"I don't know," said Mrs. Reeves. "She wouldn't go to my home, I live 'way down in Washington Square."
"Nor to mine," chirped Ariadne, "it's over on the west side."
"I don't believe she left the house," declared the coroner.
"Tell us again, Luigi," asked Lowney, "just where did the lady seem to go, when you saw her leave this room?"
"I can't say, sir. I was looking through a small opening, as I pushed the door ajar, and I was so amazed at what I saw, that I was sort of paralyzed and didn't dare open the door further."
"Go back to the pantry," commanded Fenn, "and look in, just as you did."
The waiter retreated to the post he had held, and setting the door a few inches ajar, proved that he could see body by the sideboard, but could not command a view of the hall.
"Now, I'll represent Miss Van Allen," and Lowney stood over the body of Somers. "Is this the place?"
"A little farther to the right, sir," and Luigi's earnestness and good faith were unmistakable. "Yes, sir, just there."
"Now, I walk out into the hall. Is this the way she went?"
"Yes, sir, the same."
Lowney went from the dining-room to the hall, and it was clear that his further progress could not be seen by the peeping waiter.
"You see, Fenn," the detective went on, "from here, in the back of this long hall, Miss Van Allen could have left the house by two ways. She could have gone out at the front door, passing the parlor, or, she could have gone down these basement stairs, which are just under the stairs to the second story. Then she could have gone out by the front area door, which would give her access to the street. She could have caught up a cloak as she went."
"Or," said Fenn, musingly, "she could have run upstairs. The staircase is so far back in the hall, that the guests in the parlor would not have seen her. This is a very deep house, you see."
It was true. The stairs began so far back in the long hall, that Vicky could easily have slipped upstairs after leaving the dining-room, without being seen by any of us in the living-room, unless we were in its doorway, looking out. Was anybody? So many guests had left, that this point could not be revealed.
"I didn't see her," declared Mrs. Reeves, "and I don't believe she was in the dining-room at all. I don't care what that waiter says!"
"Oh, yes, Madame," reiterated Luigi. "It was Miss Van Allen. I know her well. Often she comes to Fraschini's, and always I take her orders. She came even this afternoon, to make sure the great cake—the Jack Horner, was all right. And she approved it, ah, she clapped her hands at sight of it. We all do our best for Miss Van Allen, she is a lovely lady."
"Miss Van Allen is one of your regular customers?"
"One of our best. Very often we serve her, and always she orders our finest wares."
"You provide everything?"
"Everything. Candles, flowers, decorations—all"
"And she pays her bills?"
"Most promptly."
"By cheque?"
"Yes, sir."
"And there are no servants here but the maid Julie?"
"I have often seen others. But I fancy they do not live in the house. Madame Julie superintends and directs us always. Miss Van Allen leaves much to her. She is most capable."
"When did you see this woman, this Julie, last?"
"A short time before—before that happened." Luigi looked toward the body. "She was in and out of the pantries all the evening. She admitted the guests, she acted as ladies' maid, and she arranged the favors in the pie. It was, I should say, ten minutes or so since she was last in the pantry, when I peeped in at the door."
"Where was Julie then?"
"I don't know. I did not see her. Perhaps upstairs, or maybe in the front of the hall, waiting to bring me word to serve supper."
"Tell me something distinctive about this maid's appearance. Was she good-looking?"
"Yes, a good-looking woman. But nothing especial about her. She had many gold fillings in her teeth—"
"That's something," and Lowney noted it with satisfaction. "Go on."
But Luigi seemed to know nothing else that differentiated Julie from her sisters in service, and Lowney changed his questions.
"How could Miss Van Allen get that knife of yours?" he asked.
"I don't know, sir. It was, I suppose, in the pantry, with our other knives."
"What is its use?"
"It is a boning knife, but doubtless one of our men used it in cutting celery for salad, or some such purpose."
"Ask them."
Inquiry showed that a man, named Palma, had used the knife for making a salad, and had left it in the butler's pantry an hour or so before the crime was committed. Any one could have taken the knife without its being missed, as the salad had been completed and put aside.
"In that case, Miss Van Allen must have secured the knife some little time before it was used, as Luigi was in the pantry just previously," observed Fenn. "That shows premeditation. It wasn't done with a weapon picked up at the moment."
"Then it couldn't have been done by Miss Van Allen!" exclaimed Mrs. Reeves triumphantly, "for Vicky had no reason to premeditate killing a man she had never seen before."
"Vicky didn't do it," wailed Ariadne. "I know she didn't."
"She must be found," said Lowney. "But she will be found. If she's innocent, she will return herself. If guilty, we must find her. And we will. A householder cannot drop out of existence unnoticed by any one. Does she own this house?"
"I think so," said Mrs. Reeves. "I'm not positive, but it's my impression that she does. Vicky Van never boasts or talks of her money or of herself. But I know she gives a good deal in charity, and is always ready to subscribe to philanthropic causes. I tell you she is not the criminal, and I don't believe she ever left this house in the middle of the night in evening dress! That child is scared to death, and is hiding—in the attic or somewhere."
"Suppose, Mrs. Reeves," said the coroner, "you go with Mr. Lowney, and look over the house again. Search the bedrooms and store-rooms."
"I will," and Mrs. Reeves seemed to welcome an opportunity to help. She was a good-hearted woman, and a staunch friend of Vicky Van. I was glad she was on hand to stand up for the girl, for I confess things looked, to me, pretty dubious.
"Come along, too, Mr. Calhoun," said Mrs. Reeves. "There's no telling what we may find. Perhaps there's further—tragedy."
I knew what was in her mind. That if Vicky had done the thing, she might have, in an agony of remorse, taken her own life.
Thrilled with this new fear, I followed Lowney and Mrs. Reeves. We went downstairs first. We examined all the basement rooms and the small, city back yard. There was no sign of Vicky Van or of Julie, and next we came back to the first floor, hunted that, and then on upstairs. The music room was soon searched, and I fell back as the others went into Vicky's bedroom.
"Come on, Mr. Calhoun," said Lowney, "we must make a thorough job of it this time."
The bedroom was, it seemed to me, like a fairy dream. Furniture of white enameled wicker, with pink satin cushions. Everywhere the most exquisite appointments of silver, crystal and embroidered fabrics, and a bed fit for a princess. It seemed profanation for the little detective to poke and pry around in wardrobes