Chapter III: "paquita--What Do You Spell?"

Presently Charlotte reappeared, composed and listless, her pale countenance subdued with sorrow.

"You must pardon my having left you so unceremoniously," she began, her quiet voice even quieter than usual; "but your news was so shocking--my rest has been so broken--that I was not strong to bear it. It is appalling, Mr. Converse; I don't fully realize it yet. It troubles me greatly to be so situated that I cannot go to Joyce."

"I, too, regret that you cannot," he returned, with a meaning hidden from Charlotte.

She wanted to hear the particulars, and after he had complied, briefly, she turned to him and asked:

"What do you make of it?"

Before replying, he ran a hand thoughtfully through his gray hair.

"There are two or three questions I should like to ask you before going into that," he returned, "if you please." After a slight pause, taking her silence for consent, he proceeded:

"In my investigation of the two cases I have encountered several coincidences so striking and suggestive that they require the fullest elucidation. Whenever I set my mind to working upon any phase of the duplex problem, one mystic word immediately becomes the pivot about which everything else begins to circle; whatever reasonable theory I may begin to develop, it sooner or later encounters 'Paquita,' and I am unable to get beyond her, or to see anything very clearly for the shadow she casts. And now, in the face of evidence all pointing quite another way, I have become possessed of a conviction that 'Paquita' embodies the crux of the entire problem. Paquita--what do you spell? Silence is the only answer." Suddenly he caught the intent look with which she was following him, and he laughed in a deprecating way.

"Heaven knows, I am prosaic enough myself, Miss Fairchild," he continued, "but I overlook no possibilities, however slender they may be; and it is particularly aggravating to have a circumstance like this remain so completely inexplicable--so insusceptible to the most determined efforts. It is as if the minx were mocking me. I have spent a number of years in Latin America, and am tolerably familiar with their customs; but everything I have endeavored to ascertain of the shadowy Paquita has been as barren of results as my father's old Connecticut farm. That mysterious name suggests an element of romance which appeals to the average individual; but the romance is not forthcoming."

"Does the name appear elsewhere besides on Doctor Westbrook's paper-knife?"

For answer he drew forth his pocket-book, and producing therefrom the bit of paper he had found in the Westbrook ash-hopper, handed it to her.

"This is all that remains of a letter received by General Westbrook day before yesterday, and burnt by him some time during the same night. I was searching for something altogether different--a writing upon which he was engaged shortly before his death--and was led to this.

"The newspapers, as you know, made the most of the 'Paquita' on the dagger-handle; you are familiar with the unknown and mysterious señorita of the press, betrayed and revengeful, striking from the grave through the medium of Doctor Westbrook's paper-knife; but in reality she is not only unknown, but there is not the slightest evidence that any such person ever existed. I could imagine a secret enemy of the General's choosing that name behind which to mask his identity, especially at a time when it is fresh in everybody's mind; yet the fact that the letter itself is written in Spanish is strongly against this idea. That letter was concluded in such a manner that the signature was an important part of the context."

"You have heard the story of the dagger, have you not?"

"Yes. But the truth is far from being so romantic; it is quite sordid, in fact."

"The truth? I fail to understand."

"Yes. You know that we police in the different cities all over the civilized world work together to a certain extent, and assist each other whenever we can; complete and systematic records are kept of each detail--no matter how unimportant or trivial it may seem--of every matter coming to us in an official way, and those records are always at the disposal of the police in any city.

"I dislike spoiling the pretty romance of the dagger," with an apologetic smile; "but the facts are these: A Mexican girl, of the peon class, went to Mexico City some six or seven years ago from the United States. She was accompanied by her brother, also an ignorant and extremely dirty peon--what we call a 'greaser' here. They had no money, apparently were animated by no greater desire to acquire any than usually inspires the average peon, and they lived in a hovel in the poorest quarter of the capital. Now, if it hadn't been for that rather remarkable dagger they would have been forgotten long ago. They were both dead within a month after their arrival,--smallpox. She killed herself during delirium; he died a few days later in a pest-camp. It is sordid enough, you see. It is that very unusual weapon alone that has saved them from oblivion. How did they come by it? It is impossible to say--stole it, probably; but if so, it has been advertised enough of late, in all conscience, to attract its owner if he be alive anywhere on the face of the earth. But there are enterprising newspapers also in the City of Mexico, and enterprising dealers in curios; so there you have the genesis of the story of the Doctor's paper-knife. So much for it.... Now then, question one: Did you ever hear of any other Paquita?"

