The House of Murder

By H. L. Gates

The House of Murder, first published in 1930, set in the Riviera, concerns a female jewel thief and her accomplice, a brutal murderer. From the dustjacket: The Swan Murders were terrorizing Europe. The Police were unable to detect this mysterious lady of Death who committed the most daring jewel thefts, openly, brazenly—while her strangler accomplice murdered brutally, horribly, fearlessly. She goaded and infuriated the Police by leaving little crystal swans as a grim token on the body of each victim. Then, the Great Giroff was called to solve the riddle of the Swan, and his search brought him to the House of Murder, and thrust him into the most amazing sequence of events and the most perilous and exciting chase of his career. This is a thrilling story that will give you many breathless, eerie moments of chill and terror.

Author Henry Leyford Gates (1878-1937) wrote a number of mysteries and other novels, including The Laughing Peril and Ravished Armenia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phocion Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789129083

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

THE HOUSE OF MURDER

H L. GATES

The House of Murder was originally published in 1930 by Jacobsen Publishing Company, Inc., New York.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

Chapter One — AN EMPTY JEWEL CASE 5

Chapter Two — THE CRYSTAL SWAN 9

Chapter Three — A LADY OF DEATH 16

Chapter Four — THE LITTLE FELLOW SHOWS UP 22

Chapter Five — IN THE LOWER ROAD 28

Chapter Six — THE CYPRESS SCREEN 33

Chapter Seven — THE DIAMOND CHAIN 37

Chapter Eight — THE SWAN SPEAKS AGAIN 42

Chapter Nine — AGAIN, THE HARLEQUIN PEARLS ARE GONE! 52

Chapter Ten — JACQUELINE 56

Chapter Eleven — GIROFF 63

Chapter Twelve — THE THIRD CANDLE 69

Chapter Thirteen — THE MURDERER OF THE BARONESS 73

Chapter Fourteen — GARDENIAS 80

Chapter Fifteen — IN THE PATIO 85

Chapter Sixteen — THE FIEND UNDERGROUND 90

Chapter Seventeen — WHERE DID HE GO? 96

Chapter Eighteen — GUILLAUME 100

Chapter Nineteen — IF GIROFF HAD KNOWN! 104

Chapter Twenty — GARDENIAS AGAIN 109

Chapter Twenty-One — THE FALSE CRYSTAL SWAN 113

Chapter Twenty-Two — AMBROSE OGILVIE 118

Chapter Twenty-Three — A SCREAM FROM WITHIN THE HOUSE 124

Chapter Twenty-Four — THE NOTE 127

Chapter Twenty-Five — GIROFF IS MYSTERIOUS 132

Chapter Twenty-Six — GARDENIAS OR GUILLAUME! 136

Chapter Twenty-Seven — FANYA VIDAL SCREAMS 140

Chapter Twenty-Eight — FANYA SPEAKS 151

Chapter Twenty-Nine — IN THE CELLAR 157

Chapter Thirty — THE MAN WITH THE DUCK’S BILL 163

Chapter Thirty-One — THE GREAT GIROFF 167

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 172

Chapter One — AN EMPTY JEWEL CASE

For fifteen minutes Basil Towne had stood face to face with murder. It was not a pleasant presence, that presence of death intruding into the fragrant quiet of a peaceful, summer afternoon.

But, suddenly, Basil Towne faced something more;—the cold, hard scrutiny from the questioning eyes of a representative of the police.

The fragile body of the pretty Baroness Hilda lay between them on the vivid green rug of her drawing room. She lay where she had fallen, twisted into a pathetic heap, one arm outstretched. Beyond his own hasty examination of her pulse, Inspector Lacrosse would not permit that she be disturbed until the arrival of the medical officials.

Across the room a frightened servant girl with wide blue eyes hovered, alternately muttering prayers that her mistress come back to life, and sobbing in semi-hysteria.

