth. There was a woman visitor here last night. It would seem she carried away with her the diary of 1920 and three leaves from the book of 1916. I want you--you and Barbara--to tell me what you know that happened here in Santa Ysobel on the dates of the missing pages, May 31 and June 1, 1916."

Barbara accepted the task, turning that wonderful cinematograph memory back, and murmured,

"I never tried recollecting on just a bare date this way, but--" then glanced around at me and finished--"nothing happened to me in Santa Ysobel then, because I wasn't in Santa Ysobel. I was in San Francisco and--"

"And I was in Flanders, so that lets me out," Worth broke in brusquely.

"I'll go into the house."

"Wait, Worth." I placed a hand on his shoulder. "Go on, Barbara; you had thought of something."

"Yes. Father died in January of that year, and in March I had to vacate the house. It had been sold, and they wanted to fix it over. I left Santa Ysobel on the eighteenth of March, but they didn't get into the house until June first."

Again Worth interrupted.

"Which jogs my memory for an unexciting detail." He smiled enigmatically. "I was jilted June first."

"In Flanders?" How many times had this lad been jilted?

"No. Right here. I wasn't here of course, but the letter which did the trick was written here, and bore that date--June one, 1916."

"How do you get the date so pat?"

"It was handed me by the mail orderly--I was on the Verdun sector then--on the morning of the Fourth of July. Remember the date the letter was written because of the quick time it made. Most of our mail took from six weeks to eternity. What are you smiling at, Bobs?"

"Just a little--you don't mind, do you?--at your saying you remember Ina's letter by the quick time it made in reaching you."

"Who bought your house, Barbara?" I asked her.

"Dr. Bowman--or rather Mrs. Bowman's uncle bought it and gave it to her."

"And they went in on the first of June, 1916?" I was all excitement, turning the pages of the diary to get to certain points I remembered.

"What can either one of you tell me about the state of affairs at that time between Dr. Bowman and his wife--and that man who was just in here--Jim Edwards?"

Worth turned a hostile back; Barbara seemed to shrink in her chair. I hated like a whipping to pull this sort of stuff on them, but I knew that Barbara's knowledge of Worth's danger would reconcile her to whatever painful thing must be done, and I had to know who was that visitor of last night.

"Is that--that stuff in those d.a.m.nable books?" I saw the hunch of Worth's broad shoulders.

"Some of it is--some of it has been cut out," I replied.

"And you connect Jim Edwards with this crime?"

"I don't connect him--he connects himself--by them, and by his manner."

"Burn them!" He faced me, came over and reached for the book. "Dump the whole rotten mess into the fire, Jerry, and be done with it."

"Easy said, but that would sure be a short cut to trouble. Tell me, I've got to know, if you think this man Edwards--under great provocation--capable of--well, of killing a fellow creature."