diff options
| author | pgww <pgww@lists.pglaf.org> | 2025-10-10 19:22:01 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | pgww <pgww@lists.pglaf.org> | 2025-10-10 19:22:01 -0700 |
| commit | c1e184ae8260e2a92215c3317ebd5c6a6cdbb696 (patch) | |
| tree | 5398d8e58a7b47562c1a1ddac0a0d555c8febb2b | |
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 77022-0.txt | 9746 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 77022-h/77022-h.htm | 9896 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 77022-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 0 -> 162412 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 |
6 files changed, 19658 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/77022-0.txt b/77022-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6d68300 --- /dev/null +++ b/77022-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9746 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77022 *** + + + + + + The Porcelain Mask + + _A Detective Story_ + + BY JOHN JAY CHICHESTER + + CHELSEA HOUSE + 79 Seventh Avenue + New York City + + Copyright, 1924 + By CHELSEA HOUSE + + The Porcelain Mask + + (Printed in the United States of America) + + All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign + languages, including the Scandinavian. + + To my Aunts, + + ELLA and ANNA + + who once told a very small boy that + he would some day grow up and write + a book. + + + + + CONTENTS + + + I. JOAN SHERIDAN RETURNS + + II. THE SQUALID HOUSE + + III. HELEN ANSWERS HER LETTER + + IV. "WHAT DOES IT MEAN?" + + V. VICTOR SARBELLA + + VI. IN THE STUDIO + + VII. THE GET-AWAY + + VIII. CAUGHT IN THE WEB + + IX. THE OPEN DOOR + + X. COMMON SENSE + + XI. BUSHNELL CALLS THE POLICE + + XII. "WIGGLY" PRICE + + XIII. WHAT DID JOAN KNOW? + + XIV. THE GIRL IN THE SARBELLA CASE + + XV. SARBELLA SPEAKS + + XVI. THE FOUR CLEWS + + XVII. KIRKLAN PROTESTS + + XVIII. TWO BRANDS OF CIGARETTES + + XIX. ENTER SERGEANT TISH + + XX. A QUEER JUMBLE + + XXI. A CRY OF TERROR + + XXII. WHAT THE COOK SAW + + XXIII. THE TRAPPED RAT + + XXIV. HASKINS KEEPS HIS SECRET + + XXV. THE SKEPTICISM OF SERGEANT TISH + + XXVI. BITS OF TALLOW + + XXVII. WIGGLY REMAINS UNCONVINCED + + XXVIII. THE BLACK SMUDGE + + XXIX. "LET THE GUILTY MAN SPEAK!" + + XXX. WIGGLY MAKES A WAGER + + + + + THE PORCELAIN MASK + + + + + CHAPTER I + + JOAN SHERIDAN RETURNS + + +One of the village taxis, a sorry, disreputable affair, with noisily +clattering fenders, dashed bumpily along the rural highway and turned +with precarious suddenness into the driveway, lined on either side by +great walnut trees that formed a leafy tunnel to the big house at the +far end. It was, despite considerable age, a magnificent house, and it +had been modernized with green-striped awnings and sun rooms. The taxi +was heavily loaded with luggage. There was one passenger, a girl of +twenty-one or two, with an attractive face and expressive dark eyes, +now shining with a light of eagerness, as she leaned toward the door of +the jouncing vehicle. One slim, gloved hand rested upon the catch. + +The little car came to a skidding halt beneath the old-fashioned +portico, as the driver jammed the brakes with a suddenness that pitched +his fare violently forward, knocking her hat awry. But even this failed +to dim her happy, expectant smile; she did not so much as bother to +straighten the hat. She had the door open and was out before the driver +could double as footman. + +"Hope I didn't jar you up, lady, but y' said hurry, an' I fed 'er the +gas," he said with a wide grin that revealed two prominently missing +teeth. "She's a great li'le car, ain't she, fer goin' on the fifth +season?" + +The girl nodded and gave him a dollar bill. + +"Don't bother about the bags," she told him. "Just leave them anywhere, +and I'll have Bates carry them in." + +She ran briskly up the brief rise of steps from the driveway to the +wide porch that semicircled the house on two sides. The entrance was +around the turn; she paused suddenly at sight of the strange young +woman who reclined in the couch hammock, asleep. For a moment she +stared in surprise, wondering who she was. Women visitors were unusual +at Greenacres. + +"How beautiful she is!" murmured the girl, letting her eyes linger on +the soft, oval face of the sleeper, crowned with bronze hair. "I wonder +who she can be?" She softened her step and continued across the porch +to the entrance. + +Hardly had she entered the reception hall when Bates spied her and came +rushing toward her, with that peculiar, shambling gait of his, a broad +smile crinkling his thin, leathery face. + +"Heaven bless us, it's Miss Joan!" he exclaimed. + +"Oh, 'Daddy' Bates!" she cried. "It's so wonderful to get home again! +The finest thing about going away is coming back. Only bit over a +month, and it's seemed a year!" + +Bates was the Gilmore butler, but he had been in the family since the +time Joan was a child, and, in this moment of home-coming exuberance, +it was only natural that she should use the old affectionate address. +Bates, his hands clasped in front of his chest, continued to smile +fondly and proudly. + +"Well! Well!" he chuckled. "Won't Mrs. Gilmore be happy to see you +again, Miss Joan! Surprised, too; she wasn't expecting you until +to-morrow." + +"The boat docked a day ahead of time," she explained, "and I didn't +telegraph. Where is mother?" + +"She went upstairs less than half an hour since. Your bags, Miss Joan?" + +"Outside, Bates; I told the taxi man to dump them out any old place. +Take them right up, if you please, Bates; there are some little things +I bought on the other side, and I didn't forget you, either." + +Bates sobered. + +"Your room----" he began, but broke off suddenly, looking decidedly +uncomfortable. + +Joan, in her excitement, did not notice. "Why, of course, my room!" she +cried gayly, making for the stairs and taking the steps, two at a time. +Bates stared after her, wagging his head sadly, and his thin shoulders +moved with a lugubrious sigh. + +"Poor Miss Joan!" he murmured. "It's going to be an awful shock to her; +I didn't have the heart to tell her. And her room, too!" He shambled +out to the porch for the luggage. + +Reaching the upper hall, Joan went swiftly to the left wing of the +house, where her mother had her private sitting room, bedroom, and +bath. With a quick gesture she flung open the door and, arms reaching +out eagerly, fairly leaped at the little gray-haired woman who sat by +the window, reading. + +"Mumsey!" + +Before Mrs. Gilmore could get to her feet, the girl had swooped down +on her in a cyclone of joy, smothering her with kisses and leaving her +almost breathless with hugs. + +"I--I didn't expect you until to-morrow, dear," gasped Mrs. Gilmore. +"Why didn't you wire and let us meet you at the station? Goodness, +child, give me air!" + +"Oh, it's so much nicer to surprise people," laughed Joan. "How are +you?" + +"We've all been well." + +Joan sat on the arm of the chair and cuddled her mother close. + +"It's so wonderful to be home again," she murmured happily. "It was +a wonderful trip, my first sea voyage, and the Sharps were perfectly +wonderful to me--all through southern France by motor--but there's no +place in all the world like Greenacres. How is Kirk getting along with +the new novel? Has he missed his severest critic?" + +An anxious, half-frightened look came into Mrs. Gilmore's face. +"Kirklan," she answered slowly, an ominous note creeping into her +voice, "hasn't been writing much during--during the past three weeks. +He couldn't really be expected to, since----" + +Joan's fingers tightened about her mother's hand. + +"Mother! Something--something has happened to Kirk! Is he ill?" + +"No, dear, Kirklan is perfectly well, but he----" Again Mrs. Gilmore's +voice came to a halting stop. + +"Why don't you tell me? The tone of your voice frightens me. What has +happened to Kirk?" + +"An author can't be expected to do much writing, Joan, when--when he is +on his honeymoon," Mrs. Gilmore finished faintly. She felt the girl's +fingers, still resting across her own, tremble and become cold. + +Joan's face had turned ghastly pale and there was a stunned dullness in +her dark eyes. "His--his honeymoon?" she whispered. "You mean----Oh, +you can't mean that Kirk has married?" + +Mrs. Gilmore nodded. + +"Yes, he married--about ten days after you sailed. It was a surprise--a +shock--to all of us. The first we knew of it was when he brought her +home with him." + +Joan was making an ineffectual attempt to keep her emotions in check, +to conceal the evidence that the news had been a terrible blow to her. + +"Why--why, I had no idea that Kirk was even interested in any one." + +"Neither did any of us. It seems that he fell madly in love with her +almost at first sight; they were married, I believe, a week after their +first meeting. I can't understand how a man would rush headlong into +marriage like that, although she is pretty." + +Joan's mind reverted to the beautiful woman she had seen asleep in the +porch hammock. + +"She--she is here now? Then that--that woman I saw downstairs is Kirk's +wife? Kirk's wife?" She laughed unsteadily. "It's so hard for me to +believe--coming so suddenly like this. Yes, she is pretty; not only +pretty--beautiful." + +She walked slowly to the window and stood there, her back to the room, +trying to keep her face from her mother's eyes. But Mrs. Gilmore was +not deceived; she had known for a long time and had feared that the +situation would bring only unhappiness. + +Although Joan was Mrs. Gilmore's daughter, she still bore her father's +name of Sheridan. Her mother, left a widow, had married Peyton Gilmore, +a childhood sweetheart, who had himself been previously married. Peyton +Gilmore had been a well-known New York lawyer. Those with long memories +may remember that he had dropped dead in a crowded courtroom, during a +famous murder trial, while pleading for the life of his client. There +was a son, Kirklan Gilmore, only twelve years old at the time of his +father's death, and Kirklan's rearing had fallen to his stepmother. The +two families, merged into one, had long occupied the picturesque, rural +New York estate of Greenacres, without friction or discord. + +Joan and Kirklan had always hit it off well together, and when, after a +try at law, Kirklan had turned to writing, it was Joan who sympathized +the most over his failures and rejoiced the most over his successes. +Realizing that Joan's deft touches had helped the tremendous success of +his novel, "Rogue's Paradise," Kirklan had given his stepsister a trip +abroad. + +The silence became so long, so painful that Mrs. Gilmore felt that +something had to be said. + +"Her name," she murmured, "is Helen--Helen Banton before she married +Kirklan." + +"Does--does he seem to be--very much in love with her, mother?" + +"Very much in love with her," Mrs. Gilmore answered, and Joan winced. + +"I--I hope he will be very happy," the latter said with a muffled voice. + +Mrs. Gilmore shook her head slowly. "I'm afraid that he won't be, my +dear. A pretty face is not sufficient to make a man happy. 'Marry in +haste, repent at leisure.' It's an old saying, but it's true--as most +of the old sayings are. Kirklan has made a mistake, a terrible mistake." + +"I don't believe you like her, mother." + +"My likes or dislikes have nothing to do with it. They have few tastes +in common; already she is sick and tired of Greenacres, and you know +how Kirklan loves it out here. She has no interest in his work, and you +know how much he needs sympathy, encouragement. He's not the kind that +can forge on alone; the kind of wife he should have----" + +"Mother, don't! Who was she--how did he happen to meet her?" + +"She was employed in some minor capacity by Kirklan's publishers," Mrs. +Gilmore replied. "As to who she is--I wonder. Yes, I wonder. I don't +think even Kirklan knows anything about her. I don't consider it a good +sign when a girl is reticent about her family. Kirklan says, 'I've +married a girl I love, not a family tree.'" + +Joan winced again, for that was a line she had written into Kirklan's +successful novel. + +"If--if they're in love with each other, mother, I suppose that's all +that matters." + +"He's in love with her, but they're not in love with each other, and +those one-sided romances always end in disaster. I can't help but feel +that she is going to smash his life." + +"She--she'd better not!" whispered Joan, her hands clenched. "We won't +talk about it any more--please. I'm going to my room and unpack. +I'll--I'll come back in a little while, mother." Her tone was weary, +lifeless. + +Mrs Gilmore gave her daughter another quick glance, as she prepared to +deliver the second blow. + +"I--I guess you'll miss your old room, Joan; you've always loved it so, +with its view of the river." + +Startled, bewildered, the girl turned away from the window. "Miss my +old room? Why, mother, what--what do you mean?" + +"Kirklan had your things moved to the east wing, dear. He tried to make +her understand, but----" + +"The things moved--from my room!" cried Joan. "Kirklan did that? He--he +tried to make her understand? You mean that woman----" + +"It wasn't Kirklan's fault, Joan; he tried hard enough to reason with +her, but his wife is so headstrong. It is the best room in the house, +of course, and I suppose she felt that she had a right, as the new +mistress of Greenacres, to it. The place is Kirklan's property." + +"That--that woman--in my room!" There was a catching sob in Joan's +voice. "Oh, how dare she? And Kirk let her do it." + +"You don't understand how headstrong she is," Mrs. Gilmore explained +hastily. "She's the sort who demands, who takes what she wants. Kirklan +tried to avert it, but I suppose it's hard for a man to deny his bride +anything. Kirklan has the adjoining room, a separate sleeping chamber. +It's the modern thing, I believe, these days. She's had a doorway cut +through; the carpenters finished their work yesterday. I knew you would +resent giving up your room." + +"Of course I resent it!" flared Joan. "She has no right----" She paused +and then added bitterly, "No, I suppose I'm wrong; the house is Kirk's, +and she did have a right--to everything. I'm going to unpack now, there +are some little souvenirs I brought back with me----" + +This was but an excuse to get away, to be alone. Leaving the sentence +unfinished, she fled. A moment later she was in the east wing, where +her personal belongings had been banished by the usurper. Some +one--Kirk, no doubt--had tried to hang her pictures in the same +position they had occupied in the beloved room that had been hers for +so long. An effort had been made to make things appear the same, but +they were not the same; they would never be the same. Here she felt a +stranger, almost like a guest in a transient hotel. Nothing would ever +be the same--now. + +Bates had already brought up her bags, and they were stacked in an +orderly pile on the floor, but Joan made no move to unpack. That had +been but an excuse. She stumbled toward her bed and flung herself +across it, giving way to a torrent of tears. + +"I love him so!" she sobbed. "It never would have happened--if I hadn't +gone away. I know it wouldn't have happened. No other woman has a right +to him when I love him so much." + +Presently she got herself in check and went listlessly to the window +and, lifting back the curtains, looked out. From here she had not so +much as a glimpse of the Tappan Zee, where the Hudson broadens a good +three miles wide. In her old room, curled up in the window seat, with +soft pillows at her back, she had been able to look out across the +water to the rugged rise of the Palisades looming up picturesquely from +the New Jersey shore--and dream. + +And now in that other room--her room--would be Kirklan's wife! Perhaps +the other woman and Kirklan would sit in her beloved window seat, his +arm about her; the thought of it made the blood pound in Joan's brain, +made a red mist swim before her eyes. + +Below her a figure moved across the lawn, a graceful figure in a white +sport skirt. Even from that distance the woman's bronze hair glinted in +the strong sunlight. Joan stared down, her hands clenching until the +nails bit deep into her palms. + +"She has taken two of the things I have loved best!" she whispered +fiercely. "I hate her! I can't help it, I hate her!" + + + + + CHAPTER II + + THE SQUALID HOUSE + + +Relic of the horse-and-carriage days was the Gilmore stable, with +living quarters for the now obsolete coachman and footman. Kirklan +Gilmore, that he might have more detachment and quiet than the house +afforded, had remodeled the stable into a studio, and here it was +that he did his writing. Success in anything means hard work, and +authorship is no exception. Being a successful novelist, he was a hard +worker, but for weeks now, except for a mildly curious visit by Helen, +who had been frankly disappointed in the unpretentiousness of her +husband's workshop, the place had been locked. The manuscript of the +new novel, for which his publishers waited fretfully, lay untouched and +uncompleted. + +It was two days