Charlotte's answer was a decided negative. "If you are trying to establish such a person as ever having been a living reality, and as ever having had interests involved with the past of the Westbrook family, I believe it will lead to nothing; unless--unless--"

"Well?"

"Well, unless it can be found in General Westbrook's life in Mexico. But think of his character, his integrity, his extraordinary family pride--are they not incompatible with the existence of such a secret?"

Converse nodded. "And I might add," he said, "that here again the pretty complete facts do not warrant the slightest ground for such a theory."

"But--" Charlotte hesitated, "what has all this to do with a friend in trouble?"

"Patience, please; I shall get to that in good time. I want you to know certain facts first, for without this preamble the name will occasion a shock that all the after-assurance and reasoning may not remove. You must be prepared for the name before I blurt it out."

"Very well, I am resigned," she returned with a faint smile. Since her return to the porch all the brightness had left her face and eyes; the caller noted that she looked no more down the roadway toward the city, and even her smile was colorless and without the least spark of animation. "May I ask you a question?" she concluded.

"Certainly, Miss Fairchild; certainly."

"How about that man--the Mexican--Vargas? Even though I know but little of these dreadful affairs, I have thought a great deal. And that man: what do you know of him?"

"I am glad you asked this question, because it touches upon a point about which I wish to speak fully."

The Captain then recounted Vargas's testimony at the first inquest, adding that it had since been fully corroborated and amplified by exhaustive inquiries in Mexico.

"But still," continued the speaker, "there is a point where Señor Vargas comes into our mystery. He is shrewd and aggressive, and has more than doubled his wealth since taking up his residence in Mexico. He has only one relative--a niece. She is merely a child who has spent all her life in a convent; as commonplace, as ignorant of the world, and as innocent as only such a child--and especially a Spanish child--could possibly be. Bear in mind, Miss Fairchild, that these are established facts. I am relating them as briefly as possible; but they are necessary in leading up to my next question. Here is a point I wish you also to remember; you will see why as I proceed. A year or two ago Vargas purchased a hacienda from the administrators of the estate of one Don Juan del Castillo, which he so lavishly remodelled that it is now a veritable palace. Don Juan had been a very wealthy man at one time, having a vast estate; but his decease disclosed the fact that his affairs were in a chaotic condition, and that he was practically bankrupt. This man had never married, and all the formalities, besides a diligent search, failed to bring forward any authentic heirs. In short, none have ever appeared.

"These facts concerning Don Juan are interesting for four reasons: first, the banking house of De Sanchez and De Sanchez--of which General Westbrook was at that time a partner--was administrator of the Castillo estate; second, last night and shortly before his death, the General was engaged in the compilation of a document headed 'Memorandum of Castillo Estate,' which document was taken from his desk before the officers arrived; third, that while the county records have been carefully searched for the purpose of ascertaining if any of these foreigners had ever held any property interests here, it was not until a day or two ago that a single thing was found to justify the trouble. What that was is queer enough.

"In November, eighteen fifty-nine, a mortgage was filed for record by one John S. Castle."

"Castle!" Charlotte became suddenly alert.

"Ah, I see the name is not unfamiliar to you; but let me finish. The property mortgaged, among other parcels of realty, included your old family homestead. Of course the mortgager was your father. Now, with the name of John S. Castle to guide us through the index to the mortgage records, we find the next item of interest just three years later--namely, in November, eighteen sixty-two--when the mortgage was renewed. In another three years--that is, in November sixty-five--it was again renewed; then, in November, eighteen sixty-eight, an assignment of mortgage was filed, transferring this particular one to William Slade, senior, your old overseer. Here John S. Castle disappears for good and all; what followed concerning the mortgage is irrelevant; but the point I wish to make is, that the name John S. Castle is the English equivalent of Juan S. Castillo. This is the fourth reason why Vargas interests me. I have been unable to find any other trace of Castle. And now, can all this be mere coincidence?

