Vicky Van | Page 9

in the
dining-room, but she isn't here now, so she must be upstairs. Shall I go
and see?"
"No!" thundered the inspector. "Stay where you are. Search the house,
Breen. I'll cover the street door."
The man he called Breen went upstairs on the jump, and Mason
continued. "Tell the story, one of you. Who is this man? Who killed
him?"
As he talked, the inspector was examining Somers' body, making rapid
notes in a little book, keeping his eye on the door, and darting quick
glances at each of us, as he tried to grasp the situation.
I looked at Bert Garrison, who was perhaps the most favored of Miss
Van Allen's friends, but he shook his head, so I threw myself into the
breach.
"Inspector," I said, "that man's name is Somers. Further than that I
know nothing. He is a stranger to all of us, and he came to this house
to-night for the first time in his life."
"How'd he happen to come? Friend of Miss Van Allen?"

"He met her to-night for the first time. He came here with--" I paused.
It was so hard to know what to do. Steele had gone home, ought I to
implicate him?
"Go on--came here with whom? The truth, now."
"I usually speak the truth" I returned, shortly. "He came with Mr.
Norman Steele."
"Where is Mr. Steele?"
"He has gone. There were a great many people here, and, naturally,
some of them went away when this tragedy was discovered."
"Humph! Then, of course, the guilty party escaped. But we are getting
nowhere. Does nobody know anything of this man, but his name?"
Nobody did; but Ariadne piped up, "He was a delightful man. He told
me he was a great patron of art, and often bought pictures."
Paying little heed to her, the inspector was endeavoring to learn from
the dead man's property something more about him.
"No letters or papers," he said, disappointedly, as he turned out the
pockets. "Not unusual--in evening togs--but not even a card or anything
personal--looks queer--"
"Look in his watch," said Ariadne, bridling with importance.
Giving her a keen glance, the inspector followed her suggestion. In the
back of the case was a picture of a coquettish face, undoubtedly that of
an actress. It was not carefully fastened in, but roughly cut out and
pressed in with ragged edges.
"Temporary," grunted the inspector, "and recently stuck in. Some
chicken he took out to supper. He's a club man, you say?"
"Yes, Mr. Steele said so, and also vouched for his worth and character."
I resented the inspector's attitude. Though I knew nothing of Somers,

and didn't altogether like him, yet, I saw no reason to think ill of the
dead, until circumstances warranted it.
Further search brought a thick roll of money, some loose silver, a
key-ring with seven or eight keys, eyeglasses in a silver case,
handkerchiefs, a gold pencil, a knife, and such trifles as any man might
have in his pockets, but no directly identifying piece of property.
R. S. was embroidered in tiny white letters on the handkerchiefs, and a
monogram R. S. was on his seal ring.
His jewelry, which was costly, the inspector did not touch. There were
magnificent pearl studs, a watch fob, set with a black opal and pearl
cufflinks. Examination of his hat showed the pierced letters R. S., but
nothing gave clue to his Christian name.
"Somers," said the inspector, musingly. "What club does he belong to?"
"I don't know," I replied. "Mr. Steele belongs to several, but Mr.
Somers does not belong to any that I do. At least, I've never seen him at
any."
"Call in the servants. Let's find out something about this household."
As no one else moved to do it, I stepped to the door of the butler's
pantry, and summoned the head waiter of the caterer.
"Where are the house servants?" I asked him.
"There aren't any, sir," he replied, looking shudderingly at the grisly
form on the floor.
"No servants? In a house of this type! What do you mean?"
"That's true," said Mrs. Reeves, breaking her silence, at last. "Miss Van
Allen has a very capable woman, who is housekeeper and ladies' maid
in one. But when guests are here, the suppers are served from the
caterer's."

"Then call the housekeeper. And where is Miss Van Allen herself?"
"She's not in the house," said the policeman Breen, returning from his
search.
"Not in the house!" cried Mrs. Reeves. "Where is she?"
"I've been all over--every room--every floor. She isn't in the house.
There's nobody upstairs at all."
"No housekeeper or maid?" demanded Mason. "Then they've got away!
Here, waiter, tell me all you know of this thing."
The Italian Luigi came forward, shaking with terror, and