Basil had been gazing down into the inert face of the Baroness, framed in the coiled plaits of tawny hair that had so fascinated him. He couldn’t believe that the lips that had been so alive were forever still. An intuitive alarm brought up his glance to meet the distinctly unfriendly stare of the police officer.

In his hand the Inspector held a silk-lined, bronze jewel case, empty, its cover lifted back. He tapped the box with a finger and spoke sharply.

You say that in this case were the Harlequin pearls?

There is no doubt of it, Basil declared. He concealed with an effort his irritation at the other’s manner. The Baroness had promised that I might see them this afternoon. She invited me to come at four o’clock. I arrived at that time. There is no question that she had brought the Harlequins into the drawing room, in their case, and was waiting to receive me when the—when this! happened.

From the other side of the room came a cry from the weeping servant. Yes—yes indeed, sirs! But two minutes—one minute—she had left me, in the hall, to come in here, the jewels were in her hand, when I heard that sound——!

The Inspector silenced the girl with a commanding gesture that sent her, in a new panic, back into her corner. During her interruption he had not broken his stare at Basil. The latter flushed, but met the other’s watery gray eyes steadily.

Lacrosse, a shaggy, heavy-featured man who moved slowly, grunted at last and stepped across the room into a panel of low afternoon sun that came into the room through wide French windows. Three paces from the windows he stopped, bent to the floor, and looked back at Basil.

If you please, he demanded, be good enough to show me where the box lay when you discovered it.

The younger man went over and with his foot indicated a spot on the floor full within the shaft of waning sunlight.

Approximately here.

And it lay—so? On one side, its lid closed?

Yes. Evidently the cover snapped shut when it fell. That is very much what its position was. Basil frowned and added, apologetically: I should not have fingered it, or disturbed it, I know. But I was overwhelmed. I thought only to verify what was unfortunately too evident. That—this!—had been done for the pearls, almost at the moment of my coming, and that they were really gone.

Any other than the stolid Lacrosse would have been impressed by the genuineness of the young man’s distress. His inner horror of the scene he was part of was written plainly in his face, a troubled face that, at another time, would be almost boyish, with a genial effect of good humor.

The Inspector rose, leaving the jewel case where he had placed it on the floor. A uniformed policeman, one of a pair who had arrived with Lacrosse and had been ordered to examine the gardens that surrounded the Baroness’ house, appeared at the French windows.

He reported briefly. We have discovered nothing yet, sir.

His superior gave him a curt order. "Continue. A footprint. A disarrangement of shrubbery. Something.

Find something,—— Basil was watching him and angrily clenched his fists when, with a deliberate pause, the Inspector turned his watery eyes full upon him before he concluded: Find something—if you can.

The policeman at the window saluted and disappeared to rejoin his companion in the yards. The Inspector produced from an inner pocket a notebook and pencil. He spoke in more courteous tone, now, but, curiously, Basil did not feel relieved. He braced himself instinctively.

While we await the wholly needless arrival of the medical examiner, said Lacrosse, I will trouble you to repeat, if you please, the circumstances of—ah!—four o’clock.

He began to make entries in his notebook while he continued speaking.

I have your name, and that you are an American, stopping at Mentone. You have stated that you were sent to France by an American syndicate—did you say, from Massachusetts?

From Worcester, Massachusetts, which happens also to be my home.

The Inspector made an entry and finished his broken sentence ——to propose the purchase of the Harlequin pearls from their last owner, the Baroness von Stromberg. You have said that the negotiations were proceeding. It occurs to you to examine the pearls themselves.

The Inspector poised his pencil and looked at the other man. Was that desire prompted by the wish to assure yourself that the Baroness actually was in possession of the pearls? Or did you wish to be certain of their value?

Basil replied with asperity.