"My next question to you is: Have you any knowledge of Castle, or Slade, or is there any event in your family history that may by any chance throw light into these dark places? Or could either your mother or Mr. Clay do so?"

"Mr. Converse, this is all so marvellous that I am a little bewildered. I never should have imagined that these dreadful tragedies could involve so much. How ever in the world did you discover so many details? But I am unable to tell you much. As to mamma, I cannot say. Her memory, of course--such as it is, Mr. Converse--goes back farther than mine. But Clay--I am certain he could be of no assistance; he is always impatient of dwelling upon our more prosperous days; mamma, at times, is rather inclined to--to--well, to contrast our present circumstances with what they were before papa died, and Clay invariably leaves the room on such occasions. John S. Castle was always considered a fiction in our family, behind which the elder Slade masked his treachery; or, perhaps, it is more exact to say that he came to be regarded as a fiction. It is very certain that he never appeared at all. Slade, senior, in his younger days was of a roving disposition. During the Mexican War he enlisted in the army, I believe, and was with General Scott in Mexico. He learned to speak the Spanish language, I know; and that might explain John S. Castle; they actually may have met in Mexico."

"That is true; it may be merely one more of the coincidences, signifying nothing at all. But I am not of a disposition to dismiss them thus." He fell into a thoughtful silence, from which he roused himself presently to say:

"It has occurred to me, Miss Fairchild,--to digress a moment,--that all these details of the man Castle, and the manner in which his name was utilized by the elder Slade, might hide some sort of chicanery. Everything about that old mortgage may not have been perfectly straight and aboveboard; and if that is the case--why, there is no telling what interest may be due you out of the property. Some of it is very valuable now, and the matter is worth looking into."

"Indeed?" returned Charlotte, without interest. "To find a fortune for us would be a strange ending of a search for the assassin of a man so completely a stranger."

"Oh, I merely mentioned it as a result of my delving into musty records. I do not wish to inspire any hopes that may be disappointed."

"Truly," with more warmth, "I thank you. My lack of enthusiasm arose from the impossibility of inspiring any such hope at all. I shall tell Clay, though, what you have just told me. Should we be entitled to any such interest, he would assuredly exert an effort to regain it."

He bowed a dismissal of the topic.

"But now, Miss Fairchild, does it not occur to you as a bit remarkable that out of all the developments not one circumstance has appeared tending to throw any light on the mysterious Paquita?"

Of a sudden she threw the back of one slender hand to her lips--obviously a characteristic gesture; her look assumed an expression of startled surprise. Charlotte's customary repose of manner was so placid that the involuntary movement was doubly impressive and significant.

"Ah," said Converse, quietly, "something has recurred to you."

"That is true," she at last returned, "and perhaps I should not have mentioned it. But you certainly have enlisted my sympathies, even though I might have no personal interest in these tragedies; and God knows I am anxious enough to see Clay, Mobley, all my friends freed of this wretched nightmare. What struck me so abruptly was this: ever since Joyce's trip to Mexico, and the presentation of the dagger paper-knife to Mobley, he has playfully addressed his sister as 'Paquita.' I had forgotten it; but the nickname spread among her intimates, and she subscribed her letters to them usually in that way. The name appealed to her, and I suppose I have notes now from Joyce signed 'Paquita.'"

"This is certainly very interesting," said he with marked gravity; and Charlotte continued with increased animation:

"It just occurred to me that the circumstance may have become known to some one who has used it with a special significance, at present unknown to you."

"Possibly. But I was not thinking of it in that way."

Although she waited, he vouchsafed no further explanation. Instead, he remained, for possibly a minute, in quiet reflection; then turning to Charlotte, he asked in a matter-of-fact way:

"Do you think you could lay your hand upon any of those notes? I should like to have a glimpse of Miss Joyce's penmanship."

She brightened as at a sudden pleasant thought. "If so, they are in my escritoire. Just a moment, please." She glided into the house and returned in a few moments with a half-dozen or so heavy, cream-tinted envelopes. Without comment she handed them to Converse, eyeing him expectantly as he took up one at random.