after Joan's home-coming. As had been customary since +her arrival at Greenacres as a bride, the new Mrs. Gilmore was having a +breakfast tray in her room, and she sat at a small table by the window +which commanded Joan Sheridan's beloved view of the Tappan Zee. + +Frilly, lacy things were becoming to the new mistress of Greenacres, +and she was an alluring picture, with the loose, flowing sleeves of +her morning gown falling back from shapely arms, as she lifted her +coffee cup. Morning is the severest test of a woman's beauty, and, only +twenty minutes out of bed, although it was half an hour past nine, +Helen Gilmore was undeniably a beautiful woman. Her age might have been +twenty-three; it may have been even twenty-seven, for she was of the +type that clings long to youth. Just now, however, there was in her +blue eyes a look of brooding discontent that does not become a bride of +three brief, honeymooning weeks. + +At the hallway door there sounded the rap of knuckles against wood, and +in answer to the petulant, "Yes, come," Bates, the butler, crossed the +threshold with his shambling gait. + +"Mail for you, madam," said Bates, holding a silver tray toward her. +The topmost envelope was patently an advertising circular, which +completely concealed the one beneath, and Helen with a contemptuous +glance waved the tray aside. + +"You should know better than bothering me with things like that," she +said shortly; "take it away." + +"There is also a letter--a personal letter," Bates answered stiffly, as +he moved aside the offending advertisement, and revealed a small, cheap +envelope, rather smudgy and addressed with a lead pencil in a ragged, +scrawling script, as if the hand that wrote it was not far advanced +beyond illiteracy. The postmark was New York City. + +Rather a strange, disreputable-looking missive, one might have thought, +to be received by the mistress of Greenacres. Bates stared sharply, as +he saw the startling effect that the sight of the letter had on Mrs. +Gilmore. Her coffee cup, poised for a moment in mid-air, clattered down +to the saucer, and her fingers, reaching swiftly for the envelope, +trembled noticeably. Her face had gone white, and into her eyes there +came a look that was unquestionably apprehension, perhaps fear. With +an effort she controlled herself. + +"Probably from my little nephew," she said, evidently thinking to +explain the smudgy appearance, the crudity of the handwriting. But +Bates, moving toward the door with the perfunctory murmur, was not +misled. + +"Huh, little nephew!" he grunted, as he went down the hall. "That +was a man's handwritin'. Poor Mr. Kirklan! I'm afraid he's been +fooled--fooled bad." + +When the butler had gone, Helen Gilmore relaxed self-restraint, and +there returned to her face that haunted look of fear. Several times she +turned the envelope over in her unsteady hands, delaying the opening of +it. + +"He's traced me here!" she whispered. "He knows." + +After another moment of hesitation she opened the envelope and drew +forth a sheet of paper. Quickly her eyes went over the scrawl. It +began with the address, "Dear Mrs. Gilmore," and the last two words of +that were underscored, as if there was a concealed gibe in the "Mrs. +Gilmore." + + I want to talk with you on some business. If you don't want me to + come there, you better come to see me. Phone Joe's place & he'll + tell you where I am. + +It was unsigned, but no signature was needed for her to know the +identity of the sender; she knew that all too well. Her hands clenched, +crushing the paper between her fingers. + +"Oh, what a fool I've been to take this chance!" she exclaimed +bitterly. "He'll hound me, as he hounded me before. I--I thought I'd +got away from him for good. I thought he was----" + +A step sounded down the hall, a quick step that she had learned to know +during the past three weeks. Hastily she thrust the crumpled letter +and its envelope into the bodice of her morning gown and, as the door +opened, forced a smile to her lips. + +"Good morning, my dear," she greeted her husband. "Your indolent wife +is just finishing her breakfast. You look as if you had been up for +hours, and you must be going somewhere!" + +Kirklan Gilmore, clad in a gray business suit, instead of white +flannels, blazer coat, and canvas Oxfords that he wore for his mornings +at home, crossed the room eagerly and bent to kiss the lips raised +dutifully to him. + +Gilmore was dark, while his wife was fair. He was slender, and his +eyes had something of a poet's dreaminess in them--black eyes, with +an intense light when he felt any strong emotion, either personally +or through the characters that he put down on paper and breathed the +breath of life into. He sat down beside the narrow table and touched +his fingers in a gentle caress to the back of his wife's hand, as his +eyes devoured her fondly. + +"You don't know how wonderful you are, Helen! If I could only put you +into a book--as you are. But I'm afraid it would turn out to be a +volume of poetry, and poetry doesn't make a best seller. You--you are +the most beautiful thing that ever lived!" + +Despite an agitation that she could hardly keep from being observed, +Helen flushed, and her eyes lighted with pleasure. She liked being +told she was beautiful. It was the one story that never grew old to her. + +"Thanks, Kirklan; it's nice of you to say that--especially in the +morning. Why the street clothes? Are you going somewhere?" + +"Yes, I am, worse luck. That slave-driving publisher of mine has called +a halt to our honeymoon. A wire came from him this morning, commanding +me to come in town and see him. I know what that means; he's going to +pep me and send me back to my knitting. Well, we can't blame Atchinson +for that; I've promised him the new book for winter publication. Thank +Heaven, it's two thirds finished. I thought we might run into New York +together; make the trip in the car, you know. There'll be lunch with +Atchinson." + +Helen managed to look languid and bored. "Lunch with that old pill, +Atchinson? It doesn't appeal to me; but don't you think we might go +away while you are finishing the book? It will take you weeks upon +weeks, and that means I've got to stick around this poky hole, mooning +around by myself, while you're locked in that old stable for endless +hours. I'd like to go away, Kirklan." + +Kirklan patted his wife's hand. + +"I'd like to, Helen, but I'm used to things out here, and a change +usually upsets my work very badly. I've got to dig in now for all I'm +worth. Poky old hole? I thought you liked Greenacres." + +"I don't; I hate it. Oh, don't start harping about 'the scenery;' the +scenery's all right for a change, but I'm fed up on it. Outside of +gawking around the country, there's nothing to do but get up, eat, and +then go to bed again. I don't know why we couldn't go down to--well, +Atlantic City, while you're finishing the book." + +"Oh, tut!" Gilmore reproved mildly. "You've just got out on the wrong +side of the bed this morning. It's quite impossible for us to go away. +It won't be lonesome for you now that Joan is back. She's no end of +good fun, Joan. Greatest little pal in the world. And that reminds me +that I must ask her to help me straighten out the sixteenth chapter. +There's a little something it lacks, and I can always depend on Joan to +supply just the right touch." + +Helen laughed, but not pleasantly. "Yes," she said with an edge of +sarcasm, "that stepsister of yours and I would make great pals--not! +It's all that she can do to be civil. Sometimes I feel that she +actually hates me!" + +"That's nonsense, Helen. Joan hate you? How ridiculous! Joan never +hated any one in her life." + +"It's not ridiculous!" flared Helen; she was one of those persons who +always flared when contradicted. She could not brook opposition, even +verbal opposition. "I tell you, Miss Sheridan dislikes me intensely." + +"She might be a little hurt--temporarily," admitted Gilmore. "I'm sorry +we didn't leave the room alone until she got back. Perhaps it doesn't +seem quite right, moving her out while she was away." + +"Every one in the house looks upon me as--as an interloper," Helen +rushed on. "Even the servants--I can feel their antagonism toward me. I +don't know why I should be asked to--to tolerate such treatment." + +"Try and look at things more calmly," soothed Gilmore. "Naturally, +everything seems strange to you at first. Both my stepmother and Joan +are wonderful, Helen--real mother and sister to me. You'll learn to +love them very much; please, Helen, for my sake, you'll try." + +"And you expect to let them make their home with us permanently?" she +demanded bitterly. + +Kirklan Gilmore looked uncomfortable, unhappy; this was the first rift +in the lute. He was discovering that his wife, after all, was not quite +the perfect woman. It is a painful realization for a new husband. + +"W-well," he said slowly, "I hadn't thought of that. This has been my +stepmother's home for almost twenty years, and, while it belongs to me +legally, I wouldn't think for a moment of pitching her out." He paused +for a moment, and his tone had a touch of wistfulness in it. "It's +always been my home, too, Helen. To me there is no place quite like +Greenacres; I--I wish you'd really try to be happy here." + +Helen did not respond with that sympathetic understanding he had +hoped for, and Kirklan, of course, could not know that the receipt of +the letter only a few minutes before had filled her with a desperate +anxiety to flee from the thing that threatened her. + +"You--you won't--take me away?" she persisted. + +"Helen, you don't know how hard it is for me to deny you any wish. +Heaven knows I want to make you happy, but can't you understand that +we've got to be practical? My studio is here; my library is here; and +it's here that I've always done my best work. At least wait until the +book is finished, and then, if you still do not like Greenacres, we--we +will see what we can do." There was, despite his conciliatory tone, +a note of firmness, and Helen, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders, +dismissed the subject temporarily. + +"You won't go into town with me?" asked Gilmore. "It will be a change, +and I think you'll find it a pleasant trip in the car." + +Helen thought swiftly and came to a decision. She did want to go to New +York, but certainly not with her husband; she must forestall any effort +of the unsigned sender of that letter to see her at Greenacres. The +sooner the better. + +"Why don't you use the train, Kirklan, and let me have the car?" she +suggested. "I'd like to take the ferry across the river to Nyack and +drive out toward Tuxedo." + +Gilmore agreed promptly. "Suppose you take Joan along," he suggested. +"You can't help liking her after the first strangeness wears off; +really you've no idea what a perfect little brick she is." + +Helen shook her head. "No," she refused, "I'd rather be alone to-day." +And that much was true. + +Gilmore looked at his watch and moved toward his wife for a parting +embrace; it was the first time he had left her, even for a trip to +New York, and, madly in love with Helen as he was, the prospect was +depressing. + +"You'll be careful about driving," he warned. "Stay on the country +roads and out of the traffic; you're still a bit new at it, you know. +I've just time to get the ten-thirty train." + +There was no thought in Helen's mind, despite her decision to make a +secret trip into the city, of risking the heavy and perilous traffic of +New York. Her plan was to run the car across country to White Plains, +and there board the Boston & Westchester interurban electric. In this +way, she reasoned, she would avoid the Grand Central Station and the +possibility of getting back on the same train with her husband. + +How the most cunning of plans go astray! + +After a reluctant leave-taking--reluctant on Kirklan's part--he went +downstairs with the idea of getting Joan to drive him down to the +station and bring the car home, but Joan was nowhere in evidence, so +he had to call on Billings, who looked after the grounds and who could +drive in an emergency. Billings was a silent, taciturn sort of fellow, +and this silence suited Gilmore's mood exactly. + +Helen's attitude worried him; her discontent alarmed him. Suddenly it +occurred to him that in the two days since Joan's return he had seen +his stepsister only at dinner and a few minutes afterward. Thinking it +over, he wondered if Joan had been quite her usual, jolly self; if she +had purposely avoided him. + +Gilmore felt guilty about taking Joan's room, but it is hard to deny +a wife of a few days, and Helen had actually demanded it. It never +entered his mind that there might be some other reason, a deeper, more +vital reason for Joan's attitude--that she feared, until the first +shock of it had passed, she might unwittingly let him see into her +heart. He made up his mind that on his return he would have a talk +with Joan and let her know how sorry he was about the room. + +A few minutes after Billings let him off at the station, the train +rushed in from the north, and Gilmore got aboard. During the +forty-five-minute run to New York he remained depressingly thoughtful. + +"I guess, at that, it's a bit dull for Helen at Greenacres--and will be +even more dull when I've got to lock myself in with my work. I ought to +have some company down, I suppose, to liven things up for her a bit. +I'll see who I can drum up for the next week-end." + +This decision gave him a feeling of relief, as it automatically solved +the problem of his wife's discontent with rural life. + +Arriving at Grand Central Station, Gilmore took a taxi to the office +of his publishers and, less than half an hour later, was in conference +with Atchinson regarding the unfinished novel. The latter was a dynamic +sort of fellow, a voluble enthusiast, and their talk lengthened until +it was past one o'clock. He had read the carbon copy of what had been +written and felt that it promised to have a greater success than +"Rogue's Paradise." + +"We've decided to try illustrations with this book of yours," Atchinson +was explaining. "I've selected Victor Sarbella to do the job. Sarbella +draws splendid pictures--faces with life and character in them. He's +one of those intense fellows. Half Italian, you know, although his +mother was an American. You've met him, of course?" + +Gilmore nodded. "Yes, I know Sarbella; interesting chap; and, say, that +gives me an idea. I had been thinking of having some people down to +Greenacres. Helen is finding it a bit lonesome. Wouldn't it be a good +idea to have Sarbella come out?" + +Atchinson beamed. "That's fine! He can pick out some of the dramatic +situations with you and get the spirit of your characters. He's +devilish slow in turning out work, and I don't want to run any chances +of spoiling the drawings by rushing him. Suppose we call him up right +now and get that part of it settled." + +Word became action, as the publisher reached for the telephone and +asked the firm's private switchboard operator in the outer office to +get Victor Sarbella's apartment for him. A few minutes later the matter +was arranged, and Atchinson glanced at his watch. + +"Phew!" he whistled. "Half past one, old man; we'd better hurry out and +have a bite of lunch. Speaking of Italians, what do you say to one of +those Italian feeds? I'm always digging up new places to eat and I've +run across a splendid little restaurant, where the food's uncommonly +good even if the location is poor--in the upper Forties." + +Kirklan Gilmore agreed indifferently. "Most anything will suit me," he +said. + +The two left the publishing-house building, and, Atchinson talking +almost incessantly and not always to the point, they started out. + +"Suppose we leg it," suggested Gilmore; "it may give me a little zest +for lunch." + +"I'm for that," Atchinson said heartily; "it's only a dozen blocks." +How many things hinge on trifles! As they neared Eighth Avenue, passing +along this cheap and squalid street, which one found it hard to +believe was so near to pretentious Broadway. Atchinson's emphatic voice +jarred to an abrupt stop, his hand caught at the novelist's arm. + +"Hello!" he exclaimed. "Isn't that Mrs. Gilmore yonder?" + +"You mean my wife? Oh, that's impossible. Where?" + +But his eyes had looked too late. The woman Atchinson had seen was +gone, disappeared swiftly into one of those grimy, ugly entrances +before he could so much as glimpse her. + +"I'd take my oath that was Mrs. Gilmore," muttered the publisher, +giving a puzzled stare at the sign across the way which announced, +"Furnished Rooms. Rates $3 Weekly and Up." Since Helen had worked in +the publishing office for two months, he felt certain he had not been +mistaken. + +"That's ridiculous!" snorted the author. "She took the car and motored +out to Tuxedo. Besides, what would Helen be doing in a neighborhood +like this?" + +Atchinson, feeling very uncomfortable, was wondering precisely the same +thing. "Humph!" he grunted. "I must have been mistaken; yes, no doubt I +was. Some one who looked like her." + +But this was