I could have no occasion to doubt the ability of the Baroness to deliver the jewel. Any transaction would have been concluded at a bank. Nor would I be able to pass upon their value. I have only an amateur’s knowledge of gem values. I have explained, and I repeat it, that I was only curious to see the Harlequin pearls. I, like anybody else, naturally would get a thrill out of holding in my hands the world’s most famous string of jewels. The Baroness was very gracious. She quite understood, if you do not.

The Inspector protested blandly. I do understand, sir. Quite. The Baroness agreed that you should come here, where she has lived virtually alone since the war reduced her fortunes, at four o’clock this afternoon. She would spread before you the Harlequins which she was hopeful of selling to your syndicate. I quite understand. And now, if you please—will you repeat your account of what happened this afternoon?

Basil glanced at the quiet body on the floor, but shut his lids quickly to blank out the unhappy sight. He moved so that he might face the Inspector without conscious vision of the poor Baroness.

I timed my drive from Mentone, he said, to arrive here as near to four as possible. I glanced at my watch while I was passing through the gate that opens from the road. It was precisely four o’clock then.

Did you descend to open the gate yourself?

The servant girl, who remained in the background and was now moaning quietly, again interrupted. The gate is open all day, sir. I am the only servant my poor mistress has kept. We were to have a cook, another house girl, and a butler when she had sold her necklace. We were to have grand times again, sir, that’s what she was counting on——.

Lacrosse threatened the girl with a heavy scowl and a sharp word, but she insisted upon finishing her say.

I’m explaining, sir, why the gate from the road is always open. I could not go running to open it at all times of the day when I must be tidying the house and attending mistress. So I opened it each morning. Anyone could come and go without stopping.

The Inspector waited for Basil to continue.

She has answered that question, he said. "I came along the motor path, through the front lawns, and parked my car, it is the blue coupe you see from here, at one side of the steps that lead up to the porch. I had just touched the bell when I chanced to turn my head so that my glance fell into this room through the windows. If you will stand outside the door, on the porch, you will see that the wall of this room takes an angle which permits anyone standing at the door to see inside quite plainly. You will observe that the curtains are drawn, leaving the view unobstructed.

I was startled to see the form of a woman stretched on the floor, where the Baroness lies now. I came to the window for a closer view. Just then the maid opened the door.

The Inspector flipped a page of his note book. He looked at his watch and muttered: The medical examiner takes his own time to arrive. He nodded to Basil, then, to continue.

To the maid, Basil went on, I exclaimed, ‘Your mistress!’ Without waiting for her to reply, or show me to the drawing room, I brushed past her and threw open the doors. The girl behind me screamed when she, also, saw the Baroness. I called to the Baroness, and dropped beside her. I realized quickly that she was dying. The red stain on her frock was slowly spreading. She breathed her last as I bent down to her.

I think you stated that she did not speak?

She was too far gone. It struck me at once, from the position of the wound, directly over the heart, that she must have been shot only a minute or two before I burst into the room. I know from my trench experience that one dies very quickly from a bullet in the heart.

There was another cry from the maid. This time, in her eagerness, she ran into the center of the room, closer to the body of her mistress than she had as yet approached it. That was the sound I heard, she half screamed. It was the shot that killed my mistress. Just before the bell rings. First I hear the sound. I am scared. I think it is a bullet. Then the bell rings. I say, No, I am foolish. It is but an automobile noise from the road. Or I am mistaken and do not hear anything at all. I answer the bell. He—— She pointed a wildly shaking finger at Basil. He pushes open the doors and then I see——!

The girl’s voice, which had risen to a thin scream, broke. She dug her hands into her face, distorting her features until her eyes stared through her fingers, two great wells of horror. Strangely, Lacrosse was silent. Basil thought the quivering, crouching girl would collapse across the body of her mistress. He started toward her, to support her.

With a piercing shriek the girl leapt backward, fending Basil off with both her arms flung out, her hands flattened against him. Her shrill scream beat against his ears.

Don’t let him—keep him away. It was him——He killed my mistress—through the window—I heard it—then the bell!

