The caterer Fraschini told of his orders for the party supper, and of the sending of his best and most faithful waiters to attend to the feast.
Luigi, the head waiter, again went over his story. I had heard this twice before, but I listened with deep interest, and I realized, that, granting the truth of his recital, there was no room for doubt of Vicky Van's guilt.
I hadn't of course, told of seeing her take her mail from the box that night, nor of her talking to me over the telephone. Should absolute law and justice call for that information, I might give it up, but at present, I was awaiting developments.
Vicky had sent me her mailbox key, and I had received it duly, by mail. It was not sent by parcel post, nor was it registered—these would have called for the sender's address—but, sent by ordinary first-class letter post, the flat little key came duly and promptly.
I had not used it yet, the time was not ripe until that same night, and I intended to say nothing of it, until I had fulfilled my promise, if, indeed, I ever told of it.
But Luigi's story as I heard it again made me shiver with apprehension. Surely, since he saw Vicky right there at the moment, bending over the victim, blood stains on her gown, there could be no loophole of innocence. Had the murderer been some one else, and had Vicky known it, she must have made an outcry—must have accused the guilty party. There was no one whom Vicky loved well enough to wish to shield. And, too, the guests were all in the big living-room; there was no one unaccounted for. If Luigi himself, or any of the caterer's men had by chance done the deed, Vicky wouldn't have run away! There was no sense in that. So I could see no possible theory but that of Vicky's actual guilt. Why she did it, was another story. She may have known Schuyler before, might have known him a long time, might have had her own reasons for wishing him dead; but all that was outside the issue of her criminality. There was no eyewitness of the stabbing itself, but Luigi's presence on the scene an instant later, left no room for question as to the hand that had held the knife.
The jury seemed to think this. Gravely the men listened to what the
Italian told, and their faces showed what they believed.
Then came the guests of the party. One after another, they told the same story. All knew Vicky fairly well, as a pleasant acquaintance; all liked her as a good friend; all enjoyed her as a delightful hostess; and many told individual instances of Vicky's kind heart and helping hand. Not infrequently had she lent assistance, both financial and in other ways, to these friends of hers. Never, they all said, had they known her to do a mean or deceitful act or to say an unkind or malicious word.
The men spoke of her as a gay, light-hearted butterfly girl, who was a coquette, but who stopped short of a real flirtation; the women gave her such commendation as is rarely given them to their own sex, and declared that Miss Van Allen was a simple, kindly, generous nature without a trace of the disposition which causes a woman to be dubbed a cat.
Norman Steele was present. He explained his sudden departure from the party by the fact that he had to catch an owl train for Chicago. He said, further, that Randolph Schuyler had asked him to take him around to Vicky Van's, as he wanted to meet her. But he had asked Steele, especially, to introduce him as Mr. Somers. He had given no reason for this, and Steele had thought little of it. Randolph Schuyler was a man whom his friends obeyed, often without question. I understood this. Steele was no more of a toady to the millionaire than most men would be; but a request of Randolph Schuyler's was not to be thoughtlessly refused, so Steele acquiesced.