friendly diplomacy; he had got a square look, and he knew +quite positively that he had not been mistaken. The woman who had +hurried, almost furtively, into the cheap, unclean lodging house was +Kirklan Gilmore's wife! + + + + + CHAPTER III + + HELEN ANSWERS HER LETTER + + +Entirely unaware that she had been observed, Helen Gilmore slipped +furtively into the dark, musty vestibule of the ugly house. There were +those unpleasant odors which accumulate in a decaying house, the smell +that suggests neglect. + +The opening of the second door automatically set a bell ringing, an +unpleasant jangling that caused the woman to start and compress her +lips, shutting back the nervous gasp which rose in her throat. When she +closed the door the ringing stopped. + +After a wait of a moment there came down the raggedly carpeted stairs a +slovenly and haglike female, with straggling hair of dirty gray and the +shoulders of a professional wrestler in their muscular broadness. The +face of the slattern was, until she reached the bottom of the stairs, +in the shadows. At the sight of it Helen instinctively retreated a +step; she had never seen such a terrible face, she thought. A pair +of narrow red eyes looked her up and down with appraising, impudent +curiosity. + +"Perhaps--perhaps I've made a mistake," Helen stammered. "I thought +this was the right number; I--I wanted to see Don Haskins." + +"You ain't made no mistake," came the response in a hoarse guttural. +"He's upstairs. He told me he was lookin' fer comp'ny. Guess you're the +swell sister he was tellin' me about." + +"Y-yes," Helen answered faintly. + +"Go right on up, deary; it's the thoid floor--the door at the end of +the hall, the door with a busted panel, where the cops broke in. They +thought, it bein' locked, Terry Mooney was there, but he wasn't." Her +voice broke into a peal of cackling mirth. "No, he wasn't there; he +was--somewheres else." + +Starting toward the stairs, Helen turned, one hand resting upon the +ancient rail. + +"Then Don is wanted by--by the cops?" + +"Ask him," grunted the woman with the gargoyle face; "ask him. I'll say +he is, deary." + +Helen went tremulously up the stairs, stumbled about the dark hallway +until she found the second flight, which was narrow and, if possible, +dirtier than the first. Here the boards were loose and clattered +noisily beneath her step. Reaching the third floor, a bit of sun +struggled feebly through the dust-filmed skylight and fell slantwise +across the door with the broken panel, now patched with some unpainted +strips torn from a chance packing box. + +The occupant of the room had heard her approach--only a deaf man +could have failed to be notified by the clatter of the loose stairway +boards--for the door opened cautiously, and a haggard unshaven face +looked out through a widening crack. A pair of thin lips twisted back +into an unpleasant and gloating triumphant grin. + +"So--so you've come, have you?" the man rasped and laughed harshly. "I +thought you would. I give you credit for havin' that much sense. Real +prompt, ain't you? Only mailed the letter yesterday." He moved back, +making room for her to enter. His eyes, hard and glittering, followed +her with a look of venomous hate that was at the same time one of +admiration, as if her beauty stirred him. + +The room was small, dark, and unventilated, and there was the vile odor +of soured liquor that mingled nauseatingly with the stench of stale +tobacco smoke. There was a narrow, tousled bed, with the white paint +long since peeled from the metal framework, a broken-backed chair upon +which rested a bottle of homemade whisky, that the old hag downstairs +sold for ten dollars the quart. + +"Why did you send for me, Don?" demanded Helen. She was plainly +frightened. Looking at him she found it hard to believe that this +haggard man was the same person she had first known as "Nifty Don." Don +had been handsome--once. + +Don Haskins placed the bottle on the floor and with a sarcastic +courtesy waved her to the chair. + +"Be seated, Mrs. Haskins," he sneered, and himself occupied the edge of +the bed. Helen shivered, her fingers working nervously. For a moment he +sat there staring. + +"You still got the looks," he muttered thickly. "I--I guess I ain't +ever goin' to get over bein' crazy about you, Helen--even--even when +I'm hatin' you. His grimy hand reached out to her; his touch might have +been tender, but at her shuddering recoil his eyes blazed again, and +his fingers crushed about her white wrist until she gave a cry of pain. + +"You always did think you was too good for your own kind," he snarled. +"Now that I've got you where I can put on the screws, I ought to get +you sent up; that's what I ought to do with you. After what you done to +me----" + +"I've done nothing to you, Don. Why did you send for me? You told that +woman downstairs that I am----" + +"Yeah, it was a good stall, tellin' 'Eighth Avenue Annie' that I gotta +rich sister that would put up for me. See? Thirty bucks a week I gotta +give the grafter for hidin' me away in this room, and ten dollars +a bottle for this rat poison she calls whisky. I owe her a hundred +now, and she won't let me skip until I pay up. If I don't pay--well, +Annie fixes that by givin' the bulls a tip where I can be located. +See? That's why I sent for you--to take me outta hock." He grinned +sardonically. "When a guy's in trouble, ain't it the most natural thing +in the world that he turns to--to his wife." + +Helen shivered. "I'm not your wife!" she cried. "You know I'm not. I've +never been your wife!" + +"The law says different," retorted Don Haskins. "You married me, didn't +you?" + +"Yes," Helen admitted bitterly, "I married you. I liked you, and when +you got into that trouble I--I thought I loved you. It was only pity. +You rushed me into it so that I wouldn't have to testify against you--a +wife can't be made to testify against her husband. I knew, before you +got out of the Tombs, that I'd made a mistake." + +This revival of old and bitter memories convulsed Don Haskins' face +with anger. + +"You lie!" he gritted. "When y' say I married you just to keep outta +stir, you lie. I married you because I was crazy about you. You liked +me, too, until--until you run into that other bird and fell for him. +But when I got outta the Tombs I stopped that, all right." + +"Yes, you stopped it," choked Helen. "I loved him--with every beat of +my heart. You--you robbed me of my one chance to be happy. You--oh, why +do you drag all these ghosts before me? Those are things I'm always +trying to forget. I saved you from doing a twenty-year stretch, and +you've been hounding me--hounding me ever since. That--that's your idea +of gratitude!" + +"Aw, cut out that stuff. I'm desperate. The cops is lookin' for me; I +gotta make a get-away and I gotta have money." + +"Oh, I see, you want money," nodded Helen, fumbling at her purse. "You +said a hundred dollars----" + +Don Haskins gave a contemptuous sneer. + +"I said that's what I owe Annie, but I want more'n that--a lot more. +Aw, I know you're well fixed. I know you married a guy that's got it. I +got all the dope on you, see." + +"How----" + +"You thought you were pretty foxy, didn'tcha? It wasn't much trouble +gettin' a line on you. When I went out West with Keegan and got nabbed +pullin' the job we went out there to do in Chi, you thought I was in +for a long stretch, and that you'd lose me. You changed your name, did +the workin'-girl stunt, and hooked a live one--married a fellow that +writes, Kirklan Gilmore. + +"But the State's attorney out there made a little deal with me; I +handed him some information he wanted, and he got me paroled. See? I +come back, lookin' for you. Madge knew all about it, and I made her +tell. Never trust a friend, girlie; that's my motto." + +"So Madge told you?" + +"She hadda tell; I'd have choked the life outta her if she hadn't." + +"I--I suppose the past is one thing that never dies," Helen whispered. +"I was a fool to think I could get away with it. I--I was a fool to +take the chance." + +"I ain't gonna stop you from gettin' away with it," grunted Don; "at +least I ain't--providin'----" + +"Don't beat around the bush, Don; get to the point. Providing--what?" + +"I'll get to the point fast enough. I gotta be practical, I oughtta +make you squirm, but I'm in a bad fix. What I need is a thousand bucks, +and I need it quick." + +Helen stared at him fixedly. + +"I haven't got a thousand dollars, Don, but if two hundred will help +any----" Her fingers were at the clasp of her hand bag. + +"If you ain't got a thousand, then get it--from that rich husband +you've swung onto." + +"But he's not rich. You don't understand. He owns a house, an +automobile, and lives well, but he's not rich. I doubt if he's got much +money outside the royalties from his book. I--I don't see how I could +ask him for a thousand dollars, without giving him some sort of an +explanation, and I don't know what I could tell him." + +"He ain't rich?" Don broke in skeptically. "Say, whatcha tryin' to hand +me? If he ain't rich, whatcha marry him for--and risk doin' a trip for +bigamy? Stuck on the guy, huh?" + +Helen shook her head. + +"N-no," she faltered. "I'm not 'stuck' on him. I wish to Heaven that I +hadn't married him--now." Her lips twitched. "I--I suppose it looked +like a chance to be respectable. I heard that you were in trouble +out in Chicago, that you'd been put away for a long time. I took up +typewriting after Tilliston's cabaret closed; I changed my name and got +a job with a publishing house." + +"Yeah, I got all that from Madge." + +"Oh, what's the use going into the rest of it? I don't like to work; +I never did. I met Gilmore. He was wild about me--still is. It seemed +like such a wonderful chance, the wife of a famous novelist. I wonder +what he'll do if he ever learns the truth? Perhaps--perhaps--he'll kill +me!" + +"Aw, can that stuff," growled Don Haskins. "Conversation don't help me +any; what I want is that thousand bucks--quick. I'm due for a long trip +up the river--or worse--if I don't jump town before the bulls nail me. + +"I was in on a loft job. It was a water haul--not a ten-dollar bit +between the three of us that was in on it. One of the birds got nabbed, +and I know he's got a yellow streak in 'im as wide as Fifth Avenue. +The cops won't have to more'n bounce a nightstick over his head when +he'll come through with a squeal. I gotta get outta town, put distance +behind me, because"--his voice sank to a low, hoarse whisper--"because +the watchman got croaked, see! It--it's a chance of the chair, if 'Dago +Mike' squeals on the other two of us. + +"A guy ain't got no chance doin' a slide outta town these days unless +he's well heeled. I'm flat broke. Do I get that thousand from you, +or----" + +"Say it, Don." + +The man's eyes were narrowed. + +"Or do I drop a note to Gilmore, tellin' him that his wife's got two +husbands, that if he'll taxi over to Borough Hall in Brooklyn and +look over the marriage-license records for October tenth, nineteen +sixteen----" + +"You--you wouldn't do that to me, Don?" Helen's face was deathly white. +"You ungrateful rat----" + +"If I'm a rat, then it was you made me a rat!" gritted the man. "When I +got outta the Tombs that time and found you'd throwed me over, and was +trailin' around with that swell with the Eyetalian name, it made a bum +outta me. If I could have got my hands on you that first night----" His +hands darted toward her, extended fingers twitching convulsively, as +they neared her throat. With a stifled scream Helen protected herself +with her arms. + +"Don't! Don't! Don't look at me like that. I'll try to get the thousand +dollars, but I don't know what--what I will tell him." + +"It's up to you what kind of a song and dance you give 'im," he +growled. "The big thing is--get it. It's that, or else----Now pass over +that two hundred you was talkin' about; that'll help a little." + +Helen's fingers trembled as she reached into her hand bag for the roll +of bills. "Even if I give you the thousand dollars, I suppose I'll +always be at your mercy--that you'll always be coming back for more, +that you'll hound me, blackmail me----" + +Haskins made no promises as to that; he grabbed the money avidly from +her hand and counted it eagerly. Ten dollars lacking two hundred. + +"When do I get the rest of it?" he demanded. "I can't wait long; it +won't be safe--stayin' here with Eighth Avenue Annie." + +Helen considered swiftly. "This--this is Monday," she said. "I may be +able to get it by Wednesday. If I can get it at all I suppose I can get +it by then. You--you'll give me until Wednesday?" + +"Ain't got no jewelry that you can put in soak to raise the jack?" Don +wanted to know. + +"He--he would miss that, what little there is. I'd better try to get +the money from him--if I can." + +Haskins' lips twisted unpleasantly. "You better," he grunted +threateningly. "Aw right, I'm givin' you until Wednesday, but if you +ain't come across with it by then, I'll saunter out to that swell place +I hear you're livin' in--and collect." + + + + + CHAPTER IV + + "WHAT DOES IT MEAN?" + + +Returning from New York on the five o'clock train, Kirklan Gilmore +stood for a minute or so on the station platform, looking along the +assembled line of cars in which thoughtful wives were meeting their +city-working husbands. He felt disappointed and hurt that Helen had not +come for him, especially as this was his first absence. + +Then it occurred to him that she might not have returned from her drive +across the river; the country roads might have lured her farther than +her announced destination of Tuxedo. A worried frown appeared over his +eyes, as his imagination led him to take the unpleasant possibility +that, since Helen was new at the steering wheel, there might have been +an accident. A horrifying picture of a collision, his beautiful wife +maimed, cut, bleeding, arose before him, but he brushed it aside with a +shudder. + +"I suppose all doting husbands do a lot of unnecessary worrying," he +told himself. "I couldn't stand losing her." + +Gilmore did not for a moment believe that it had been Helen whom +Atchinson had seen on the street in New York; he considered it a bit of +a joke on the publisher and intended having a good laugh by teasing his +wife about her "double." + +The village of Ardleigh is small, and, since it is surrounded with +people owning their country homes and their own cars, there is small +demand for taxicab service. There were just three of the ramshackle +vehicles, but Gilmore delayed so long that the last one was occupied +and started in motion, as he crossed the platform toward it. + +Except that it might delay him getting to Helen, he felt no annoyance +over this incident; it was only two miles from the village to +Greenacres, and he often made the trip on foot by choice. It was a +splendid, picturesque walk, which to him had never lost its charm. + +Carrying his manuscript case of black leather, he swung off briskly, +choosing the dirt road rather than the paved highway; this not only +afforded the more scenic view, but also saved him nearly a quarter of a +mile. He was in a hurry for, try as he would, he could not help being +rather anxious about Helen and her safe return. + +The road ran along the backbone of a ridge, so that, while still some +distance from the house, he was able to get a glimpse of the driveway +through an opening in the trees, and he gave a breath of relief as he +saw the car. His anxiety had been quite unfounded; his wife was home. + +Approaching the house itself, he saw Joan on the lawn teaching tricks +to the new collie pup, and she was so engrossed with the task that she +failed to hear the crunch of his shoes on the gravel. + +"Hello, Joan!" he called cheerily. + +The girl, on her knees in the grass, dropped the puppy's paws and +turned half toward him, the drooping brim of her hat shielding +whatever expression may have been in her dark eyes. + +"Hello, Kirk," she answered, getting to her feet. + +"I see Helen's got home. I was just a little worried about her--she +being new about driving the car." + +"Yes, she's home," nodded Joan. "She drove in about five minutes ago; +I think you'll find her dressing for dinner." She essayed a brief and +fairly successful laugh. "I won't keep you, Kirk; I know you'll be +anxious to see her after being away from her all these hours." + +Gilmore hesitated for a moment. "See here, Joan," he protested, "I +believe you're trying to get away from me. Somehow I've got the feeling +that you've been trying to avoid me ever since you got back from your +trip. You haven't told me a thing about it." + +"I--I didn't think you'd want to be bothered; all your time belongs to +Helen. I've thanked you for the glorious treat, haven't I? I know I +intended to." + +"There are no thanks due, Joan; you earned it--and more. Atchinson was +speaking of some passages in 'Rogue's Paradise' only to-day, and, bless +your life, most of them were yours!" + +"It's nice of you to say that, Kirk," she murmured lifelessly; he would +never know--must never know--what a labor of love it had been. There +was an