The Green Jacket (Mystery Classics Series): Mystery Novel

By Jennette Lee

This eBook edition has been formatted to the highest digital standards and adjusted for readability on all devices. Mrs. Millicent Newberry has her own very successful detective agency. She has her own unique way of solving crimes. Newberry also has some independent thoughts about criminal justice and she is also unique in a way that she insists to be involved in determining a sentence for criminals she catches. When Tom Corbin, her former boss and mentor, comes to her agency offering partnership, she declines, but takes on the case of the infamous Mason jewels. Corbin was unable to solve this case couple of years ago, but there are some new clues as Corbin's main suspect was now dead. Newberry moves in the Mason mention as a sewing-woman in order to observe and follow the situation. While inquiring and snooping, she is knitting a cute little green jacket.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Musaicum Books
• Release date: Dec 18, 2019
• ISBN: 4057664560032

Book preview

Chapter I

Table of Contents

The elevator-boy tossed her a kindly grin as she stepped into the elevator. But she seemed not to notice. She was a small woman in gray—gray eyes and hair, and the close-fitting suit and small hat were of soft gray. Any one passing her in a crowd would not have noticed her. There might have been the sense of something pleasant that had passed—a subtle perfume that came elusively, but nothing to recall. The only bit of color about her was a knitted green-silk purse in her hand, with curiously wrought gold fittings. It went oddly well with the gray dress and hat.

The elevator-boy looked back over his shoulder.

Good morning, Miss Newberry, he said quietly.

Good morning, Joe. How goes the day?

"All right—now," answered Joe with elaborate emphasis.

She smiled a little and stepped out at the seventh floor.

You've been kissing the Blarney stone again! she said reprovingly.

He grinned and slammed the grated door behind her. His head as it descended into the abyss was turned admiringly to the trim gray figure going down the corridor to the left.

At the first corner she turned sharp to the right, and was facing a ground-glass door at the end of the hall. The dark letters, against the light in the room beyond, stood out clearly:

The Millicent Newberry Agency

consultations from

10-12 and 2-4

or by appointment

She opened the green-silk purse and took out a little key and inserted it in the lock and opened the door.

The room was an ordinary small office, with a desk and three chairs. A rather beautiful old rug covered the floor. The walls were gray. The only color in the room besides the blended harmony of the rug was the green shade at the window and a green blotter on the desk. . . . As she came in she lifted a small pasteboard box from beside the door and carried it with her to the desk.

The lifted cover revealed a few flowers, that she arranged in a light bunch and placed in a glass on the desk.

She removed her hat and coat, hanging them in the closet. And from the closet she produced a pair of paper sleeve-protectors and a dustless duster, with which she wiped the already spotless furniture. She straightened the shade and returned the duster and paper cuffs to the closet, and seated herself by the desk, arranging the ink-stand and pens, erasers and pencils in exact order.

All her movements were deft and precise and still—hardly more than a passing of grayness. Yet there was nothing ethereal about her. She was plump and healthy, and a little stout. In her gray eye there was a look of keenness as it glanced around the spotless office. An artist might have liked to paint her as she sat beside her desk—so perfect was the setting of the room for her personality.

She opened a drawer at the right of the desk and took out a soft bundle of green wool and spread it out on her lap. It was the beginning of a knitted garment. The needles were amber.

She took them up, and dropping the ball of wool into the half-open drawer, she began to knit.

The sunlight, shining across the many-colored rug, fell on the desk and lighted the glass of flowers and touched the gray fig ure warmly. The needles moving swiftly through her fingers glowed with the warmth. One could not have guessed, watching the bent head and the thoughtful gray eyes that followed the needles, what was the purpose of the Agency on the ground-glass door. Seen from this side it was meaningless.

ycnegA yrrebweN tnecilliM ehT

morf snoitatlusnoc

4-2 and 21-O1

tnemtnioppa yb ro

A quick knock sounded on the door and she looked up. She tossed the knitted garment into the half-open drawer and closed it with one hand as she turned a little.

Come in. She took up a pen from the desk and examined the point casually and glanced toward the opening door.

Why—Tom! There was a note of pleasure in it.

How are you, Milly? He came forward graciously, holding out a heavy hand.

Sit down. She pointed to the other chair by the desk. You are the last person I was expecting to see when the door opened! She studied the strong figure, with its broad shoulders and well-set head.

He nodded back to her glance. You haven't seen me for some time.

Two years, said Milly.

Yes—it's been a good while. He sighed a little and glanced about the quiet room. Nice coop you've got up here—to think in—I wish I had anything half as good— Always somebody racketing around or wanting something! He sighed again. Then he seemed to relax to the quiet of the room. He settled more comfortably in his chair.