It was inscribed, "Miss Susan Sunshine,"--evidently a playful sobriquet designating Charlotte,--and a bit of violet-hued wax bore the Westbrook crest. He merely glanced at the legible and flowing characters; noted that, as it bore no stamp, it had obviously been delivered by private messenger, and then shook his head. "I have never seen that handwriting before," was his only spoken observation as he handed the parcel back to Charlotte. It is impossible that she could have imagined the feeling of anticipation, almost if not quite anxious in its intensity, that stirred within him in the face of the rapidly forming pattern into which immediate events were patently shaping themselves.

But the curiosity now animating her had not yet been satisfied. "Look at this," she persisted, hastily selecting another envelope from the lot. "I have read of marvellous feats of a detective reading a person's entire life from a scrap of that person's chirography. I have a curiosity to know what you make of this."

"I have read of such things, too," with a little laugh; "but I am afraid they are mostly confined to fiction. Still a fragment of one's handwriting is often a great aid in--" He stopped, and his brow shot into a pucker as his glance fell upon the envelope now in his hand. "This is by another hand," he concluded, sharply.

"You are correct; yet--yet--"

He glanced up quickly, giving Charlotte a rapier-like look. "Miss Westbrook wrote it?" he completed her sentence.

She nodded brightly.

"Then she is--" He searched his memory for a word which the District Attorney had suggested to him on a similar occasion; and as Mr. Mountjoy supplied it then, so did Charlotte now.

"Ambidextrous," said she. "Her left hand is reserved for the 'Susan Sunshine' letters and all such whimsical correspondence, while this last is her individual handwriting. Equal facility in the use of either hand is a hereditary Westbrook trait."

He remained still so long that she began to manifest some impatience. "You attach no importance to it, do you?" she asked with some misgiving.

He did not respond immediately. Now was an occasion when his ability absolutely to conceal all feeling could serve him admirably. Looking at Charlotte he had not the heart to tell her that she was innocently supplying such serious connecting links to the chain of evidence tightening about her beloved friend. While the handwriting on the second envelope in no wise resembled the writing on the charred fragment of the "Paquita" letter, further than that both were feminine, yet that circumstance of Joyce's ambidexterity--how portentous it was!

So, when he finally responded, he plunged into another phase of the subject, as if he had not heard her question.

"Miss Fairchild," briskly, "I must progress toward the final and most important matter which I came here to present to you, and again I take occasion to warn you that this part of my recital will require a great deal of your fortitude. You must believe, now, that I have worked untiringly--unceasingly--in this matter?"

"I believe that, Mr. Converse."

"Very good. Now, endeavor not only to keep before you what I have already told you, but please follow me as closely as you can.... First, however, assure me upon one point, though it may seem inconsequential and even presuming in me to speak of it; but before I am done you will understand. Is there any attachment between your brother and Miss Westbrook?"

She regarded him with serious eyes.

"Mr. Converse," she began, with a sudden assumption of reserve and restraint, "that is a very delicate and, to me, sacred matter; but I--" She checked herself, and once more regarded him gravely; her manner quickly changed, and again she became frank and open. "I do not believe you would ask it were it not important that I answer you frankly. Never have Clay and I exchanged a word upon the subject; but I am a woman--his sister--and I love him dearly; I see a great deal more than he would ever suspect. Mr. Converse, please respect this confidence: I believe there has never been a time when Clay did not love Joyce, dear, darling, beautiful girl that she is. As for her, I do not know. She has a warm attachment for Clay; she admires him; still, she is so young--her life has been so gay and light-hearted, so entirely free from any care and responsibility--that it is pleasant to think no strong emotion has yet laid its touch upon her heart. To her, Clay has been a playmate, a loved comrade, a friend; whether he is destined ever to be more, I cannot say. But I believe I have told you the exact status of their intimacy, for it has occupied my thoughts often, often, often."

"This confidence has not injured your brother; and you have my word of honor that it is as sacred with me as with yourself."

"That will do; I can now hear anything you have to tell me."

He paused a moment. He knew he must hurt her, however carefully he might unfold the intelligence he had come to convey, and so why prolong the anxiety by trying to temper it? So he said, slowly, deliberately:

"Miss Fairchild, the one person that we have so far been unable to account for, to whom we must look for the explanation of these crimes is--a woman."