Basil froze, his arms still held out in their impulse to catch and support the girl. He stared while the girl, overcome by her paroxysm, crumpled at last, into an unconscious heap beside the lifeless Baroness.

The shaggy Inspector brought him to his senses with a throaty grunt. He wheeled to meet the watery eyes calmly studying him.

The servant’s conclusion is interesting, sir, said Lacrosse. Unless I am shortly given sufficient reason to adopt some other theory, I shall ask you to agree with me that the Baroness von Stromberg was alive and well, and that the Harlequin pearls were in their case, when you arrived, at four o’clock.

Chapter Two — THE CRYSTAL SWAN

The hysterical accusation of the servant, he knew her simply as Marie, affected Basil deeply. When his first shock at her screaming outbreak passed, a cold chill had begun to creep through him. Her pathetic grief, in that room of stark tragedy, was bound to add a dangerous importance to her crazed belief that he had sent a bullet to the Baroness, from the porch, snatched the priceless Harlequins from their bronze box, and then calmly rang the door bell.

In the second of intervening silence between her collapse and Lacrosse’s heavy speech, he realized that his uncomfortable position had indeed become threatening. Unless those fellows who were combing the yard found some evidence of a fugitive who had made an escape through the grounds!

But the Inspector’s deliberate, preposterous charge roused in him a totally different feeling. Here was a man who would have no other interest save justice, or, possibly his own credit. He ought to use good common sense.

His blunt inferences aroused Basil’s hot anger. Heated retort rose to his lips, but he remembered—where he was!—and restrained his impulse. He shrugged his shoulders and observed, grimly:

It’s a long way from Massachusetts!

Both men were stooping to lift the unconscious Marie to a couch. The Inspector paused to regard Basil blankly. The latter nodded coolly.

If we were in Worcester, I’d punch your head, you know!

We are not in Worcester, sir, Lacrosse returned, stolidly.

The intended ministration to Marie, who was now breathing quietly in what could have been to her only a blessing of oblivion, was interrupted by the noisy stop outside of a heavy car which had come along the graveled motor path at furious speed.

Lacrosse stepped around the body on the green rug and opened the drawing room doors.

We shall proceed, now, with more order, he said. The medical examiner arrives!

Basil had expected a solemn, long-visaged French official. Dr. Marsac was an opposite character. Indescribably fat, with short, chubby legs, and face as round as a plate, set with two eyes which were perpetually cast in a twinkle. He paused at the threshold, filling the door space with his wide bulk, his pudgy hands rubbing their palms together across his great round stomach.

However, Lacrosse accorded this curious medical examiner a profound respect. He bowed with stiff formality, first to Dr. Marsac himself, then to a younger, alert and efficient looking man who, apparently, was the medical examiner’s assistant. This second man carried a case of instruments which, even while he stood behind his superior, unable to enter the room past that huge bulk, he was opening in readiness for any emergencies.

The remains have not been disturbed, sir, Lacrosse announced, importantly. They are at your command.

Dr. Marsac swept the room with a twinkling glance, his hands still rubbing. Well, well! You produce murder, Inspector. Good fortune for the policeman, eh? But how sad the occasion for the rest of us!

Dr. Marsac’s voice boomed pleasantly. So pleasantly, in that scene of dread solemnity, that Basil was hurt,—hurt for the poor, pretty Baroness Hilda, who was willing to give up the last and greatest of her treasures that she might live grandly the life she loved so well! That pleasant, booming voice was almost a sacrilege.

Yet, after awhile, Basil was to acknowledge a respect, even more profound than that of Inspector Lacrosse, for the rotund Dr. Marsac.

The medical examiner stepped into the room.

Ah! Two of them. Well, well, Inspector! Have two while you’re about it, eh? Do it right when you—But no! This one breathes!

With an incredibly long stride for his pudgy legs he stood over Marie. He beckoned with both short arms to his assistant.