uncomfortable pause, during which Gilmore fumbled at his watch +chain, and Joan bent over to pull gently at the puppy's ears. + +"I guess there's something else I ought to say," he floundered. "I feel +mighty guilty about Helen taking your room. I don't blame you for +being hurt about it. I did my best to make her understand, but----" + +"We'll not talk about that, Kirk. The house belongs to you; it was +quite within your right. I'll get accustomed to my new quarters, and it +will be all right, Kirk--quite all right." + +It was strange that Gilmore, whose books were considered to contain +keen analysis of the human emotions, should have missed the catch in +her voice, the touch of pathos, as she tried to mask her true feelings +with a careless, matter-of-fact tone. But miss them he did, and he felt +relieved that she was being such a good sport about it. + +"It's like you, Joan," he said warmly, "to take it like that, and I +wish you'd try and make things as pleasant as you can for Helen. She +still feels strange, and, I suppose, is overly sensitive. This is just +between you and me, understand, but she has a notion that there is a +feeling of antagonism, even among the servants, toward her. Of course +that's ridiculous; no one could help loving Helen. She is wonderful, +isn't she?" + +Joan could not force the polite falsehood to her lips, but Gilmore +rushed on, taking no cognizance of her silence. + +"I've been honeymooning for the past three weeks, Joan, but I've got +to get back into harness again--a very good simile, since my studio is +a renovated stable--and rush the book to a finish. I've got to lock +myself in and work. + +"Well, I'm afraid Helen is going to get pretty lonesome unless some one +looks after entertaining her a bit. Atchinson has arranged with Victor +Sarbella--you remember meeting Sarbella in town, of course--to draw the +illustrations for my coming book, and he'll be out to-morrow for a stay +of several days. He'll have time for loafing, while I'm working, and +I wish you'd see to it that things are made as jolly as possible for +Helen. + +"It's partly selfishness that I don't want country life to pall on +Helen; I've got to make her contented with Greenacres, or she'll be +pulling me away from the old place and into town." + +Joan's lips tightened. Kirk did not know, of course, how much he was +asking of her. "You'd better be getting in to Helen," she said. + +And when Gilmore had gone, striding swiftly to the house, Joan Sheridan +dropped to her knees in the grass, hugging the collie pup close, the +one living thing she would have permitted to see the tears now flooding +her dark eyes. + +"Oh, Laddie, boy," she whispered into one of the inquiringly cocked +ears, "it's so hard to pretend--so hard! Oh, how I hate that woman--how +I hate her! I didn't know there was so much hate in me." + +Kirklan Gilmore entered the house and went directly upstairs. A moment +later he was rapping at the door of his wife's room and, after her +muffled response from the other side of the panel, he went in. + +Helen was not, as he expected, dressing for dinner. She sat by the +window in a listless, preoccupied attitude, and she had not so much as +removed her hat. Her greeting was not that spontaneous explosion of +welcoming joy that he would have liked after their first parting, even +of the brief hours. + +"Hello, Kirklan," she said listlessly. "How's everything in New York? +Hot, wasn't it?" + +Gilmore kissed her eagerly, but found her even more than usually +unresponsive. + +"Not so hot," he answered, "but the humidity was stifling. What's +wrong, Helen? You look all out of sorts." + +"Just tired, I suppose," she said. "Driving a car is a strain on the +nerves." + +"Yes, it is for a beginner; you shouldn't attempt such long trips until +you're more accustomed to the wheel. Have any trouble?" + +"I stalled the motor on a hill, but I just put on the emergency brake +and worked the starter. That's what you told me to do in a case like +that." + +"Good headwork, Helen. The truth is, I'd worried about you a good deal. +If anything had happened to you, my darling----" His voice choked, +husky with emotion, and he put his fingers softly to a strand of bronze +hair that had broken prison from under the edge of her hat. + +When a man is in a soft mood, that is the best time for a wife to ask +what she wants. Helen realized this and decided not to delay the matter +of the needed thousand dollars. So she reached up and let her hand +close about his. + +"Kirklan," she said, "I--I am worried about something. I am ashamed to +come to you with it, but----" + +A look of alarm came into Gilmore's face, as he waited for her to +continue. + +"Oh, Kirklan, I--I am so--so ashamed. It's money." + +He gave a quick, relieved laugh. "And it hurts your pride to ask your +husband for a little shopping money. Since you feel that way about it, +I suppose we'd better decide on a regular allowance. No doubt you'd +like to have your own little bank account. I'll be as generous with +you as I can, dear, but, as I told you before we were married, I'm no +bloated capitalist. The royalties from the last book are coming in +pretty regularly now, although we hope they'll be even larger. The +sales seem to be growing. Did you have your mind set on any particular +amount? Don't be timid about it, honey; if it's more than I can stand +I'll have to tell you so." + +"There--there are so many things I need, Kirklan; sometimes a man +doesn't understand about a woman's wardrobe. I've been afraid you would +think I am extravagant, and I don't want to be a burden on you." It had +been in her mind to manufacture some past debt, but his suggestion of +an allowance seemed to make it easier. + +"How much do you want, Helen? You fix the amount, and, if I've got it, +it's yours." Then, as she still seemed to hesitate, he suggested a +figure that to his mind was generous. "Suppose I deposit five hundred +in the village bank to start with? By the time you've checked against +that, I'll have some more money coming in." + +"I--I'd like to have a thousand dollars, Kirklan. Does that seem a +great deal? Of course I won't have to ask you for any more for--oh, for +quite a long time." + +Gilmore was not displeased with her, but he was chagrined, for the +reason that his own bank balance was three hundred dollars less than +the thousand. + +"Store accounts, of course!" he said. "I've charge accounts at several +of the stores in New York, and you can buy what you want and charge it +to me. The truth is, dear, that I haven't got a thousand in cash. We +writer fellows aren't very good financiers and I've been living pretty +close to the last dollar. But my credit is good." + +Helen bit her lip. "I'd rather not charge things, Kirklan. If it would +be just as convenient to let me have the cash----" + +"I'll let you have it Friday," he agreed; "I'll drop a note to +Atchinson and ask him to make me an advance. The publishing house makes +out its checks on Thursday." + +"Kirklan," she murmured, forced to try a new line, "I'll have to tell +you the truth. I'll have to have some money by Wednesday. Oh, I know +it's terrible, asking you to pay my old debts, but I'm so afraid of--of +being sued that I----" + +Gilmore patted her shoulder reassuringly. Had he stopped to think about +it, he might have considered it strange that a girl in the humble +position in which he had found her should have got into debt to the +extent of a thousand dollars, but it was Helen, not he, who recognized +this possible inconsistency, and she hastened to add with that glibness +which even a poor liar may achieve in a moment of desperation: "It--it +was money that I borrowed for my sister's illness. I had to sign some +notes, and----" + +"You shall have the money, Helen, but the truth is always the best in +the first place, dear. I want us always to be frank with each other. I +want you to feel that you can come to me with everything. After all, +a falsehood is the most futile thing in the world. You should have +told me the exact truth about the matter from the beginning. I'll get +in touch with Atchinson on the phone to-morrow and arrange it. You +shall have the money to-morrow night, but you must never lie to me, +dear--under any conditions. A lie is one of the things I find it hard +to forgive." + +His tone was so gentle, his agreement to the request so prompt, and his +faith in her so unquestioning that Helen was touched. It made her think +that she might almost learn to love him; impulsively she brushed her +lips to the back of his hand. + +"That's good of you, Kirklan; you--you'll never know what a weight +you've taken from my mind. You--you do love me a very great deal." + +"Better than all else in the world, Helen!" he answered huskily. + +There was a silence, to Gilmore an enraptured silence in which he felt +closer to his wife than ever before. It seemed that suddenly there was +a new bond between them. + +"What does Atchinson think of the new book?" she asked him presently. +"Does he think it will have the success of the last one?" + +"Yes, even more. He's enthusiastic--even for Atchinson." His lips +parted into a smile. "Speaking of Atchinson, that reminds me. +He was trying to convince me that he saw you in New York this +afternoon--going into some cheap dump just around the corner from +Eighth Avenue." + +With a startled gasp, Helen's hand jerked away from the fondling caress +of his fingers and, clenched, went to her mouth. Her eyes became wide +with something that was more than either surprise or bewilderment. Her +gaze was fixed upon his face with a fascinated stare, and the smile +that she attempted was only a sickly grimace. + +"Why, Kirklan! In--in New York? How silly! You know very well that I +drove the car to Tuxedo." + +Kirklan Gilmore's blood was suddenly ice; his eyes were no longer +smiling. + +"Great Lord!" he whispered. "It's true. Atchinson was right. Helen, +you've lied to me; you----" + +"No!" she cried in a desperate frenzy of denial. "I swear to you----" + +"I see guilt in your face. I know now; I know that you were the woman +Atchinson saw in New York this afternoon. What does it mean, Helen? +These lies, this deceit--what does it mean?" + +Helen laughed hysterically. + +"Don't--don't be so tragic--over nothing. I wasn't in New York; you +just startled me, that's all. Please don't be so silly. Atchinson was +mistaken; some one who looked like me, perhaps." + +But, as much as he wanted to believe her, Kirklan Gilmore could not +convince himself; her face had betrayed her. The blood was pounding +in his brain, and he felt that the mystery of it, the doubts, the +suspicions would certainly drive him mad. + + + + + CHAPTER V + + VICTOR SARBELLA + + +The next morning, after a sleepless night, found Gilmore haggard and +hollow-eyed. There were moments when his wife's persistent denials +almost convinced him that it was all a horrible mistake; for a +beautiful woman in tears can be most plausible at dissimulation; and +then, when trying hardest to believe her, there would come before him, +with photographic clearness, the memory of her startled face, the +sudden guilty terror in her eyes, and credulity would crumble. + +He was up hours before the rest of the household, although the cook was +stirring and brewed him a cup of coffee, which he gulped mechanically +and then fled to the solitude of his studio, thinking that he might +relieve the tension by forgetting himself in his work. + +That, of course was ridiculous; there was no possibility of mental +detachment with his brain in such a riotous tumult. Sheet after sheet +of paper he drew before him to receive his thoughts, but, instead +of smooth sentences flowing from his pen, he found himself tracing +meaningless lines. He gave up any attempt at creation and tried +correcting, ironing out rough spots in the manuscript, where he had +left off three weeks previous, but in his present frame of mind all +spots were rough, just jumbled words. He tossed down his pen with a +violent force that crumpled the gold point and sent a spray of ink +spattering across the desk top. Then he leaped to his feet and began to +pace the floor like a caged beast. + +"I've got to know the truth!" he groaned. "I think I could make myself +forgive her anything, but the deceit of it is driving me mad! What +could have taken her to that place--what is she hiding from me? Her +reason for wanting the thousand dollars--perhaps, that too, was a lie." + +It suddenly dawned upon him how little he knew of Helen's life; nothing +more than she had been pleased to tell him, and that had not been +much. She had seldom spoken of her family, and then only in a hazy, +unenlightening sort of way. He had rather got the impression that her +parents had died when she was a child, and that a shadowy, indefinite +aunt had reared her. + +Gilmore's love for his wife had been so blindly intense, so headlong +that it had never occurred to him to weigh these things. He had loved +her for herself, and that had been sufficient. + +Until long past noon he remained locked within the studio, and no one +came to disturb him. At last he could no longer endure the oppression +of four walls; the day was hot, and he had neglected to open the +windows; the air was stifling. So he flung himself out of the renovated +stable and plunged, with hardly any sense of direction, across the open +country--trying to think, trying to think! + +Thus he missed the arrival of Victor Sarbella, his artist guest; in +fact he had forgotten that Sarbella was coming. It was a quarter past +four when one of the village taxis turned in at Greenacres, nosed +along the driveway and, coming to a stop beneath the portico, deposited +Victor Sarbella and his bags beside the long, cool porch. + +One did not need to hear the name to be certain of Sarbella's Italian +blood, for from his Florentine father he had got the intense black eyes +and the tinting of skin which belong to that warm-blooded race. He was +a handsome, powerfully built man, nearing forty. His hands, as he paid +the driver, were revealed as long-fingered, tapering, such hands as +properly belong to the artist. + +With a honk of the horn the taxi moved off, and Victor Sarbella looked +about him, his black eyes snapping with an appreciative light. The +artist in him was delighted with the charm of Greenacres. + +"My friend," he mused, "has a most beautiful home; a beautiful wife, +too, I am told." + +Attracted by the taxi's arrival, Bates, the butler, shambled out across +the porch, followed by Joan Sheridan. Joan had met him at a literary +affair in New York the previous winter, and of course she remembered +him; Victor Sarbella was not the kind of man that one found it possible +to forget. She met him with an outstretched hand. + +"Welcome to Greenacres, Mr. Sarbella. Kirk told me last night that you +were coming. I haven't seen Kirk all morning, but I suppose he's at the +studio. Have you seen him, Bates?" + +"Not all day, Miss Joan; as you say, perhaps the studio." + +Joan nodded. "I'll find him, Bates, while you take in Mr. Sarbella's +bags. He loses all track of time when he really gets to work, and he's +got to make up for three lost weeks." + +"Naturally my poor friend takes up hees pen like, as they say, a slave +scourged to hees dungeon," he laughed. While he had spent a good many +years in America with his mother who, following the death of his +Italian father, had taken up residence in New York, there was a touch +of foreign accent in the pronunciation of certain words. His education +had been in Florence, and each winter he returned there for two or +three months. "Tell me, Mees Sheridan, is hees new wife so beautiful as +I have been told?" + +Joan nodded. "Yes, she is beautiful, a very beautiful woman. Now I'll +run and find Kirk. He'll feel much humiliated that he wasn't here to +greet you. You're to make the illustrations for the new book. That's +wonderful. I've always admired your drawings; there's such intensity in +your pictures." + +Sarbella, bowing, murmured an acknowledgment of the compliment and +turned to follow the butler into the house and up the stairs to the +second floor. A few minutes later he was unpacking his bags, as Bates +drew a tub of water for him. + +"What time is dinner, Bates?" + +"A quarter past six, Mr. Sarbella." + +"It is now nearly half past four," said the artist, glancing at his +watch. "Every one dresses for dinner, I suppose." + +"Oh, certainly, sir." + +"Then I wish you would press my dinner coat, Bates; it's badly +wrinkled. I was never good at packing. You may tell Meester Gilmore +that I will not come down until six. There's no sense in dressing +twice." + +"Quite so," nodded Bates and, accepting the dinner coat, shuffled out +of the room. + +Sarbella took a brief plunge in the tub of tepid water, finished it off +with an invigorating cold shower, and, slipping into a light bath robe, +pulled a chair to the window and began to smoke. His thoughts evidently +took an unpleasant turn, for his eyes glowed hotly, and his muscles +tensed until his fingers crushed the burning cigarette, and the fiery +end of it smoldered odorously in the nap of the rug at