How did you find me? asked Milly.

"Went to the down-town office. You've got a first-rate staff down there. It was much as ten minutes before I could find out where to get you! That's a good while for me, you know."

She smiled faintly.

Then I got hold of that red-haired one——

Esther.

He nodded. And she graciously permitted me to have your address—after she'd sized me up a bit. . . . They're busy enough down there— He moved an expressive hand. Typewriters clack-clacking, call-boys running, everybody talk-talk-talking!

Milly laughed softly. "You never exaggerate! . . . But I suppose they are busy. That's what we want—business."

Well, you've got it. . . . I don't see just how you've managed either. He looked at her. I tell you frankly, I never thought you'd turn the trick!

You told me that two years ago, didn't you?

And I meant it. He seemed to muse on it. People don't like women detectives as a rule. Don't trust 'em. Won't hire 'em.

"You hired me," suggested Milly.

"Yes—but under me. That's different! You worked under my direction. Did as I said." He seemed to expand a little.

I never said you weren't a good detective, he went on. Only I didn't believe the public would stand for a woman—giving a case over to her entirely. . . . I've missed you, he added irrelevantly.

I'm glad of that, said Milly. How's the business?

Oh—so-so. You never ought to 'a' left me, he said almost petulantly.

You wouldn't let me have my own way, responded Milly.

I never refused you anything, did I?

No.

"What was it, then? I've puzzled about it more than a little—what it was, you wanted."

This, said Milly. She moved her hand, and his eye took in the quiet room.

The room's all right, he nodded. But there's something behind the room, you want—something I don't understand.

She made no reply.

He glanced at her placid face, almost irritably. Isn't there? Oh—bother! See here, Milly: I've got a case I want your help with. I've worked over it till I'm blue— Nothing doing! . . . I've come to you straight— Will you help me?

They sat looking at each other for a minute, his eyes, in the dark, stubborn face with the little cynical line about the lips, staring into the quiet gray ones.

She smiled a little and shook her head. You would not give me a free hand.

He leaned forward. What do you mean by a free hand? You're always talking about a free hand. That's why you left me—far as I make out—a free hand! He spoke a little contemptuously. Well—take it!

You mean you will do as I say? A little light leaped into her face.

I want you to catch this Jim Hudson! He slapped a paper he held in his hand. "I know he's guilty! But I can't get at the facts. If you can pin him down— It's a big case—big reward. . . . And there 'are others.' . . . You'll find a dozen cases hung up, waiting for you."

She seemed to hesitate. The room, in the morning light, was very still. The handful of flowers on the desk gave out a subtle fragrance.

The man's eye rested on them gloomily. I suppose you'd want to keep this office. . . . But we can merge the down-town ones. There's big business for us if we join forces. We'll make New York sit up!

And you would let me have my own way—keep on just as I am now?

Anything in reason. I've told you that, time and again. I'm willing to do anything that's reasonable.

She shook her head a little. You wouldn't call what I'm doing 'reasonable.’

You tell me, and I'll see, said Tom craftily.

She turned it over. Yes—I'm going to tell you——

His face expanded.

I wouldn't tell you when I left—because I did not know then whether it would work. I wanted a chance to try it out. Now, I know!

Oh—it works all right! said Tom gloomily. "It works! I ought to have had that Sargent case?" He turned to her.

Ye-s-s? said Milly. She was smiling a little.

Tom nodded. You did nothing with it—quite out of your range. His hands swept a generous circle. Then his face darkened. And yet Sargent seems contented. I met him the other day. He said they'd dropped it—weren't going to prosecute Tolman. Of course that means you couldn't get the evidence for them— And yet everybody knows Tolman's guilty. He glared at her a little.

No—Tolman was not guilty, said Milly quietly, after a minute.

He—wasn't!

No.

Who was, then— Do you know?

Mr. Sargent told you he was not going to prosecute, didn't he? That disposes of the case.

He took the rebuff gracefully. "Well, if you'll show me a way to lose a case and keep a satisfied client, I'm willing to join forces for anything you say!"

"They're not always satisfied," said Milly.

You mustn't expect that.

I don't expect anything, declared Tom. I never 'expected' to come to you and talk like this. But you've got the business, and I want it. I know you're straight. . . . I've got the grip! He clinched his great hand as he spoke. But you've got something else— He looked at her meditatively. You can sit still in a chair—and know who's guilty and where to look for him!

I wish I could! said Milly softly.

It's something I haven't got, went on Tom, whatever it is—a kind of sixth sense, I'd call it. They say women have it sometimes. Men tell me about things their wives say—that they can't make out how they know 'em. But they're so! . . . I've thought of getting married, he said expansively.

Oh! returned Milly.

