The Leavenworth Case by Anna Katharine Green (best books to read all time TXT) 📕

I was not to be discomposed, “Mr. Gryce,” I went on, “a woman’s name, once tarnished, remains so forever. Eleanore Leavenworth has too many noble traits to be thoughtlessly dealt with in so momentous a crisis. If you will give me your attention, I promise you shall not regret it.”

He smiled, and allowed his eyes to roam from the poker to the arm of my chair. “Very well,” he remarked; “I hear you; say on.”

I drew my notes from my pocketbook, and laid them on the table.

“What! memoranda?” he exclaimed. “Unsafe, very; never put your plans on paper.”

Taking no heed of the interruption, I went on.

“Mr. Gryce, I have had fuller opportunities than yourself for studying this woman. I have seen her in a position which no guilty person could occupy, and I am assured, beyond all doubt, that not only her hands, but her heart, are pure from this crime. She may have some knowledge of its secrets; that I do not presume to deny. The key seen in her possession would refute me if I did. But what if she has? You can never wish to see so lovely a being brought to shame for withholding information which she evidently considers it her duty to keep back, when by a little patient finesse we may succeed in our purposes without it.”

“But,” interposed the detective, “say this is so; how are we to arrive at the knowledge we want without following out the only clue which has yet been given us?”

“You will never reach it by following out any clue given you by Eleanore Leavenworth.”

His eyebrows lifted expressively, but he said nothing.

“Miss Eleanore Leavenworth has been used by some one acquainted with her firmness, generosity, and perhaps love. Let us discover who possesses sufficient power over her to control her to this extent, and we find the man we seek.”

“Humph!” came from Mr. Gryce’s compressed lips, and no more.

Determined that he should speak, I waited.

“You have, then, some one in your mind”; he remarked at last, almost flippantly.

“I mention no names,” I returned. “All I want is further time.”

“You are, then, intending to make a personal business of this matter?”

“I am.”

He gave a long, low whistle. “May I ask,” he inquired at length, “whether you expect to work entirely by yourself; or whether, if a suitable coadjutor were provided, you would disdain his assistance and slight his advice?”

“I desire nothing more than to have you for my colleague.”

The smile upon his face deepened ironically. “You must feel very sure of yourself!” said he.

“I am very sure of Miss Leavenworth.”

The reply seemed to please him. “Let us hear what you propose doing.”

I did not immediately answer. The truth was, I had formed no plans.

“It seems to me,” he continued, “that you have undertaken a rather difficult task for an amateur. Better leave it to me, Mr. Raymond; better leave it to me.”

“I am sure,” I returned, “that nothing would please me better——”

“Not,” he interrupted, “but that a word from you now and then would be welcome. I am not an egotist. I am open to suggestions: as, for instance, now, if you could conveniently inform me of all you have yourself seen and heard in regard to this matter, I should be most happy to listen.”

Relieved to find him so amenable, I asked myself what I really had to tell; not so much that he would consider vital. However, it would not do to hesitate now.

“Mr. Gryce,” said I, “I have but few facts to add to those already known to you. Indeed, I am more moved by convictions than facts. That Eleanore Leavenworth never committed this crime, I am assured. That, on the other hand, the real perpetrator is known to her, I am equally certain; and that for some reason she considers it a sacred duty to shield the assassin, even at the risk of her own safety, follows as a matter of course from the facts. Now, with such data, it cannot be a very difficult task for you or me to work out satisfactorily, to our own minds at least, who this person can be. A little more knowledge of the family—”

“You know nothing of its secret history, then?”

“Nothing.”

“Do not even know whether either of these girls is engaged to be married?”

“I do not,” I returned, wincing at this direct expression of my own thoughts.

He remained a moment silent. “Mr. Raymond,” he cried at last, “have you any idea of the disadvantages under which a detective labors? For instance, now, you imagine I can insinuate myself into all sorts of society, perhaps; but you are mistaken. Strange as it may appear, I have never by any possibility of means succeeded with one class of persons at all. I cannot pass myself off for a gentleman. Tailors and barbers are no good; I am always found out.”

He looked so dejected I could scarcely forbear smiling, notwithstanding my secret care and anxiety.

“I have even employed a French valet, who understood dancing and whiskers; but it was all of no avail. The first gentleman I approached stared at me,—real gentleman, I mean, none of your American dandies,—and I had no stare to return; I had forgotten that emergency in my confabs with Pierre Catnille Marie Make-face.”

Amused, but a little discomposed by this sudden turn in the conversation, I looked at Mr. Gryce inquiringly.

“Now you, I dare say, have no trouble? Was born one, perhaps. Can even ask a lady to dance without blushing, eh?”

“Well,—” I commenced.

“Just so,” he replied; “now, I can’t. I can enter a house, bow to the mistress of it, let her be as elegant as she will, so long as I have a writ of arrest in my hand, or some such professional matter upon my mind; but when it comes to visiting in kid gloves, raising a glass of champagne in response to a toast—and such like, I am absolutely good for nothing.” And he plunged his two hands into his hair, and looked dolefully at the head of the cane I carried in my hand. “But it is much the same with the whole of us. When we are in want of a gentleman to work for us, we have to go outside of our profession.”

I began to see what he was driving at; but held my peace, vaguely conscious I was likely to prove a necessity to him, after all.

“Mr. Raymond,” he now said, almost abruptly; “do you know a gentleman by the name of Clavering residing at present at the Hoffman House?”

“Not that