his feet. + +"To-day is the ninth," he smiled, half aloud; "day after to-morrow +would have been hees twenty-third birthday--Andrea's twenty-third +birthday! If I could but find her, that woman, I would kill her with my +own hands! Heaven curse her! She----" + +The tense soliloquy of hate was interrupted by a rap at the door; +Sarbella turned with a start and called, "Yes, come." + +Kirklan Gilmore, face still haggard, his eyes bloodshot, entered the +room with tumbling words of apology. + +"Can you forgive my discourtesy, Victor?" he exclaimed. "I should have +been here to receive you. A fine host you must think me when----" + +"Poof! That for your discourtesy, my good friend!" broke in Sarbella +with a laugh and a snap of the fingers. "We are artists, you and I; +you are an artist of the pen, and I an artist of the brush. So we +understand each other. I think nothing of it. But, my friend, what has +happened to you? Your face is that of a man who is ill." + +Gilmore gave a jerky laugh. "It's nothing, Victor--nothing. Poor +night's sleep, that's all." While their friendship was a warm one, it +had never reached the point of intimacy; and to no friend on earth +would Kirklan Gilmore have confided the truth. "We'll have a cocktail +or so before dinner, and that will put new life back into me again." + +Sarbella felt certain that this was an evasion and a very thin one; +through Gilmore's eyes he saw a soul in torment. But he pretended to +accept the explanation. + +"The beautiful new wife, she must not see you so. It will make her +unhappy." + +Gilmore's lips tightened, and he hastily changed the subject. +"To-morrow, Victor, we'll dig in and talk over the illustrations you +are to make. I have an idea or so, but I'll have to chase along now and +dress for dinner. Did Bates tell you? A quarter past six? When you've +dressed go on downstairs; we'll have the cocktails on the veranda. I'll +be down ahead of you, perhaps; I'm a regular fireman for throwing on my +clothes." + +And he bolted abruptly from the room. Victor Sarbella stared after the +closed door and shook his head slowly. + +"Ah!" he murmured. "A poor night's sleep, he says. I fear it is nothing +so simply remedied as that. It was tragedy I saw in his face--tragedy. +We all have our tragedies; I, too, have had mine. Poor Andrea; he was +so young to die. And our mother----" He blinked back the moisture +which flooded his eyes and tossed off the bath robe of silk crape, +starting to get into his clothes. Before he had finished, the butler +returned with the freshly pressed dinner coat, uttered a few polite +banalities, and departed. + +Sarbella smoked another cigarette and then went downstairs to the +veranda, where he found that Gilmore had preceded him, looking a little +less pale than some minutes before. But the color in the author's +cheeks was plainly artificial, induced no doubt by a nip or so from the +bottle of liquor with which he was engaged in mixing the cocktails. +The man was making a supreme effort to conceal the true state of his +feelings, and being only moderately successful at it. + +"The ladies will be down in a moment," said Gilmore, moving the +cocktail shaker back and forth. "Joan tells me that she saw you when +you arrived. Great admirer of your work, Joan; she's tickled to death +that you're going to do the drawings for the book. She'll probably help +you pick out some of the dramatic high spots; she knows the manuscript +forward and backward. Here's my mother now; I hear her coming through +the hall." + +Victor Sarbella turned to greet Mrs. Gilmore, Kirklan's stepmother, +whom he had not met before. + +"Mother, this is Mr. Sarbella. Further introductions are unnecessary, +Victor, because she's heard all about you." + +As Sarbella bowed over her hand, Joan joined them. + +"I think you can fill the glasses, Kirk," she said with a glance at the +tray. "Helen was directly behind me, as I came down the stairs. You +know, Mr. Sarbella, we're terribly punctual about dinner. The way the +servants do discipline us these days!" + +The screen door onto the porch opened again, and Helen Gilmore came out +quietly, almost listlessly. + +Kirklan was filling the last glass. "Victor, I want you to meet my +wife; Helen, this is Mr. Sarbella--the artist, you know," he said. +"Perhaps I neglected to tell you that he was expected." + +There was a pause. + +The polite, formal smile on the artist's lips was washed away by a +tidal wave of emotion--surprise, incredulity, horror--which left his +face white and rigid; into his eyes there blazed a scorching fire of +hatred that, since his back was toward the others, was seen only by +Helen. + +At mention of his name Helen had stopped, her own features ghastly; +but she quickly checked the startled gasp which rose in her white +throat and, by the most tremendous effort, managed to control herself. +However, her agitation escaped neither her husband nor Joan; both of +them sensed what a dramatic shock the meeting had been to her. + +Sarbella mastered his emotions wonderfully, and he came of a race that +is essentially emotional. And while he could not hide the pallor of his +face, he did mask that first flash of hatred which had blazed in his +eyes. Yet he dared not trust his tongue. Silently he bowed. + +Kirklan Gilmore's unsteady hand splashed the last cocktail all over the +tray. + +"Perhaps--perhaps you've--met before?" he suggested, alarmed by what +was obviously an attempt to conceal a mutual recognition. + +"No," answered Victor Sarbella, his voice husky despite himself, "Mrs. +Gilmore and I have never met until this moment. It is a circumstance +that I very much regret." + +"Mr. Sarbella," said Helen, an almost hysterical catch in her voice, +"is a total stranger. The name startled me. It is such an unusual name, +and I once had a--a friend who----" + +"Dinner is served!" announced Bates. He said it quietly enough, but it +was like a thunderclap, this interruption. + +"Here's how!" cried Joan, picking up her cocktail glass. "You'll go a +long way before you find anything like this, Mr. Sarbella; it's some of +the old stock that Kirk's father had in the cellar--oh, years and years +ago." It served to break the tension. "Here's to the new book--may it +be a tremendous success!" + +"Great gods!" Sarbella said under his breath, as he mechanically lifted +his glass. "It is she--the woman! I find her here, the wife of--of my +friend. Merciful Heaven, his wife!" + + + + + CHAPTER VI + + IN THE STUDIO + + +There can be nothing so dismal as pretended gayety, nothing so +mirthless as hollow, empty laughter. After that startling encounter +between Victor Sarbella and Helen Gilmore, both of them fighting for +self-control, all five on the porch drank the toast that Joan had +offered in an attempt to save the situation. Joan, of course, could not +know what it was all about, but she sensed the ominous trend of things. +She had seen the look of frozen terror in Helen's face, had seen the +muscles bulge and rise beneath the shoulders of Sarbella's perfectly +fitting dinner coat, and, while she had not glimpsed his face, it was +easy to know that he, too, had experienced a distinct shock. + +"I have not tasted a better cocktail since my last trip abroad," +exclaimed the artist, forcing a smile to his face. As a matter of fact, +he had swallowed the drink mechanically, hardly tasting it. + +"Now for dinner!" cried Joan, taking full command of things. Putting +her fingers on Sarbella's arm, she led the way into the house and +toward the big, old-fashioned dining room. + +Kirklan Gilmore jerked himself together with visible effort; his +impulse was to dash forward, face his wife and his friend squarely, +demanding sternly, "What does this mean? Answer me! What does this +mean?" But good breeding demanded restraint; his obligations as a host +required a simulated appearance of naturalness. With a queer mental +offshoot he wondered how he would have made one of the characters in +his books behave under a similar circumstance. + +A moment or so later the five were at the dinner table. Even Mrs. +Gilmore, whom nature had endowed with no large store of astuteness, +realized the strain, realized that something was tremendously amiss, +and she, poor and well-meaning soul, made matters all the worse by the +uneasy, inquiring glances that she cast about the table in nervous +bewilderment. + +Victor Sarbella managed to carry things off with fairly commendable +grace, but not so with Helen Gilmore, who made clumsy mistakes with +the table silver and not once lifted her eyes either to her husband or +the others. The rouge on her cheeks made the paleness nothing short of +ghastly. + +Kirklan Gilmore's eyes, slightly narrowed and brighter than they should +have been, shot quick, queer glances from his wife to his guest. +Perhaps it was but natural that his mind swept to one conclusion--a +previous affair between these two. His friend and his wife! The salad +fork trembled in his hand. Time after time he suppressed the impulse to +leap to his feet, voicing the demand that kept shrieking through his +mind: "What is there between you two?" + +Only Joan's persevering diplomacy kept them at fairly even keel; she +rattled on with scarcely a halt. But the dinner was a thoroughly +miserable affair, and by the time it came to an end the nerves of the +five were raw. + +Joan's heart ached for the suffering she saw in Kirklan's face, and +there swept through her an intensified hate for the woman who had won +the man she loved. + +"She's going to wreck his life!" she said under her breath. "I know +it--I know it! She's killing him--killing his soul! If she does that, +I'll----" The thought that came into her mind frightened her, for she +had not known that there was so much of primitive passion in herself. + +The moment the unhappy dinner came to an end, Helen Gilmore murmured an +almost incoherent something about a headache and fled upstairs to her +room. The other Mrs. Gilmore, too, faded out of sight, still wondering +what it might be all about. Joan was inclined to remain, but Kirklan +showed very plainly that she wasn't wanted. + +"Run along, Joan, if you don't mind," he said in a jerky, strained +voice. "Sarbella and I"--it was to be noted that he had dropped the +more cordial and customary name of Victor--"are going to--to talk +things over. Come out to the studio with me, Sarbella; the manuscript +of the book is out there." + +Victor Sarbella was not deceived into any notion that Gilmore had in +mind a discussion of the new novel, and, while he shrank from what he +felt sure was going to be a cross-examination, he did not see how he +could very well refuse. + +"All right," he agreed with a nod, reaching for his cigarette case. +Silently the two men left the house and cut across the lawn through the +gathering dusk toward the studio. No word was spoken as they entered +the building and mounted the stairs to the writer's workroom above. +Kirklan Gilmore switched on the lights, and the two faced each other at +the desk strewn with pages of the manuscript. Sarbella remained calm, +but the other let himself go, and his whole body shook like a man in +the grip of a chill. + +"Well, let's have it--the truth!" he rasped, almost a sobbing catch in +his voice. + +Victor Sarbella finished off his cigarette with a long puff that slid +the burning edge of the tobacco tube close to his lips; at the same +time he reached for a fresh smoke, tapped it on the back of his hand, +and then lighted it with the stub of the old. A thin trickle of smoke +swam slowly through his parted lips. + +"Just what do you mean?" he parried. + +"Don't you fence with me, Sarbella!" Gilmore shouted hoarsely. "I've +got to the breaking point. My nerves are stretched tight as piano +wires; if something snaps----" + +"That's the trouble, Kirklan," Sarbella broke in soothingly. "You're +nervous and upset over something; that's the size of it. You were upset +when I first saw you, and I----" + +"That's got nothing to do with it, Sarbella. You know very well what I +mean. I saw Helen--my wife--saw her face when I introduced you two on +the porch. Introduced you!" His voice rose shrilly. "I guess you know +her better than I do; I saw----" + +"Kirklan," again interrupted Sarbella, "that is where you are +absolutely wrong. I give you my solemn word of honor, my oath as a +gentleman, that until this evening I never saw Mees Gilmore." + +"Oath of a gentleman!" derided Gilmore. "You're the sort who would lie +like a gentleman. Man, I tell you that I saw--her face! Helen, my wife, +was afraid of you. Why was she afraid of you? Why did her face turn so +pale? Why did she look as if she were fainting?" + +"She said," Sarbella replied smoothly, "that it was the name--that she +had once known some one named Sarbella. Why couldn't that be true!" + +"It could be, but it isn't. Sarbella, you're hiding something from me, +and I've got to have the truth." His hands were clenched, and his eyes +blazed with jealousy. "Isn't it a fact that you were once in love with +her?" + +A harsh, humorless laugh, the sort of a laugh that it is not pleasant +to hear, burst through Sarbella's lips. + +"In love with her? Great Lord, no--a thousand times no! I----" He +broke off, on the verge of saying too much, of betraying the truth in +one exclamation of passionate, hot-blooded hatred. "I tell you again, +Kirklan, that your wife and I never met until this very evening. That +is quite all I have to say; you must take that or leave it." + +Sarbella paused as if he would choke on one more word. + +Chest heaving, lips twitching, Kirklan Gilmore leaned heavily across +the table, staring into the eyes of this other man whom he had +considered his friend. Suddenly he straightened and leaped toward the +door, turning the key in the lock; swiftly he turned and faced Victor +Sarbella. + +"Take it or leave it, eh?" he panted. "Suppose I won't leave it; +suppose I tell you that you're not to leave this room until you tell +me what I want to know? What you are hiding from me?" His voice broke. +"I--I can't stand these lies, these evasions, this deceit any longer. +You have given me your word that you have told the truth, that you +never saw Helen before to-day. I don't know whether to believe that or +not. But, if it is the truth, you know something--something about her. +In Heaven's name, man, tell me! Who is she? I ask you--what is she?" + +Victor Sarbella shook his head slowly. "She is your wife," he answered, +as if that might explain why he must keep sealed lips, but Gilmore +would not have it rest that way. + +"Yes," he groaned, "she is my wife, but who was she, what was she +before--before she became my wife? I think you know." His shoulders +shook with a dry sob. "Sarbella, can't you see what this is doing to +me--that it is driving me mad?" + +Again Sarbella's head described a sadly negative gesture. "I am sorry, +Kirklan," he said; "believe me, Kirklan, I am your friend, and I am +sorry, but there is nothing I can tell you. Set at rest any fears you +may have had about"--his lips twitched into a bitter smile--"about any +romantic attachment between us. Anything but that!" + +Kirklan Gilmore took a step forward; the next instant he had flung +himself on Sarbella, and, although he was the less powerful man, the +latter was taken off his guard and staggered back into a chair. + +"You tell me what you know, and tell me now, or I'm going to kill +you!" he gritted. "Tell me before I have to choke the life out of you." +His fingers squeezed about the artist's throat, and Sarbella had to +fight him off to break the grip. With a tremendous heave of the muscles +he flung Gilmore back, and the novelist, reeling, lost his balance and +plunged heavily to the floor. + +He lay absolutely still. + +Victor Sarbella stood over him, staring down at him pityingly. "I +am sorry for you, Kirklan," he said huskily: "yes, I am sorry--very +sorry." He went to the door, unlocked it with the key, and turned, +just as Gilmore was struggling up. "I cannot very well remain your +guest now, Kirklan. Oh, I don't mean just this." His fingers touched +his torn collar, the rumpled bosom of his dress shirt. "But I'll stay +until to-morrow. We can't forget that we are under obligations to the +publishers. Yes, I will wait until to-morrow; see if you can't pull +yourself together long enough to talk things over." + +Gilmore gave no sign that he had heard, and Victor Sarbella passed on +out of the studio and down the old wooden steps of the stable. When +the door closed, Kirklan Gilmore slowly dragged himself to his feet +and moved toward the chair by the desk. Like a rheumatic old man with +protesting bone joints, he lowered himself into the chair, his body +sagging limply forward until he lay across the desk, his face pillowed +in his arms. He lay like that, his senses numbed, almost as if he were +dead, for a long time. + + + + + CHAPTER VII + + THE GET-AWAY + + +Not for a moment did Don Haskins doubt that Helen Gilmore--legally +Helen Haskins, by grace of an unsundered legal tie previously +knotted--would "come through" with the thousand dollars that he had +demanded as the price of his silence. She