He ignored the gentle irony. I've made up my mind to get you to go in with me.

Instead of marrying me!

Instead of marrying any one! retorted Tom. I can't be bothered! Tell me what you want, and we'll draw up a contract to-day.

Milly's hand reached out to the drawer beside her. But before she could open it, the telephone-bell rang sharply.

A look of vexation crossed her face. I forgot to cut off! I don't mean to let them call while any one is here. If a client breaks off talking—you lose a week!

He nodded understandingly. There's a lot in it ! he said.

The bell rang again, imperiously, with a little burr at the end, and Milly took up the receiver and listened.

Millicent Newberry, yes. . . . A long silence, punctuated by the changing lights in Milly's face. . . . Very well, I'll come.

She hung up, with a little sigh and a look of reluctance. I'll have to go, Tom. It's the office—a case that can't wait. When shall I see you again?

His face was a study. If I didn't know you, Milly, I should think you were faking it—to get out of telling me! You've never been willing to tell me straight. His hands were thrust into his pockets and his face was a little grim.

She smiled at him. Why, Tom— There isn't anything I want so much as a good talk with you!

Oh—all right! The hands came out of his pockets. I'll stay till you come back.

I may be half an hour, said Milly.

I'll wait, responded Tom. Can I smoke? He glanced dubiously about the sunlit room.

She laughed out. Open the window. And sit rather near it! She took her hat and coat from the closet.

What will you do—to amuse yourself? She was pinning on the gray hat, and her eyes looked out at him inquiringly, under the brim, as she thrust in the pins and straightened it firmly in place.

I've got the case, said Tom. The one I came to you about. I've wanted just such a quiet place as this—to think it over—nobody coming and going.

Very well—in half an hour, then.

She nodded to him and went out, and Tom Corbin, the head of what had been till two years ago the most important detective agency in the State, was left alone in the quiet office, with the little bunch of flowers on the desk and the sunshine filling the room.

Chapter II

Table of Contents

He went over and threw up the window and stood looking out. Presently he lighted his pipe and drew a whiff or two, and let it out—free, grateful puffs.

His hands were thrust into his pockets. By and by he strolled over to the desk and stood looking down at it. One hand came out of his pocket and tried the drawer at the right. It was locked. He returned his hand to his pocket. The action had been almost automatic—at the most, curious rather than intentional. Presently he reached out and tried the drawer below. It slid back into his hand, and he was gazing down at the maze of green wool. He lifted it gingerly. An amber needle slid from its place and fell to the floor. Tom picked it up hastily. He glanced at the green knitted stuff a little dubiously. It struck him there was something wrong about one end of it. . . . How was a man to tell! He replaced it—with a little look of irritation, and laid the amber needle on top of it and shut the drawer.

He looked about him and crossed to a file-case by the door. He knelt before it, fussing at the lock, and reached into his pocket for a key-ring, from which he selected a curious bit of stout wire with curious curves in it and a little hook at the end. He inserted it in the keyhole, manipulating it with a light touch, his other hand pulling slightly on the upright bar that secured the drawers. The bar gave a little in his hand and a look of satisfaction crossed his face; there was no guilt in the face as he pulled open the drawer and looked in. He was only playing a good game on Milly, paying her out a bit for leaving him alone.

The drawer contained long iron rods strung with indexed cards, and his fingers pushed them apart. His puzzled gaze studied first one and then another—and another. He shut the drawer with a motion of impatience and opened the one above with the same result. He stood and glared at the innocent file-case, and reached to the upright bar and drew it together. The lock snapped in place. Tom Corbin sauntered to the window and stood again with hands in pockets looking down on the teeming city.

He was supposed to be thinking out the Hudson case. But his mind was filled to overflowing with Milly. . . . He found himself a little excited. He could not rid the office of her presence. That green stuff there in the drawer behind him was full of her, and those flowers on the desk— He wheeled about, and looked at them meditatively. He had forgotten how Milly made you feel. He knew he had missed her from the business—but he had not remembered she was just—like this!

He moved restlessly, and brought a chair to the window and sat down. The smoke from his pipe drifted up against the blue of the sky. . . . He was recalling Milly as she appeared in his office, that first day, ten years ago. He had been puzzling over the Babcock case, he remembered— Everybody called it suicide. He had had his suspicion that it was not suicide, but murder, and somehow his suspicion must have leaked out. There had been a mysterious hint in the morning's paper. He was vexed with the whole business, and not in a pleasant mood. Then the door had opened and a young woman, hardly more than a girl, it seemed to him, had come hurriedly in. She had looked about her with a half-frightened air. She had something to tell him—about the Babcock case, she said. They were neighbors—not friends—he did not know them, but