A slight gasp from his hearer caused him to pause again. Briefly he gauged her strength.

"That woman was alone with your brother about the time of De Sanchez's death. In short, the assassin could have been no place but in Mr. Nettleton's office; and no one was there besides those two."

"Merciful God! Clay!"

"Wait!" hastily. "Your brother is innocent--I am sure of that--but the woman--"

Charlotte sat quivering as if with an ague, deadly white.

"Who?--who?" she gasped, huskily, when he paused.

"The facts all say--Joyce Westbrook."

"Oh, don't--don't!" She arose and stood unsteadily confronting him. "I can't--I will not listen to this. It is abominable. You have stumbled into some terrible error that may be explained. Why, Mr. Converse, this will kill Joyce. Oh, how horrible! how horrible!"

"Error?" said he, with extraordinary gentleness. "Ah, Miss Fairchild, I hate to pain you so, but somebody must be stirred to action. I cannot reach to the Doctor's or his sister's sensibilities in their morbid state of mind; and if she will not unlock her lips, I cannot speak of the result. Error? I admit its possibility. I spent an exceedingly bad half-hour this morning trying to persuade Doctor Westbrook and Miss Joyce that I was more than willing to meet them on this ground. But no. If I have, as you say, stumbled into a bog of error, they left me to get back to terra firma again as best I could. If we can agree upon this point, we have an excellent position from which to operate; and for the young lady's sake I would so agree."

"Mr. Converse, Mr. Converse," moaned Charlotte, as if a mortal physical wound had been dealt her. "Wait! I can't bear it! The idea is so hideous--so monstrous--"

"With all respect, dear lady, I sincerely hope that she is the victim of an extraordinary concurrence of circumstances--and no more. But her position is even far more desperate and dangerous than you could possibly imagine."

Charlotte sat down again, and quietly--very quietly--watched her interlocutor. She appeared stunned. Presently she asked with bated breath:

"What will happen? My God! do you wish to lead me to answering your unanswered question? Do you wish me to say that Paquita--oh, that wretched name!--spells disaster for those that are dearest to me?" She uttered a laugh of bitterest scorn. "If my loyalty amounted to no more than that," with a slight emphatic gesture of one clenched hand, "I would be the most despicable creature on the face of the earth. Now--"

"I am not responsible for the existing condition, Miss Fairchild; I only want to convince you of the extreme urgency of the situation. I have told you a friend was in trouble, and that you would have an opportunity to succor that friend; but it is more than a trouble; that friend is menaced by the gravest peril imaginable."

Rapidly he laid before her, one by one, his reasons for suspecting Joyce Westbrook; and as his hearer saw how deadly serious the cumulative facts were, she gradually grew outwardly composed, yielding no hint of how his words were impressing her.

Next he told of Joyce's movements the preceding night, concluding:

"And now, Miss Fairchild, the most damaging feature against her is her refusal to deny or admit anything at all. I need only an eye-witness who saw her in or about the Nettleton Building, and--" A grim tightening of his hard-featured face put a sufficiently obvious period to the thought.

"Mobley must tell me what he knows," she said presently, her voice trembling. "I do not promise to repeat it, for I am ignorant of its nature; but if I can see in this secret the way to finding light upon the deed of which it is a child, you shall know." She fairly startled the Captain by springing from her seat and grasping his arm. Some sudden joyous thought had evidently flooded her intelligence, and her manner imparted its quickening impulse to him.

"Mr. Converse--where you are wrong--your error--" she cried, in disjointed phrases. "Why did you never think of it? Joyce was not in the Nettleton Building that day. The--"

"But, my dear lady--" he sought to interrupt; but her new-born enthusiasm bore him down.

"The fact that no one can be found who saw her--why, she was not there. She is involved in something else of a very personal nature, and she shrinks from explaining. That must be it."

Converse's attitude was very dubious.

"You say you have no eye-witness--no one who actually saw her?" she persisted.

"Yes--that is true; but--" He stopped. "Wait, please," he concluded in an altered tone, as he suddenly recognized Mr. Follett's servant, Joe, approaching from the trolley-line. "If I am not mistaken, here comes a messenger for me."