wouldn't dare refuse; bigamy +is a sternly met crime in New York State. + +With a thousand dollars to the good he felt that his get-away was +safely assured, for a thousand dollars would enable him to put a long +distance behind him. And so, sitting in the squalid, shabby little +third-floor room in Eighth Avenue Annie's disreputable haven for those +hunted men who can raise the price of her protection, he was laying +his plans. Several points of the compass beckoned to him; California +intrigued him, but he was also inclined toward Cuba, and, even at a +lesser distance, Florida waved its picturesque palms beckoningly before +his mental vision. He had thought, too, of South America, but was wise +enough to know that this trip would have to contemplate the dangers of +getting a passport. A passport is not readily secured by a man of Don +Haskins' unsavory standing as a citizen; so he scratched South America +off his list. + +It had been Monday afternoon when Helen had called at Eighth Avenue +Annie's, leaving a payment of one hundred and ninety dollars on +account; it was now just gathering dark of Tuesday, and so certain was +Don that the dawning of the following day would bring the remainder of +the thousand that he was making his very definite plans for sliding out +of town--quickly. + +He had allowed his beard to grow; that would help some. Perhaps it +wouldn't fool the eyes of a dick who knew him well--and many of them +did--but it added materially to his chances. The cops, since he had +no successful job to his credit, wouldn't expect him to be in funds. +The thing to do, he reasoned, was the thing he wouldn't be expected +to do; therefore with fifty of the one hundred and ninety dollars he +had got from Helen--previously diminished by an even hundred that he +owed his old hag protector--he had sent Annie out among the secondhand +shops of Eighth Avenue to gather a wardrobe, a gentleman's wardrobe, at +reasonable prices. + +"Nuttin' flashy," he had warned; "respectable-lookin', but none of the +race-track stuff, see." + +And so Eighth Avenue Annie went forth among the clothing shops where +stained, ancient garments are sponged, pressed, and advertised "Just +Like New." True enough, Annie took her own reward for this service; +to the suit of blue serge for which she paid twelve dollars and +ninety-five cents, she affixed a price tag which read twenty-four +dollars and ninety-five cents, and, as you might expect, put the +difference into her own capacious and ever-hungry pocket. + +There seems to be some persistent destiny that has the habit of +sending policemen past a certain spot at a certain moment. It is +always happening, as an almost daily glance at your morning newspaper +will bear affirmative witness. As Eighth Avenue Annie was engaged in +purchasing Don Haskins' get-away outfit, Detective Sergeant John Henry +Tish passed the door of Abramson's dark, gloomy and somewhat odorous +"Clothes Bought and Sold" establishment and chanced to glance within. + +Detective Sergeant Tish was not perhaps nearly so good a detective as +he thought himself to be, but he had a good record for arrests and +convictions; when he made a "pinch" something usually came of it. He +had been recently assigned to this district, on the fringe of the old +Tenderloin, and he wasn't so well acquainted as he might have been. +But he knew Eighth Avenue Annie; he had seen her in Jefferson Market +Court not a great many months before, and Annie's gargoyle face, with +the narrow, red eyes, her bulging, muscular shoulders, were not easily +forgotten. + +"Humph!" grunted Sergeant Tish. "The old hag is buyin' somebody some +new rags--that is some rags that was new--one time. Looks as if there +might be something in it." + +So, instead of pursuing his way down Eighth Avenue, he loitered outside +Mr. Abramson's cluttered establishment, to all intents and purposes +interested in a suit of plaid which occupied the central space in the +window. "Can't Tell it from New," read a card. "A Bargain at $22.69." +Mr. Abramson, you see, was a great believer in the psychology of the +odd cent. + +Eighth Avenue Annie striding forth with that swaggering, Bowery walk of +hers, a bundle under her arm, did not glance behind her. Had she done +so, she would have seen Sergeant Tish, a short, well-fed-looking man, +who didn't look much like the usual run of fly cops, lose interest in +the plaid and follow her at a discreet and disarming distance. + +However, when Annie turned in at her place of abode and harbored +evil-doers just around the corner of the second block, Sergeant Tish +quickened his pace and was directly behind her, as she stepped into +the vestibule. It might have been the ringing of the automatic bell +that dimmed her ears to the pad of the detective's shoes, for, as she +turned, there was Tish, grinning at her wisely, his foot thrust forward +to prevent the door being suddenly slammed in his face. He had no +intention of finding himself on the outside looking in. + +"Say!" growled Annie. "What's the game?" Sharp as were her red, +narrow eyes, she failed to see the brand of headquarters in the +plain-clothes man's round, fat face. + +Sergeant Tish continued grinning, but it wasn't a grin to arouse any +contagious mirth or even good humor. + +"Who'd you buy the new rags for?" he demanded. "I wanna know a thing or +two about that. Get me?" + +Eighth Avenue Annie got him; there was the tone of authority in the +man's voice. + +"What's it to you?" she demanded with pretended indignation. "Ain't a +lady gotta right----" + +"Cheese it!" broke in Detective Tish. "I know you, an' I gotcher +number. When a bird sends you out to buy 'im clothes, he's either +a cripple or a crook--an' if he was that bad a cripple I guess he +wouldn't need any clothes." He chuckled in appreciation of his own wit. +"So don't try no bluff with me. Take your hand off that door." + +Annie had often defied the law, but her defiance was never flaunted +openly. When a cop said open the door, she opened it quickly. + +"I ain't done nothin' wrong," she protested with a ludicrous pretense +at innocence. "There ain't nothin' wrong, is there, in doin' a favor +fer a gent roomer. Is there, now? He said fer me to go out an' buy +'em----" + +"Where is this guy?" broke in Sergeant Tish. "I guess I'll give him the +once-over. Chances are he's some bird that's wanted, tryin' to do a +swift one outta town. Yeah?" + +"I dunno," muttered Annie; "I dunno nothin' about 'im. I rents 'im +a room; he pays his rent. I'm a poor lady tryin' to make an honest +livin', I am." + +"That's a double lie," snorted Sergeant Tish. "You ain't no lady, an' +you never glommed an honest jitney in your life. Lead on, you; I'm +gonna give this guy the once-over an' a free ride most likely." + +The woman hesitated, for she was at a ticklish disadvantage. The +surprise of the detective's visit was too complete to give her any +opportunity to warn Don Haskins who waited in the vile little room on +the third floor for his new wardrobe. + +On the stairs leading to the top story there was concealed a very +cunning little device that in six years of hiding hunted men for pay +had not once been detected by the police. Two of the steps, by a simple +mechanical operation, could be jerked upward into an opening large +enough to admit a man's body. Below this was space large enough to +accommodate several persons, the steps then dropped back into place, +looking thoroughly innocent. But Haskins had not been given the secret +of the third-floor stairs, and now there would be no opportunity to +favor him with this belated knowledge. + +"I'll run right up an' tell Mr. Smith to come down," said the old hag. + +"Say," sneered Sergeant Tish, "do I look that easy? On the level, do +you think I'd fall for that stuff?" It angered him that she should +have so little regard for his intelligence. "What floor did you say?" +He unbuttoned his coat which fitted somewhat tightly across his ample +stomach, giving him freer access to his police automatic strapped +beneath his arm. + +Eighth Avenue Annie had not lived in the underworld for nothing; she +knew the ways of the cops. She knew, for example, that the first overt +move she made to protect her well-paying lodger would land her in jail +on a charge of aiding and abetting a criminal. She wanted to help +Haskins, not from any motive of sentiment, but because she expected to +garner further money from Don's "swell sister," as she supposed Helen +Gilmore to be. + +"I didn't say what floor, off'cer," she muttered, "but I'm sayin' now. +He's on the thoid. I ain't protectin' nobody that ain't right." She +tried to affect a virtuous attitude. "I dunno nothin' except he spiels +it to me his moniker is--um--Smith." + +"Lead the way," ordered Sergeant Tish. "Not a word outta you either. +Get me? No tip-off goes with me; try that, and it's the station for +yours. If you think I won't, try it." Evidently Tish had not been +deceived in the slightest by her attitude of innocence. "You go on up +them stairs just like you was bringin' back his new duds. You say, +'Here's your clothes, mister.' I guess we won't use the Smith racket, +either. His name ain't Smith, and you know it ain't." + +"Yes, off'cer," agreed Eighth Avenue Annie. + +"Not so loud with that officer talk," warned Tish. "Ease down on the +lung power, you. Now, let's go." + +He motioned to the bundle she had just brought in from Abramson's, +and she obediently picked it up, starting up the dank, musty stairs. +The detective followed, walking with surprising lightness of step for +so corpulent a man. They reached the second-floor landing and passed +around a bend in the hall to the next flight. There was no hope for Don +Haskins now. + +As they reached the top, lighted murkily by the dirty skylight, +Sergeant Tish crouched low so that his head and shoulders would be +shielded by the bulking form of Eighth Avenue Annie and her packages. +The woman's shoes clattered noisily, and Haskins came to the door with +the broken, patched panel, his unshaven face peering out. + +"You got the stuff, huh?" he grunted. "I'll bet it's a tin suit." + +Eighth Avenue Annie made no effort to warn him; that might mean +shooting, and she wanted no shooting in her house. + +"It's a good suit," she muttered in a hoarse guttural. "It cost----" + +"Stick 'em up," roared Sergeant Tish, flipping out his gun, and rising +to his full height, leveling the weapon at the now wide-open door. "Get +'em up, or I'll drill you." + +Don Haskins' hands went up; he would have been a fool otherwise. His +lips twisted, as they emitted a vicious snarl. + +"Double crossed me," he said. "Took my good jack an' called in the +cops. Curse you, I'll----" + +"Shut your mouth!" Annie whispered hoarsely, her own face livid. + +Sergeant Tish grinned delightedly; he was beginning to realize that it +had been a fortunate circumstance looking so casually into the doorway +of Abramson's secondhand clothing store. He had felt all along, of +course, that the woman was lying, that she was keeping a man in hiding. +And men do not hide unless they are wanted. It might be a big haul. +He took another step forward and peered closely into the face of his +quarry. + +"I can't name him offhand, but I guess the Bertillon boys'll rap to +'im fast enough." He backed Haskins into the stuffy, dirty little room +at the point of the gun and reached into the pocket of his coat for an +ever-ready pair of nippers. + +"Stick out them fins," he ordered. "I'll get these darbies on you, an' +then we'll talk things over." + +Knowing that the gun was beaded for his vitals, and that any fool can +shoot straight with an automatic, Don Haskins stuck out his hands; the +handcuffs snapped about his wrists. + +"What's the pinch for?" he demanded with an effort at bluster. "You +ain't got nothin' on me; I ain't done nothin'." + +"Well, anyhow, I guess you've done time," Sergeant Tish said shrewdly. +"What's your name down at central office?" + +Don Haskins remained sullenly silent, his eyes glowing hotly, as +they stared at Eighth Avenue Annie. The hag had let the bundle from +Abramson's slide to the floor, and with both hands she pushed back the +dirty gray hair that straggled down across her soiled face. + +"Want to hold out on me, eh?" grunted Sergeant Tish, with a shrug of +his flesh-padded shoulders, as he thrust the gun back into its holster. +His chubby face wore a smile, for he was well pleased with himself; a +single-handed capture is a thing that a cop delights in. And, if it +turned out to be an important arrest--well, Tish had a hunch that it +was just that, an important arrest. "Suit yourself, John Doe; you'll +get the rap fast enough when I get you downtown." + +Don Haskins knew how hopeless it was now. Ten minutes ago he had been +daydreaming pleasantly of Florida, perhaps Cuba, and now--Sing Sing +via the Tombs. It all depended on whether or not "Dago Mike," his +confederate in the loft job, net profit ten dollars split three ways, +had squealed. And he was sure Dago Mike had squealed. The warehouse +watchman had been croaked, and that meant that not only the actual +slayer, but Don Haskins, as a participant in the crime, was liable to +the death sentence. + +Haskins thought swiftly, desperately. The chair! The sickening vision +of it swam before his eyes and drove his brain to cunning that was +somewhat beyond his normal mental processes. He staggered back to the +unkempt cot. + +"Gimme a cigarette," he muttered thickly, his nerve apparently +deserting him. "I'll talk--tell you who I am. I--I gotta have a fag +first." + +Sergeant Tish had seen that kind before. "Sure," he agreed readily +enough and produced a package of his own. Don lifted his manacled arms +and took a cigarette. It trembled between his fingers, wabbled between +his twitching lips. The detective lighted a match and held the flaming +stick toward him. + +Haskins inhaled deeply and seemed to grow calmer; his eyes raised, +taking his captor's measure. He noted with satisfaction that he was +almost a head taller than Tish. Even then he found the time to wonder +how he had managed to get on the force. + +Tish did not rush his man. "Take your time," he encouraged. "No hurry; +spill it when you're ready." + +Eighth Avenue Annie edged to the door from the hall, peering inside +with a horrible leer, as she considered that this man whom she had +befriended--for pay, of course--was going to be a yellow skunk and +"cough up." He would probably squeal on her, too; tangle her up in +his own net of trouble. That was the way with some of these rats; +they couldn't stand the gaff and wouldn't protect their friends. She +muttered something that sounded like "scum." + +Little did Annie know what was going on in Don Haskins' mind. Don had +never been a swift thinker, and hard drinking of bootleg whisky hadn't +added to his nimbleness of wit, but his brain was traveling in high +now. He knew that it wouldn't do him any good to conceal his identity; +lie as he would, there would be plenty of cops down at headquarters to +remember him. More than that, his picture was in the rogues' gallery, +his finger prints on file. But he didn't propose to make that trip down +to headquarters. Desperation made him resourceful. + +"My name is Haskins," he muttered. "They used to call me Nifty Don in +the old days, but you ain't got nothin' on me. On the level, you ain't +got nothin' on me." + +Sergeant Tish frowned for a moment and then a look of delight spread +over his round, fat face. "Guess again, Haskins. There's a general +order out for you. You're wanted for a croak out in the Bronx; I forget +the details, but you're wanted all right. Yeah, I'll say you are." + +Don groaned. He had been right in his fears; Dago Mike had squealed. +The handcuffed man got to his feet; his shoulders heaved, as he inhaled +deeply on the now half-consumed cigarette. He filled his lungs to every +cubic inch of their capacity. He took a step toward the detective and, +opening his mouth, expelled a cloud of smoke directly into Tish's face. + +Sergeant Tish, half blinded, was taken totally by surprise; he +staggered back and made a motion toward his gun, but he was not quick +enough. The prisoner's manacled arms flashed upward and downward, the +metal wristlets catching the detective a stunning blow on the side of +the head. The latter's knees sagged, but he continued to fumble for his +gun, when Haskins struck again, and this time the plain-clothes man +crumpled up on the floor, blood gushing from the edge of his scalp. + +"My Gawd!" whispered Eighth Avenue Annie. + +For the moment Haskins ignored her, as he knelt beside the form of his +captor and took the police regulation automatic; then he began frisking +the man for the handcuff keys. + +"Here," he said harshly to the old hag, "get these cursed things off of +me. Hurry!" + +"You'se ain't croaked 'im?" gulped Annie, her eyes bulging. + +"Naw," grunted Don. "Use that key, or I'll give you a dose of the same. +I ought to, anyhow, you dirty double crosser. Tipped the cops off, +didn'tcha?" + +"He seen me buyin' the clothes; he follered me. See? I didn't have no +chance to give you warnin'. Nice fix you got me