The Holladay Case (Detective Story Magazine)/Chapter 17
CHAPTER XVII.
The Veil is Lifted
We had reached the beach again, and we turned along it in the direction of the cliffs. Far ahead, I saw a man hurrying in the same direction. The path began to ascend, and we panted up it to the grassy down, which seemed to stretch for miles and miles to the northward. Right before us was a little wood in the midst of which I caught a glimpse of a farmhouse.
We ran toward it, through a gate, and up the path to the door. It was closed, but we heard from within a man's excited voice—a resonant voice which I knew well. I tried the door; it yielded, and we stepped into the hall. The voice came from the room at the right. It was no time for hesitation—we sprang to the door and entered.
Martigny was standing in the middle of the floor, fairly foaming at the mouth, shrieking out commands and imprecations at two women who cowered in the farther corner. The elder one I knew at a glance—the younger—my heart leaped as I looked at her—was it Miss Holladay? No, yet strangely like her.
He saw their startled eyes turn past him to us, and swung sharply round. For an instant he stood poised like a serpent about to strike, then I saw his eyes fix in a frightful stare, his face turned livid, and with a strangled cry, he fell back and down. Together we lifted him to the low window seat, loosened his collar, chafed his hands, bathed his temples, did everything we could think of doing; but he lay there staring at the ceiling with clenched teeth. Royce bent and laid his ear against his breast. Then he turned gently to the women.
“It is no use,” he said. “He is dead.”
I looked to see them wince under the blow; but they did not. The younger woman went slowly to the window and stood there sobbing quietly; the other's face lit up with a positive blaze of joy.
“So,” she exclaimed, in that low, vibrant voice, I so well remembered, “so he is dead! That treacherous, cruel heart has burst at last!”
Royce gazed at her a moment in astonishment. She looked not at him, but at the dead man on the window seat, her hands clasping and unclasping.
“Madame Alix,” he said, at last, “you know our errand—we must carry it out.”
She bowed her head.
“I know it, monsieur,” she answered. “But for him, there would have been no such errand. As it is, I will help you all I can. Cécile,” she called to the woman at the window, “go and bring your sister to these gentlemen.”
The younger woman dried her eyes and left the room. We waited in tense silence, our eyes on the door. We heard the sound of footsteps on the stair; a moment, and she was on the threshold.
She came in slowly, listlessly—it gave me a shock to see the pallor of her face. Then she glanced up and saw Royce standing there; she drew in her breath with a quick gasp, a great wave of color swept over her cheeks and brow, a great light sprang into her eyes.
“Oh, John!” she cried, and swayed toward him.
He had her in his arms, against his heart, and the glad tears sprang to my eyes as I looked at them. I glanced at the elder woman, and saw that her eyes were shining and her lips quivering.
“And I have come to take you away, my love,” he was saying.
“Oh, yes, take me away,” she pleaded, “before the other comes.”
She stopped, her eyes on the window seat, where “the other” lay, and the color died out of her cheeks again.
“He has paid the penalty,” said Royce. “He can trouble you no more, my love.”
She was sobbing helplessly upon his shoulder, but as the moments passed she grew more calm, and at last stood upright from him. The younger woman had come back into the room and was watching her curiously, with no trace of emotion.
“Come, let us go,” said the girl. “We must take the first boat home.”
But Royce held back.
“There has been a crime committed,” he said slowly. “We must see that it is punished.”
“A crime? Oh, yes, but I forgive them, dear.”
“The crime against yourself you may forgive; but there was another crime—murder”
“There was no murder!” burst in Cécile Alix. “I swear it to you, monsieur. Do you understand? There was no murder!”
I saw Miss Holladay wince at the other's voice, and Royce saw it, too.
“I must get her to the inn,” he said. “This is more than she can bear—I fear she will break down utterly. You stay and get the story, Lester. Then we'll decide what it is best to do.”
He led her away, out of the house and down the path, not once looking back. I watched them till the trees hid them, and then turned to the women.
“Now,” I said, “I shall be happy to hear the story.”
