“‘My name is Horace Gaunt. I am the only surviving son, now that Hubert is dead, of Harvey Gaunt, who died in 1903. I am a lawyer. My home is in Providence, Rhode Island. I did not come to Chicago from Portland, Maine, as I asserted when I was claiming to be Adrian Bluefield. Most of the things I said at that time were untrue, I am sorry to say. I came from Providence. I claimed to be Adrian Bluefield knowing that Adrian Bluefield was dead, but that no one except his brother Amos was aware of it. No one, that is, who knew Adrian. My brother Hubert found it out, and the plan by which I was to impersonate Amos’s dead brother was hatched between us.
“‘There were seven boys in our family, and my father gave us all names beginning with the letter H. The eldest was Henry, who has been dead for many years. The second and third sons, Harold and Howard, died in infancy. The others, in order, were Herbert, Horace (myself), Hubert, and Harvey Junior. My youngest brother, Harvey, was killed in the war. My brother Herbert died about a year ago. My brother Hubert, as I suppose the world knows by this time, was murdered and his body placed on the statue of General Burke in Lincoln Park.
“‘I cannot say who killed Hubert, but I would ask the police to consider the possibility that he was killed by Amos Bluefield.’”
Professor Chandler W. Moment put down his paper, pulled his glasses downward upon his nose, and looked at his daughter over the tops of his panes. “What do you think of that, my dear?” he asked.
“Ridiculous,” answered his daughter, “I could invent a better story myself. Mr. Bluefield was murdered the day before this Hubert Gaunt. Everybody knows that.”
“No,” said her father, “he was found the day before this Hubert Gaunt. There’s a difference.” He sipped his coffee reflectively. “This man’s idea is really very engaging.”
“He’s saving his own neck,” insisted Holly Moment. “He killed Mr. Bluefield himself, and probably he killed his brother too. If this Hubert Gaunt was his brother.”
“Oh, I imagine there’s no doubt of that,” said Chandler W. Moment. “Of course he’s saving his own neck. But he’s got to tell the truth to do it. He knows very well that the police will saddle him with the entire chapter of murders if he doesn’t. I think he is being very frank. Well, there’s more of it. I wish Walter were here to read it.”
He continued with his reading.
“‘I realize that to all appearances Amos Bluefield was killed first, and the natural supposition is that he was killed by my brother. I will be honest and admit that I thought so, at first, myself. But although Hubert was a bit of a ne’er-do-well and was frankly a gambler, it is difficult to believe that he would commit a murder.’”
“Rather good, that, don’t you think?—calling his brother a bit of a ne’er-do-well—after what he’s just confessed!” The professor chuckled.
“‘It will be asked why, when I admit that we had planned together to capture the estate of Amos Bluefield, I do not believe that Hubert had murder in mind. I can only reply that all of my dealings with my brother were by mail, and that at no time was murder even hinted at. Hubert was in the confidence of Amos Bluefield. He wrote me that Amos did not expect to live long, and I took it that he was ill. There was no date set for my appearance. Hubert was to let me know about that.’”
“And Hubert did let him know, and he came as planned,” interrupted Miss Moment. “How, then, can he possibly assert that Mr. Bluefield murdered his brother, if Mr. Bluefield died first?”
“Wait a minute! You asked that before. He’s answering that very question now….
“‘But I did not hear from my brother, and one day I picked up a newspaper and saw that Amos Bluefield was dead—murdered in Chicago! I was inexpressibly shocked. My first thought was that Hubert had killed him. My second was that it had been a fortuitous accident. With considerable doubt in my head, I took the train for Chicago, and on the way I made up my mind to act my part as planned. I had wired Hubert of my coming, but I know now that he never received my wire.
“‘Almost as soon as I had reached Chicago I was seized by the reporters. I had to speak quickly and firmly. I told my story and asserted that I was Adrian Bluefield. Then I was told about Hubert.
“‘The tidings were terrible. For a little time I reeled under them. What, I wondered, could have happened? Had Hubert killed Bluefield in a quarrel and then taken his own life? Had some third person killed them both in connection with a grievance of which I knew nothing? I was immensely agitated. My mind works quickly, and I even wondered in that moment if it were not possible that Bluefield had killed Hubert, then committed suicide in such fashion as to make it appear that he had himself been murdered by my brother.
“‘I have since thought over the entire case, and I have read everything I could find about it. There had been bad blood between Bluefield and my brother, and perhaps it had continued to exist. Hubert owed Amos Bluefield money—I do not know how much—and possibly it had arisen out of that circumstance. When the nature of the wounds by which both men met death was made apparent it became evident to me that if Bluefield had murdered my brother, he had himself been murdered by a third person, since suicide seemed to be an impossibility.
“‘Then I began to think again about my earlier idea—that a third person had murdered them both. It seemed the likeliest notion of all, in view of the similarity of the murders, but the curious fortuitousness of it repelled me. I could not imagine that any third person was party to Hubert’s plans. But if Bluefield had killed my brother it was certainly not he who placed Hubert’s body on the statue. The body was not there on the evening before the day it was found, and Bluefield’s body was in the window.
“‘I could not make head or tail of it, and I do not now assert that Amos Bluefield murdered my brother. I merely suggest that the police bear in mind that possibility, in view of the apparently strained relations between them. In view, also, of the fact that Amos Bluefield was not at all the unblemished citizen that he was popularly supposed to be. One thing only is certain: that a third person exists who is cognizant of both murders, whatever part he may have played in them. For myself, I can show, if need be, that I was in Providence when Amos Bluefield was killed, and that my brother was dead when I reached Chicago. About the murders since that of my brother, I have no knowledge, but I do not believe they are related to the first two cases. I do not see how they can be.’”