into, brainin' a dick +in my place. They'll send me away for this." She worked the key in the +lock, and the handcuffs came free. + +"I hope you get ten years," Haskins said viciously. "Gimme them +clothes." A moment later he was changing in trembling haste, shedding +the disreputable suit for the more respectable garments that Annie had +purchased at Abramson's. His fingers were shaking, and he steadied his +nerves with a drink from the bottle which rested beside the bed. + +Eighth Avenue Annie was twisting her grimy old hands in an anguish +of terror. She knew the aftermath of this, and the revenge of the +outwitted detective was not a pleasant thing to consider. Had she +dared she would have tried to square herself by preventing Haskins' +escape, by sending out an alarm, but Haskins was armed and at her first +move would perhaps kill her. She flattened against the wall, sobbing +hoarsely in self-pity, cursing the man who had sent Haskins to her for +protection. + +In his haste Haskins forgot something very important; he forgot that +beneath the dirty mattress was the forty dollars that remained of +the one hundred and ninety dollars Helen Gilmore had given him the +previous afternoon. He didn't think of it until he had dashed down +the two flights of stairs and had reached the street. As he realized +this amazing oversight and turned back, he saw Annie sneaking out of +the vestibule, running. He knew. She was calling the cops, trying to +square herself. He didn't dare go back for the money. He wheeled in the +opposite direction, walking swiftly. + +Flight without a dollar in pocket is a problem, but desperation has +cut many a Gordian knot. Eighth Avenue is not a well-lighted street, +and darkness had settled down over the city. A taxi nosed through the +gloom, and after but a moment of hesitation Haskins hailed it; the +question of fare did not bother him--not with that automatic in his +pocket. The taxi drew up alongside the curb; it was a nice new taxi, +with a shining, spotless coat of blue paint. + +"I wanna get to Yonkers in a hurry," said Don briskly. "Gotta +important date out there. How quick can y'make it?" Yonkers was the +river-bordered town which joined the New York city limits on the north. + +"Hour and a quarter," answered the driver, giving Haskins a sizing-up +look. + +"O. K.," grunted Haskins. "Let's travel; go down Riverside Drive all +the way." He climbed inside, and they were off. + +Don had a particular reason for choosing the Riverside Drive route. +Past One Hundred and Eightieth Street the Drive winds between the river +and high-towering bluffs, with no houses on either side. He desired a +quiet place for settling the matter of the fare. They had reached the +spot which is called Inspiration Point, when the fleeing passenger +rapped on the glass which separated him from the chauffeur's seat. + +"Stop 'er!" he shouted. + +The car ground to a halt, and Haskins leaped out, cursing volubly. + +"Lost ring--diamond ring--slipped right off my finger. That rock cost +me eight hundred bucks," was the excuse he gave. + +The driver stared suspiciously, for his fare did not look like a man +who would own an eight-hundred-dollar diamond ring. + +"Aw, watcha handin' me?" he growled skeptically. + +Haskins looked up and down the Drive. The nearest car was some distance +away. His hand slipped to his pocket for the automatic he had taken +from Sergeant Tish. At the same instant he sprang forward. He did not +shoot, but brought the butt of the weapon down in a vicious swing on +the fellow's head. With a grunting, choking groan the latter collapsed +into black unconsciousness, still sitting at the wheel. + +The approaching car swept past; another followed; and neither paused +their swift progress. There was no reason why they should have noticed +anything. Don Haskins lifted out the limp form and carried it well +back to the side of the road, where he quickly rifled the senseless +man's pockets, taking nineteen dollars and thirty-five cents in cash, +a good watch, and the driving license. Then he donned the chauffeur's +cap and climbed into the taxi; an instant later he was speeding on +northward--alone. He was headed for the one place where he was sure +that he would find money and protection--Greenacres. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII + + CAUGHT IN THE WEB + + +The wife of Kirklan Gilmore was not literary, had not even any +tendencies in that direction; no literary qualifications had been +required for her employment as a typist in Atchinson's publishing +house. Her reading had been superficial, shallow, but she had an +adaptable mind and was constantly picking up surface things, chance +clever little quips and quotations, which, if she were not put to a +severe test, might pass for an acquaintance with the classics. + +When, overwhelmed by the appearance of Victor Sarbella as her husband's +guest, she had fled to her room, it was with the realization that still +another specter of the past had appeared to haunt and undo her. And +there flashed through her mind a fragment of an old quotation: + + Oh, what a tangled web we weave, + When first we practice to deceive. + +Yes, what a tangled web she had woven--inextricably enmeshed in the +snarled skeins of her ambitious folly. How circumstances had conspired +against her. + +"What a fool I was to think I could get by with it!" she whispered +bitterly. "How will it end? It was bad enough without Sarbella. +Him--him! It was like a ghost from the grave. He will tell my husband; +of course he will tell him--he could want no better revenge than that. +That look in his eyes--how he hates me!" + +She began to think of flight, even made a half-hearted, indecisive +move to gather up some of her things, but there was no train now until +morning, and the thought of driving the car, novice at the wheel that +she was, through the dark night terrified her. Besides which the car +was probably in the garage, locked; and she did not have the key. There +seemed nothing to do but wait. + +Helen would have been a very blind person indeed had she not realized +that Kirklan had sensed something amiss in the amazing meeting between +her and Sarbella; and, as time dragged on--eight o'clock, nine, and +then ten--she wondered why her husband had not come raging upstairs to +fling the past accusingly into her face, to order her out of the house, +perhaps to kill her! + +"Surely he would come if he knew," she told herself. "Hasn't +Sarbella told him? Why, he--he must have told him!" It was past her +understanding. + +Wearily she went to her dressing table, removed the dress she had +worn at dinner, slipped into a flowing-sleeved dressing gown that was +charmingly open at the throat, and began to let down her glorious +bronze hair which cascaded over her shoulders. + +Detached as Greenacres was, the house was very still, so still that +the many sounds which always fill a country night, floated through the +window, magnified by her taut, tortured nerves to crescendo volume. + +"Something has got to happen. Why can't it happen now and be over +with!" she moaned. "The suspense, this awful suspense! I can't stand +it--I can't!" + +Nervously she went to the window, and, pushing aside the curtains, +leaned out, staring into the night. The future, her future, was like +that--black, impenetrable, void, and she felt that there could never be +any dawn--not for her. + +"My life's been nothing but tragedy," she told herself bitterly. "I +thought I might be happy and respectable. There's a curse on me; that's +what it is, a curse. I'd be better off dead, but--I don't want to die." + +Helen, staring off into black space, did not see the skulking form that +moved stealthily through the shrubbery, circling uneasily, furtively +about the house. The slinking man stared upward at the lighted window, +stopped, as she leaned out across the sill, framed in the open space by +the light which burned within the room behind her. + +"It's her!" he grunted, but, as he crept forward, intending to call +softly, she disappeared. + +Don Haskins had deserted the stolen taxicab two miles down the road; by +cautious questioning he had learned the location of Greenacres and had +walked the rest of the way, and here he was. It had been a troubling +problem as to how he would get in touch with Helen. He had thought of +going into the village and calling her on the telephone, but there were +objections to this plan. In the first place he did not want to risk +an appearance in the village; added to that, it might be bad business +calling her to the phone so late at night. It had been his tentative +idea to find a hiding place on the spacious estate until he could get +in touch with her. Already he had considered the stable as a likely +place for his purpose. + +"That's her room," he told himself, still looking up at the lighted +window. "Now, if she was alone----" He crept closer to the house the +better to study the situation, and he found it very much to his liking. +The window of Helen's room opened out on the roof of the veranda which +semicircled the house on two sides. + +It might be risky business, but a desperate man, the prospect of the +death chair looking him in the face, does not stop to weigh such minor +risks as this. He reached an almost instant decision. He sat down in +the grass and removed his shoes; tying the laces together, he swung +them about his neck. + +"I never done no porch climbin'," he muttered, "but it don't look so +hard." + +But it was hard, much harder than he had anticipated; the porch post +was large of circumference, making it difficult to hug his arms about +it with a freezing grip. Several times he slid pantingly down just as +his straining fingers were within a few inches of the raised awning. +The perspiration poured from his body and moistened the palms of his +hands, so that he had to keep wiping them dry. + +In one last desperate effort he got hold of the awning's edge and +began to pull himself upward to the cornice. The triumph, however, was +far from noiseless; awning hooks snapped loose from the wood, and the +awning itself tore with a ripping sound under the strain. + +Panting, breathless, exhausted, Haskins lay flat on the roof, waiting +to see if the sounds would arouse the house. He marked the time by +counting, one to sixty, one to sixty, until four minutes had dragged +past. Not even Helen, within the room of the open window directly +above, seemed to have heard. + +Haskins began edging himself, a few inches at a time, across the +shingles toward the patch of light that streamed out across the roof. +Presently he had reached the sill and, drawing himself up, peered +within. + +Helen was again at the dressing table, mechanically applying bedtime +cosmetics. Otherwise the room was empty; Don made sure of that before +he pulled himself still further forward. + +"Sh!" he hissed. "It's me--Don. Douse the glim!" + +Helen Gilmore did not turn; there was no need. Through the +dressing-table mirror she could see his unshaven face at the corner of +the window sill. Her hand clapped to her mouth to stem the scream which +rose in her throat. Her body rocked in the low-backed chair, but she +did not faint. + +"Douse the light!" Haskins commanded again in a piercing whisper. +"Somebody might see me sneakin' in." + +Helen stumbled unsteadily to her feet and snapped out the lights. In +the darkness she heard him floundering through the window and into the +room, heard the curtains rip, when he caught at them, evidently to keep +his balance, as he lunged forward. She even heard his panting breath, +as it wheezed through his mouth. + +Don turned, lowered the sash, and drew down the blind. "Lock the door +an' then flash on the lights again," he ordered tensely. + +"The door is already locked," answered Helen, as she fumbled for the +light switch. The next instant they were blinking at each other; she +leaning limply against the wall, he standing in the center of the +floor. "My God, Don, what made you come here--to-night of all nights? I +can't stand any more; I can't. You gave me until to-morrow----" + +"Blame the damn cops," he grunted. "It was them did it--them an' Eighth +Avenue Annie. She sicked 'em onto me." He still believed that the old +hag had double crossed him. + +"You mean----" + +"Yeah, they're after me. I'm in for it right. They had the darbies on +me, but I beaned the dick that nabbed me, got 'em off, took his gat, +swiped a taxi, an' here I am. My hunch was right. Dago Mike squealed on +the loft-job croak." + +"How did you--find me--this room?" gasped Helen. + +Despite the desperation of the situation, Don Haskins grinned a little. + +"Seen you when you poked your head outta the window; shinned up the +porch, an' here I am." + +"I--I haven't got the money, Don; I haven't got it--yet." + +"But you're gonna get it to-morrow? I betcha y'are." His tone was +menacing. "You gotta hide me somewheres until----Mebbe you can drive me +somewheres in a car. Boston, huh?" + +Helen lifted her hands in a weary gesture. "Everything seems to be +happening at once," she whispered. "I--I don't know if I am going to +be able to get the money or not--now." + +The man glowered menacingly. "Don'tcha try to pull no stall on me; that +stuff don't go. Understand?" + +"Don, listen. My husband was on the same street yesterday when--when I +went to that place to see you. His publisher saw me--the man I used to +work for." + +"Aw, say; you don't expect me to swallow no guff like that?" + +"Sh! Not so loud, Don. It's true. Atchinson saw me. Kirklan didn't +believe it at first, but now he feels sure it's true. At first he'd +promised me the money. I told him that I wanted to pay an old bill, but +I don't know what he is going to do now. Then"--a shudder went through +her--"to make it all worse, a man came to the house to-night, a Mr. +Sarbella. He----" + +Haskins lifted his hand to his unshaven chin and stared at her +dubiously. "Sarbella? I guess you're bats, ain'tcha? Why, that guy's +dead!" + +"Not--not Andrea," choked Helen. "Victor Sarbella. At first I +thought--they look so much alike. He recognized me. Oh, the awful look +of hatred that he gave me!" + +"You mean that Sarbella spilled to Gilmore?" + +"I--I don't know. I haven't seen any one since dinner. I--I suppose he +did. He hates me, and he wants revenge. The newspapers said----" + +"That he was gonna get you," finished Don. "Yeah, I remember readin' +that. The papers made quite a piece about it--Eyetalian revenge an' +that sort of spiel. I guess you're some scared that the Sarbella guy's +gonna croak you, huh? Right here in the house, is he?" + +Helen nodded. "Yes, right here in the house," she answered. + +Don whistled softly. "Well, if that ain't the cat's eyebrows!" he +murmured, as he stared at her suspiciously. If what she told him was +true, he probably had lost the club he had been holding over her head +to extort money from her. But he doubted if it were true; Helen, he +told himself, was clever. Perhaps she hadn't found it easy to get the +thousand dollars blackmail money from her husband, and she had made up +this story as a pure bluff. + +"Where's the Gilmore guy?" he demanded. + +"I don't know. I told you that I hadn't seen any one since dinner. I +can't understand why Kirklan hasn't come to me, if Sarbella has told +him." + +Haskins pursed his lips thoughtfully and wrinkled his shallow forehead; +after a moment he nodded. "I gotcha; if Gilmore had the low-down on you +he'd have come stormin' in here to have it out with you. Sure he would. +No, I guess Sarbella ain't spilled to him. I guess that ain't his way +of gettin' even with you. Stiletto! That's the way them Eyetalians do +it." + +Helen gasped; she hadn't thought of that possibility. She was inclined +to treat the suggestion lightly, but there came back to her the memory +of Victor Sarbella's black eyes flaming into her face, hot with a +stored-up hatred, and she shivered. + +"Oh, I--I don't think he would kill me!" she gasped. + +"Then you don't know them Eyetalians," Don grunted sagely. "They sure +is strong on the revenge stuff. If I was you I'd keep right here in +this room, while he was on the premises. But that's your trouble, and I +got troubles of my own. When do I get that thousand bucks you was gonna +hand over?" + +"But if Sarbella has told Kirklan who I am, what I was before----" + +"Then you figger to pass me up, huh? Guess again. Even if Sarbella +does, Gilmore won't squeal to the cops; a guy like him don't want +no family scandal, see! Mebbe he'll show you the gate, but he ain't +gonna send you up the river--not if he's crazy about you like you said +yesterday. But me, that's different. You done me dirty; you throwed me +over, made a bum outta me." His face contorted unpleasantly. "I owe you +one, I do, an' I'm handin' you this on the level; if I get nabbed this +trip I'm goin' to spill. I'm gonna send for the district attorney an' +tell him----" + +"I'll try to get the money for you, Don; I'll try my best," broke in +Helen with a quick promise. + +Don glared at her triumphantly, as he reached into his pocket for one +of the cigarettes that he had taken from the unconscious taxi driver, +lighted