The Detective Megapack®

THE TAGGART ASSIGNMENT, by Vincent Starrett-5

CHAPTER IV

We found Taggart seated before a worn old desk in a private office on the glass door of which appeared the letters forming the name “Moss Lennard,” and the words “Circulation Manager.” The publisher swung about in his chair as we entered and seemed embarrassed at our coming. But he extended his big hand in welcome.

“Glad to see you,” he said. “I’ve just been looking over poor old Lennard’s desk.”

“Nothing wrong with his accounts, of course?” asked Lavender. “I assumed that you had looked into them before.”

“Oh, that’s all right. He was straight as a string. But I didn’t know what the old desk would develop.”

“What have you found?”

“Nothing of interest, I guess; unless it’s this! I didn’t know Moss went in for light literature.”

He smiled and handed over a volume bound in green cloth, on the back side of which appeared its flamboyant title, “The Montreville Mystery.”

Lavender smiled. “I know that yarn,” he said. “It’s a French detective story, translated into English. A good one, too. I haven’t read it in years.” He laid it on his knee. A curious light danced in his eyes.

“Well, Lennard must have found it to his taste,” said Taggart. “It appears to be well worn, although I haven’t had time to look into it.”

“I’ll take it along with me, if I may,” smiled Lavender boyishly. “Do you mind? I’d like to read that yarn again. Also,” he added dryly. “I’d like to see why it was of such interest to Moss Lennard.”

Taggart looked surprised, but readily acquiesced.

“Sure,” he said. “I guess no one wants it now. Keep it if you care to.”

“Now,” said my friend when he had pocketed the volume, “I have news for you, Mr. Taggart, and you are going to be surprised.” And he told our client the whole story of Rupert Parris.

Taggart was immensely agitated. He leaped from his chair and executed a few steps of an improvised and unintentional dance.

“We’ve got to get him!” he cried. “Lavender, we’ve got to get him!”

“I suppose so,” said Lavender. “But wait; I’m not through.” And he revealed the recent activities of Miss Dale Valentine, including a statement of her visit to the morgue where the body of Lennard lay.

Taggart paced the room in his excitement.

“You see it, of courser he demanded. “Incriminating evidence! She removed something from the garments that would have hurt Parris!”

“And now she’s gone to Parris,” I said, unintentionally humorous.

“No,” corrected Lavender, “she’s gone to Washburn, Illinois, the early home of Moss Lennard and her mother. She must have relatives there yet. The poor child has discovered the truth.”

“The truth!” cried Taggart suspiciously. “What are you withholding now, Lavender. Come, let’s have it! What is the truth then?”

“It’s a long story,” my friend replied, “and I’ve just found the final link in this novel you have given me. But the first truth is this: Moss Lennard was not murdered; he committed suicide, and for the purpose of making it appear that Parris had murdered him. He wished to leave a stigma upon the name of Rupert Parris, the accepted lover of Miss Dale Valentine. It was part of his revenge upon the girl’s mother, long dead. You know that story. With the girl jilted and her lover’s name smirched, his revenge would be complete save in one particular.

“He would want Miss Valentine to know what he had done; that would be the final twist of the knife, to tell her what he had done and why he had done it. I am now convinced that the letter Miss Valentine received was from Lennard, a letter nicely timed to be delivered some days after his death. It would be sent first to some other part of the country, then re-addressed by some friend there, who, of course, would not suspect Lennard’s motive. Miss Valentine received it last night, probably by special delivery. I can see Lennard working it all out.

“What a dolt I have been, Gilly!” he exclaimed. “Because the truth was fantastic I refused to see it, or at any rate to credit it, until this book and the girl herself convinced me. She left the house veiled. Why? I deduced the morgue, and found that I was right. I had already deduced a letter, and I know now that I was right. Then Taggart hands me this book, and it is a book that I know! In it there is a leading character named Rupert; the scene of the story is Paris. Could anything be plainer? Look!”

He drew it from his pocket and began to turn the leaves. A quick frown settled between his eyes. Then suddenly he examined the covers. In the end he leaned back and laughed quietly.

“I’ve been an ass again,” he smiled. “An examination of the book would have solved the mystery days ago, had we known of the book’s existence. Look at it! A book on theatrical make-up, rebound in the covers of a popular novel!”

But now Taggart and I were both on our feet, bursting with the amazing thought that had pierced our brains.

“Then Parris—” I began and hesitated to finish it.

“Was Lennard!” roared Taggart.

“Yes,” smiled Lavender. “Lennard, all the time, except for one or two evenings a week, when he became Parris to revenge himself upon the daughter of the woman who had jilted him. Gilly, I’m afraid I am becoming dull!”

CHAPTER V

We did not pursue the distressed and humiliated girl to Washburn. Lavender’s explanation was too clear to require further proof. Complete and final proof was found by a thorough ransacking of Lennard’s rooms in the West Side rooming house, where the paraphernalia of make-up, and a really splendid toupee, was carefully hidden away. But the make-up boxes were scarcely touched; they had been unnecessary except at the beginning.

Mrs. Barrett, half blind and splendidly loyal to her eccentric guest, had never suspected, and in the dark hallway—on the evenings of his Parris masquerades, as Lavender called them—Lennard had passed without question. Dressed in Lennard’s clothes and speaking in Lennard’s voice, he had gone forth as Parris to exchange for Parris’s clothes at his hotel. His “Parris” life had been spent in three places, almost alternatively; at his hotel, at his club, and at the Valentine home, and at no one of them had he ever stayed long. It was a masterpiece of deception.

His motive for suicide was certainly obscure; but it is conceivable that he may, have sickened of the game he was playing. Lavender’s idea is that he was merely sick of life, and passed out gladly after accomplishing his self-appointed task. Certainly the whole scheme was elaborately worked out, even to the ingeniously phrased and romantic letter in which the manager bade farewell to his younger self, then left for an investigator to find. And an admirable touch was his habit of calling himself from the hotel—that is, calling for Lennard on the telephone, in the hearing of the operator who knew him as Parris. A clever rascal on the whole, and a man who might have been an asset to society with a little more charity.

“The amazing thing to me, Lavender,” I said, “is how he was able to pass himself off in the Valentine home.”

“It may have been difficult at first,” he replied, “but Lennard’s make-up was, of course, very skilful. It consisted in very little, for really little disguise was necessary. He probably used very little theatrical make-up, in spite of his study of the subject. Lennard was fifty and more, but a well preserved man. Further, he was thin, and therefore had no betraying weight to endanger his plan; he would pass as a slim, middle-aged man. With a good wig over his half bald head, and a sprinkling of rice powder over a good massage, he would look quite as young as he claimed to be. He admitted to forty-one years! His dress helped, too, for naturally he dressed in the height of fashion. His features were good, and his determination was great.

“And the big thing in his favor was the fact—for certainly it must have been a fact—that neither Mr. Valentine nor his daughter ever had seen him as Lennard. The mother who would have recognized him was dead. Probably he met the girl’s father at the club and won him by his personality and his chess; after that the match was as good as made. Miss Valentine as much as hinted that it was a match made by her father.”

“I am sorry for Dale Valentine,” I said sincerely.

“So am I,” said Lavender, “sorry that she must suffer this humiliation, even though there may be no distressing publicity, for Taggart will take care of that. Parris will be called away suddenly, and will die in another city, and no one will know the difference. But I’m glad for Dale Valentine in another sense. What a good thing it is that the old rascal didn’t see the greater revenge he had in his power. Suppose he had actually married the girl!”