The professor shook his head. “His argument grows weak toward the end,” he admitted. “Ghost would shred it in a minute. No, I agree with you, my dear, that he is slightly—ah—cuckoo when he asserts that Bluefield may have murdered his brother. The difficulty there—as he seems to sense, himself—is Hubert’s body on the statue of General Burke. And the man who murdered Gaunt is the man who put his body on the statue. Who else would do it?”
Miss Moment agreed. “Whoever murdered Bluefield murdered Gaunt, too, and neither one murdered the other. And whoever murdered Bluefield and Gaunt murdered Lear and Ellis Greene.”
“Quite possibly,” said her father. “Quite possibly. Greene’s case is, perhaps, less striking in its dramatic effects than any of the others; but the first three are, I venture to think, masterpieces. And as in all masterpieces, whether in art, fiction, or crime, there is a family resemblance that betrays the master hand—in this case, we believe, the same hand.”
He leaned back complacently in his chair. It was a subject that pleased him, and he discoursed most ably on subjects upon which he was least competently informed.
“It is to be remembered, however, that emotion is at the root of it. Great art, for instance, however various and unlike, evokes the same emotional response, which in turn creates, perhaps, the possibly fallacious idea that—”
“Is that all of the Bluefield statement?” asked his daughter innocently.
“Not quite, I believe. Not quite!” He picked up his newspaper. “The rest appears to be family history, and rather ancient. How he does love to talk about his family! It’s rather a pity there wasn’t an eighth son. He might have been called Homer and have turned out better. Shall I read on?”
“Please do,” begged Miss Moment earnestly.
“This would interest Walter. Bless my soul! I wonder if it isn’t, perhaps, the very thing he is looking for. Listen to this, Golly!”
He began to read again.
“‘I have been asked about the relations between my brother Hubert and Amos Bluefield. I do not know them in intimate detail. They were about the same age, however, and had been at school together—a preparatory school at Walsingham, Connecticut.’”
“Walsingham!” cried Holly Moment.
“You see?” said her father. The rebuke in his tone implied that he had been trying to din the word into her for hours.
“‘A number of the youngsters ultimately got themselves into trouble, as I understand it, and several of them were expelled. I was in Europe, at the time, and did not learn all the details, but the difficulty grew out of a hazing administered to another boy. My brother was one of the group expelled, and he never returned to school. He drifted to the West, fell in with evil companions, was with a circus for a short time, I believe, and finally took to living by his wits. He used to write to me for money whenever he was in need, and I always sent it to him. In his latest letters to me, he frankly admitted that he was no better than a common gambler.
“‘To the best of my knowledge, Hubert was never involved in the liquor racket. As for the man, Nicholas Aye, who appears to have been concerned in the case of the actor Lear, I have never heard of him, or, rather, I had never heard of him until I saw the announcement of his death in the newspapers.
“‘With reference to Adrian Bluefield: he was the only brother of Amos. My brother never knew him, nor did I. Hubert knew he had existed, however, a fact he had learned from Amos. Adrian Bluefield went to Africa, a great many years ago, and vanished completely. A matter had arisen that in some manner compromised his integrity, and I suppose he felt that it was necessary to leave the country. For years no one knew what had become of him; then, in a roundabout way, Amos heard of his death. There were few left who knew him, and I anticipated no difficulty in carrying out my intended impersonation. I had been supplied with all necessary information by my brother, who, as I say, had learned it all from Amos. I should like to add that I am very glad the criminal enterprise was not carried through. It is my wish to return to my home without disgrace attaching to my name.
“‘Such restitution as I have been able to make, I have made. Mr. Bluefield’s papers, of which I took possession, are in the hands of the police, and I have yielded the receipts to all goods sent to storage. I should like the public to know that, sooner or later, I should have taken the action which has been, in a way, forced upon me. All the time I was in hiding, indeed, my thoughts ran in that direction. I should have fled earlier, but that I realized the danger of my position. It had come home to me, tardily, that my entire enterprise, if discovered, might point to me as the murderer of Amos Bluefield and my own brother. This fear, which I freely confess, and certain moral scruples which I was happy to find had not entirely died within me, had all but determined me to give myself up. I should have done so, I believe, within twenty-four hours, had I not been apprehended.’”
Professor Chandler W. Moment rose to his feet and moved toward the door. There was something of determination in his stride.
“Where are you going, Father?” asked his daughter curiously.
“I’m going to send a wire to Walter,” answered her father. “He ought to know about this as soon as possible. It may give him a hint.”
“It isn’t necessary, really, you know,” said his daughter. “Wire if you want to, but I imagine Howard already has done so.”
“There is something fine and reckless about sending a telegram that appeals to me,” said Professor Chandler W. Moment. “It is years since I have had an opportunity. So you call him Howard, do you?”
Miss Moment was surprised. “That’s his name, isn’t it?”
“I don’t like names beginning with the letter H,” said her parent severely. “Oh, well, I’ll call him up and ask him if he wired to Walter.”
He resumed his journey toward the front of the house just as the alarm of the doorbell rang through the place. At the door he received a yellow envelope from a uniformed messenger boy.
“What is it, Father?” asked his daughter, hurrying after him.
“It’s from Walter,” said Professor Chandler W. Moment. “It looks like code to me.”
“It’s Shakespeare,” she laughed, leaning over his arm. “But what do you suppose he means? Mr. Ghost, I mean.”
“Anyway,” said the professor, “he’s coming home to-morrow.”