“It was that man yonder who was the cause of it all,” began the mother, clasping her hands tightly in her lap to keep them still. “Four years ago he came from Paris here to spend the summer—he was ver' ill—his heart. We had been living happily, my daughter and I, but for the one anxiety of her not marrying. He met her and proposed marriage. He was ver' good—he asked no dowry, and besides my daughter was twenty-five years old—past her first youth. But she attracted him, and they were married. He took her back to Paris, where he had a little theater, a hall of the dance; but he grew worse again, and came back here. It was then that he found out that I had another daughter, whom I had given a rich American. I was ver' poor, monsieur,” she added piteously. “My man had died”
“Yes, madame, I know,” I said, touched by her emotion. Plainly she was telling the truth.
“So he wrote to friends in Amérique, and made questions about Monsieur Holladay. He learned—oh, he learned that he was ver' rich—what you call a man of millions—and that his daughter—my daughter, monsieur—was living still. From that moment, he was like a man possessed. At once he formed his plan, building I know not what hopes upon it. He drilled us for two years in speaking the English; he took us for six months to Londres that we might better learn. Day after day we took our lessons there—always and always English. Cécile learned ver' well, monsieur; but I not so well, as you can see—I was too old. Then, at last we reached New York, and my daughter—this one—was sent to see Monsieur Holladay, while I was directed that I write to Céleste—to Mademoiselle Holladay. She came that ver' afternoon,” she continued, “and I told her that it was I who was her mother. He was with me, and displayed to her the papers of adoption. She could not but be convinced. He talked to her as an angel—oh, he could seem one when he chose!—he told her that I was in poverty—he made her to weep, which was what he desired. She promised to bring us money; she was ver' good; my heart went out to her. Then just as she had arisen to start homeward, in Céleste came, crying, sobbing, with red stains on her clothes.”
She shuddered and clasped her hands before her eyes.
“But you have said it was not murder, madame,” I said to the younger woman.
“Nor was it!” she cried. “Let me tell you, monsieur. I reached the great building, which my husband had already pointed out to me; I went up in the lift; I entered the office, but saw no one. I went on through an open door and saw an old man sitting at a desk. I inquired if Mr. Holladay was there. The old man glanced at me and bowed toward another door. I saw it was a private office and entered it. The door swung shut behind me. There was another old man sitting at a desk, sharpening a pencil.”
“'Is it you, Frances?' he asked.
“'No,' I said, stepping before him, 'it is her sister, Monsieur Holladay!'
“He stared up at me with such a look of dismay and anger on his face that I was fairly frightened; then, in the same instant, before I could draw breath, before I could say another word, his face grew purple, monsieur, and he fell forward on his desk, on his hand, on the knife, which was clasped in it. I tried to check the blood, but could not. I knew not what to do; I was distracted and in a frenzy. I left the place and hurried to our lodgings. That is the truth, monsieur, believe me.”
“I do believe you,” I assured her.
“It was then,” went on her mother, “that that man yonder had another inspiration. Before it had been only—what you call—blackmail—a few thousands, perhaps a pension; now it was something more—he was playing for a greater stake. I do not know all that he planned. He found Céleste suspected of having killed her father; he must get her released at any cost; so he wrote a note”
“Yes, of course, I see. Miss Holladay under arrest was beyond his reach.”
“Yes,” she nodded, “so he wrote a note—oh, you should have seen him in those days! He was like some furious wild beast. But after she was set free, Céleste did not come to us as she had promise'. We saw that she suspected us, that she wish' to have nothing more to do with us; so Victor commanded that I write another letter, imploring her, offering to explain.” She stopped a moment to control herself. “Ah, when I think of it! She came, monsieur. We took from her her gown and put it on Cécile. She never left the place again until the carriage stopped to take her to the boat. As for us—we were his slaves—he guided each step—he seemed to think of everything—to be prepared for everything—he planned and planned.”
There was no need that she should tell me more—the whole plot lay bare before me—simple enough, now that I understood it, and carried out with what consummate finish!
“One thing more,” I said. “The gold.”
She drew a key from her pocket and gave it to me.
“It is in a box upstairs,” she said. “This is the key. We have not touched it.”
I took the key and followed her to the floor above. The box, of heavy oak bound with iron, stood in one corner. I unlocked it and threw back the lid. Package upon package lay in it, just as they had come from the sub-treasury. I locked the box again, and put the key in my pocket.
“Of course,” I said, as I turned to go, “I can only repeat your story to my companion. He and Miss Holladay will decide what steps to take. But I am sure they will be merciful.”
They bowed without replying, and I went out along the path between the trees, leaving them with their dead.
And it was of the dead I thought last and most sorrowfully: a man of character, of force, of fascination. How I could have liked him!