You imbecile! You snail! One breathes and you stand there! Onto the couch. Quickly.

He swung around upon Lacrosse. Why did you not put the breathing one onto the couch? You are an ass, Inspector! You are aware that I cannot stoop.

She fainted. That is all, Lacrosse explained.

Dr. Marsac immediately dismissed Marie from his attention, leaving his assistant to revive her.

"Then you are not an ass, Inspector. In this instance.

I withdraw it. I withdraw also my compliments upon the double nature of your sad crime. Remember that!"

It is serious enough as it is, sir, the Inspector returned respectfully.

Dr. Marsac exhibited that he could stoop, when put to it. He somehow got his knees under him and was down beside the Baroness. Basil was amazed by the skillful deftness of the fat fingers that flew to the still pulse, tested muscles for their stage of rigor mortis, straightened twisted limbs, and with a tender touch wrought a peaceful calm in the face that had been pain wracked.

Lacrosse offered: She was dead, when I arrived.

Quite so. Practically instantly. She heard the explosion but never knew what caused it. Very pretty woman. Damn shame. You policemen should take better care of pretty women!

While he spoke, voice booming out cheerfully to fill the room, Dr. Marsac crawled on his ridiculous hands and knees to where his assistant had deposited his case on a chair while he worked over Marie, who was now moaning softly. He clutched the case and brought out instruments he required to probe for and trace the bullet. He crawled back puffily to the prostrate Baroness.

Basil turned quickly away from the sight of the white breast and shoulder the medical examiner uncovered. He glanced to the couch where sat Marie, the assistant standing close by. She shrank from his gaze as if it stabbed her. He wanted to go to her, but feared to rearouse her hysteria.

At the windows Lacrosse was conferring with his two men, who had come onto the porch from the grounds. The Inspector was demanding:

But no footprints? On the path? The grass? In the shrubbery?

One of the uniformed men answered his chief. The paths all are graveled. They’d keep no marks. No one has been across the lawns or gardens, so far as we can see, on any side of the house. The bushes along the road are faced on the outside by a wooden wall. Maybe you noticed that, sir, as we came up. There are no signs there. And it seems to us that anyone going out would have taken the open gate. There was no need to climb the wall.

Have you examined the road? Tire tracks? Other marks in the dust?

There’s many a tire track. Cars are coming and going all the time. They use the side of the road, close in. The marks couldn’t be untangled. There’s no sign of feet.

What about the garages and other outhouses?

We went through the servants’ quarters carefully, sir. What servants there are here now, must live inside. The quarters have not been occupied, we should say, for a long time. The speaker looked at his companion for verification of this statement. The other said: There’s dust and dirt enough about to’ve been gathering for a year. Nobody’s been in the servants’ quarters for a long time, I should say.

The garage was locked, said the first man. I went in through a window. Nobody hiding there. But I say, Inspector. He pointed to the porch floor, between the windows and the house door. Have you noticed here, sir? There’s footprints here. Shall we take a pattern of these?

Lacrosse replied, without looking down. I think there’s no need. But we shall see. He motioned Basil to approach.

I suppose they’re mine, Basil said, if there’s any there. I came up to the window, you remember.

I remember, said Lacrosse, dryly. If you please, just the same! Your foot, just so!

Basil stepped through the window. On the porch floor, which was of boards, was a faint, unshapen patch of gray. To Basil’s eye it meant nothing. To the others it was a footprint. And their practiced eyes fitted the mark instantly to Basil’s shoe.

Thank you, said the Inspector heavily. Basil thought he detected a tone of smug satisfaction. He said, sharply:

You’ll not be calling that progress? Or a clue of some kind? You knew they would be mine, right enough. I have explained them.

I have a full note of your explanation. As I have suggested, I shall perhaps ask you soon to enlarge upon it. The medical examiner is calling.

They stepped through the windows into the room, Lacrosse pausing to instruct