it, and, puffing slowly, began rocking to and fro on his +feet. A silly smile spread over his face, as glancing down, he saw a +bare toe protruding from one sock, where a hole had been rubbed by +friction against the porch post in his climb of a few minutes before. +He remembered that his shoes still swung from around his neck. With a +chagrined exclamation he untied the laces and put the shoes on. Helen +did not smile. + +"Yes," she said again, "I'll try to get the money for you to-morrow." +Her hands went out in a nervous gesture, and Don caught the sparkle of +a diamond on her finger. She had not worn it on her visit to Eighth +Avenue Annie's--for good reasons. Haskins stared at the ring and put a +hasty appraisal of four or five hundred dollars on it. + +"I'll take that for security," he said, pointing. She drew back against +the wall in a move of refusal, and Don, eyes narrowed, darted toward +her. + +"Aw, I guess you will," he growled. + +But, when his fingers touched the smooth, white skin of her arm and +seized her in an effort to force the diamond from her, a change came +over him. A fierce return of his old love for her swept through him. +All his hate melted, like ice returned to its first form of water. His +arm tightened about her, drawing closer; his unshaven, stubbly chin +buried against her throat. + +"The law says you're mine!" he panted. "You're my wife. I--I guess I +ain't stopped bein' crazy about you even--even when I was wantin' to +kill you--wantin' to choke the life outta you like--like this." + +The fingers of one hand raised before her face, writhing, twisting, +like tentacles; they neared her soft throat, toyed against the skin. +Helen dared not scream, but she struggled in silent terror. Her arms +flailed against his sides, and her hand struck against the bulky +automatic in his coat. Her fingers slipped swiftly into his pocket and +seized the butt of the gun. + +"You ain't this guy's wife," he went on hoarsely. "You're my wife; +the law says so, and you're goin' with me." He was so beside himself +that he did not feel the tug of the pistol, as it came free from his +pocket. And then there crashed through the stillness of the house the +slam of a closing door. Don's arms dropped limp. + +"What was that?" he whispered, returning to the realization that he was +a hunted man, fleeing for his life. + +"I think it's Kirklan," she whispered. "His room adjoins this one. Sh! +He'll hear you." + +Haskins took a flying leap across the room and switched off the lights; +his hand went to his pocket. + +"The gat--it's gone!" he muttered under his breath. "It musta dropped +outta my pocket when I was climbin' up the porch." He groped through +the darkness. "Helen!" + +"Sh!" + +"You gotta stash me away somewheres. If I get nabbed, what I said +goes--I spill what I know." + +Helen in the darkness concealed the automatic beneath the flowing +sleeve of her robe. With the gun she was no longer afraid of Don, but +she still did fear his threats, his power to send her to Auburn prison +on a charge of bigamy. A moment before he had loved her madly; the next +he might hate her again with just as much intensity. She had to aid +him--protect him. + +"I'll hide you," she told him, "on the third floor--an old storeroom. +No one ever goes there. I'll bring you food. I'll try to get you the +money; I'll get you money--somehow. I'll see that you get away. Follow +me." + +Cautiously she opened the door. The hallway was in friendly darkness. +She groped along the wall, fearful that Don would betray their +presence, but he followed her in stealthy silence. + +The third-floor stairway was inclosed, and it was reached through a +door which, since the third floor was seldom used, creaked dismally, as +she swung it open. + +"Up there!" she whispered. "The last door at the left; you'll know it. +It's a storeroom. I'll see you--some time to-morrow." + +The door closed again whiningly, inclosing Don Haskins within the +stairway. He considered it safe to light a match and did so to +illuminate the upward climb. He saw accumulated dust, evidence of +disuse; Greenacres servants were not good housekeepers above the second +floor, it seemed. Without any difficulty he found the storeroom and, +striking another match, discovered that a kindly circumstance had +left a discarded couch for him to rest upon. He sat down on the edge +of it and felt in his pocket for his package of cigarettes, and then +something dawned upon him. The gun had been in his pocket after he had +got inside the house; he remembered the touch of it, as he had sought +out a cigarette. + +"Curse her!" he gritted. "She took that gat outta my pocket. What did +she want with it, anyhow? I got a good notion to go back down there +an'----" He lighted a fag and smoked nervously, indecisively. He wanted +his gun. A desperate man feels safer with something to shoot with, but +he could not quite make up his mind to risk a return to the second +floor. + +Helen had returned to her room without detection. She switched on the +lights again, but in her agitation forgot to lock the door behind her. +Stunned, nervously exhausted by this new-conspiring circumstance, the +appearance of Don, she sank down into a chair, and, as her arms dropped +listlessly down, the gun which a few brief hours before had been the +property of Detective Sergeant John Henry Tish of the New York police +department slid down to the rug with a faint thud and lay at her feet. +She made no move to pick it up. + +She faced the door, her eyes fixed vacantly upon nothing; hopelessness +engulfed her. Don--her legal husband--here. Sarbella here, too. Both of +them here with her under the same roof. No wonder that she was stunned, +dazed; at times she felt that she must be in the midst of a terrible +nightmare, that she would wake up with the grateful realization that it +wasn't true. + +For perhaps ten minutes she sat motionless, surrendering any attempt to +think coherently. Suddenly her lax nerves snapped taut, a gasp escaped +her lips, her eyes widened. There had been no sound of a footstep in +the hall, there had been no rap at the door, but the knob was turning +slowly, silently, and the door began to move. + + + + + CHAPTER IX + + THE OPEN DOOR + + +The butler at Greenacres occupied a small room on the ground floor near +the kitchen. He had been asleep for some time when the ringing of the +doorbell sounded, a loud jangling in the night's stillness; he stirred, +muttered grumblingly, and was about to tell himself that it must be a +mistake, when the ring was insistently repeated. + +"There ought to be a law against it," he declared, as he slid his thin +old legs out from beneath the sheets, and, not more than partly awake, +fumbled groggily for the light. The clock on the bureau told him that +it was half an hour past midnight. "Fine time of night for people to +go around ringing bells at respectable houses!" Again the bell started +its clatter. "Maybe it's an automobile accident out on the road," he +said, but he did not hurry. Bates was not the hurrying kind. He reached +under the pillow for his false teeth, clicked them into his toothless +gums, and then began to pull his trousers on over the old-fashioned +nightshirt that flapped about his skinny legs. + +Still grumbling under his breath, he shambled down the hall, switched +on another light, and went to the front door, making sure that the +safety chain was in place before he opened it. Bates did not have good +eyesight even in the daytime, and at night he was little better than +blind; squintingly he stared through the narrow crack at the form of +the man out on the porch. + +"What's wanted?" he snapped complainingly. + +"It's me, Bates," came the answer. + +"Heaven bless us, it's Mr. Kirklan!" gasped the butler, making haste +to unfasten the chain and admit the master of Greenacres. "Was it you, +sir, doing all that ringing?" + +Kirklan Gilmore, still wearing his disheveled dinner coat, entered the +house with a slow, dragging step. His face, as it had been all day, was +haggard and drawn. + +"Yes, I rang," he answered; "sorry to rout you out of bed, but I must +have forgotten my keys when I dressed for dinner. It was the only way I +could get in, and I didn't want to spend the night in the studio." + +"Oh, certainly not, sir," Bates agreed hastily. "You mustn't think I am +objecting to getting up to let you in. It's quite all right, sir--quite +all right. But you gave me a surprise; I thought you were in bed hours +ago. Have you been at your writing so late?" As an author, Kirklan +Gilmore was one of those methodical fellows who worked just so many +hours a day, usually eight, and at the most ten. + +He laughed mirthlessly. "Writing? Man, I can't think, much less write." + +"You are ill, sir," Bates murmured solicitously. "I noticed at dinner +that you did not look well. I thought----" He broke off abruptly, +realizing that thinking, especially as regards family affairs, was not +one of his offices as butler. + +"You thought--what?" + +"Er--nothing, sir; I beg your pardon very humbly. Is there anything I +can do for you before you turn in?" + +Kirklan Gilmore's lips twitched. + +"Thanks for offering, Bates; as a matter of fact, I was thinking of +asking you to make me one of those old-fashioned toddies that you once +were so good at in my father's day. With a dash of stomach bitters in +it, you know. My nerves are all shot to pieces, Bates. You can see +that; probably liquor won't do any good, but perhaps a good, long drink +will help me get to sleep." + +Bates' head wagged approvingly on its slender neck. + +"Your father, Mr. Kirklan, always found them beneficial after a hard +day at court. I remember one time when----But I mustn't be gabbing, +when your nerves are jumping like that. I'll mix the toddy for you +right off, sir." + +"And I'll go with you," said Gilmore. "You know, as many of 'em as I've +had, I don't think I ever saw you make one." + +"There's a bit of a trick to it," Bates admitted modestly and shuffled +toward the rear of the house, Gilmore at his slippered heels. A moment +later the butler was performing a service for the author that, in the +old days, he had performed many times for Kirklan's father. Kirklan +wasn't so fond of liquor as his father had been. + +"A full measure of orange juice--like this," Bates was saying. "Two +squares of sugar and----" He droned on, illustrating his formula, as +Gilmore watched him dully. + +"Take one for yourself, Bates," he invited; but the butler shook his +head. + +"They say it's a poor doctor that won't take his own prescription, sir; +but it would upset me at this time of night. Thank you just the same, +sir. Ah, there you are." He handed Gilmore the glass, the square of ice +clinking, and the latter accepted it, sipping slowly. He did not gulp +it down hastily, as Bates had expected. + +"Is Sarbella still here?" + +The butler looked bewildered. + +"Is he still here, sir? Why--why certainly, Mr. Kirklan. I took it for +granted that he was down for a considerable stay. He retired to his +room a little more than an hour after dinner." + +Gilmore nodded. + +"Oh, yes, of course," he murmured and took another sip of the +toddy. "But I thought he might have gone. A little something +happened--something that----My God, man, what's that?" + +His body had tensed, and the glass slipped from his fingers, as a look +of horror spread over his face. Loud, shrill, blood-chilling, there +rang through the house a terrified scream--a woman's scream. + +Bang! A sharp, staccato explosion reverberated through the night's +stillness. Bates' thin legs were trembling beneath him, his mouth +sagged open, and his eyes rolled wildly toward the ceiling as, +struggling for utterance, he pointed a shaking hand upward. + +"That was upstairs!" he cried hoarsely. "Something--something terrible +has happened upstairs. It was a shot. And that scream--I swear that it +was Miss Joan's." + +Kirklan Gilmore stood, his muscles rigid, hands clenched at his sides, +gulping hard. + +"Joan's scream?" he muttered. "No, Bates, no! Something tells me, man, +that it was my wife. I tell you it was my wife. Quick, the stairs! I've +got to know what happened; I've got to know. Come!" + +And, although it was Gilmore who urged haste, it was the butler who +took the lead, heading for the stairs with a lame lope. + +"I--I can't understand it, sir," the servant chattered as he went +along. "There's no weapon in the house except your shotgun; and that +report--it wasn't loud enough for a shotgun. It must have been a +pistol; I am sure that it must have been a pistol." + +When they were perhaps halfway up the staircase there came to their +ears, unmistakably clear and permitting no possibility of a mistake, +even in the tenseness of the moment, the sound of a hastily slammed +door. Gilmore stopped dead in his tracks. An opening door, some member +of the household aroused by the scream and the explosion, would have +been perfectly understandable. But a closing door! There was the +suggestion of hasty, headlong flight. Under the circumstances it was a +sinister sound. + +Nearing the top of the stairs, the two men, master and servant, saw a +patch of light rays which came from an open doorway down the hall. + +"That light!" panted Gilmore. "It comes from my wife's room. The door +of her room is open--her light is burning!" + +They had now reached that ominously opened door; it stood ajar for +perhaps ten inches. Gilmore stopped again, the breath wheezing through +his teeth, as if he might have had a presentiment of what he might find +on the other side of that panel. The old butler went on forward, laid +his withered hand upon the knob; but he was unprepared for the sight +which met his eyes. With a gasp of horror he reeled back. + +"You--you were right, sir," he whispered hoarsely. "It is your wife, +and she----Be brave, sir--be brave!" + +Helen Gilmore lay in a half-reclining posture on a wicker couch. +Looking only at her face, one might have thought her sleeping, such was +the repose of her features. But the bosom of her silk robe was stained +crimson. On the floor, beneath the outflung fingers of one hand, there +was an automatic pistol. + +Gilmore took another brief step forward and over the butler's shoulder +saw his wife, the light from one of the wall brackets flooding across +her beautiful face--still beautiful even now. A shudder shook his +shoulders, as if the hand of some invisible giant had seized him in a +vicious grip. + +"Your wife has killed herself!" cried Bates. "The poor woman has shot +herself!" + +"Is she dead?" Gilmore cried hoarsely. "I can't--I haven't the +strength--the courage to go near her, Bates. Can you tell me if--if my +wife is dead?" + +The butler was trembling in his agitation, but he steeled himself to +the ordeal and forced his unwilling feet forward. Even as he neared +the couch, he thought one last, weak breath escaped the lips of his +master's wife. But he might have been mistaken. His fingers reached +out and touched her cheek. + +"She is still warm," he gulped; "of course she would be--so soon after. +But I think she must be dead. You see, sir, the bleeding has stopped. +I understand that is a sign of death." He shook his head slowly. "Yes, +Mr. Kirklan, I am sure that she is dead." + +Gilmore collapsed into a chair; head lowered, his eyes closed, as if to +blot out the terrible sight in front of him, he began to sob, brokenly, +but without tears. A moment later he checked his grief. + +"You'd better call Doctor Bushnell, Bates," he choked. "There--there +might still be a chance of saving her." + +The butler shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid not, but there is a way +that I've heard the doctors use----" He shambled to Helen's dressing +table where he picked up a silver-backed hand-mirror; then he returned +to the limp form on the couch and held the glass close to her lips. + +"Yes, I know," Gilmore muttered thickly, watching him with a fascinated +stare. "If any breath of life remains, there will be moisture on the +mirror." He leaned forward tensely. "What--what does it show, Bates?" + +The butler inspected it briefly. + +"There is no breathing," he answered; "I was right, sir; your wife is +quite dead. But I will phone for the doctor; that is, I believe, the +customary thing in cases like this." + +As the servant moved toward the door, he paused suddenly, a startled +look coming into his eyes. + +"It is very strange," he muttered; "yes, very strange." + +Gilmore looked at him dully. "What is strange?" he demanded heavily. + +"That--that she should have shot herself with the door standing open, +sir. If you will pardon me, I know that I wouldn't kill myself--with +a door open. I would lock myself in. And"--his voice sank to a tense, +vibrating whisper--"Mr. Kirklan, did you hear a door slamming shut, as +we were coming up the stairs just a moment ago?" + +"I heard a noise, Bates, yes. You are sure, Bates, that it was a +closing door?" + +"Quite sure of it!" cried Bates. "There is something else, too. If she +shot herself, why did she scream? My word, sir, don't you understand? +Your wife has been murdered!" + + + + + CHAPTER X + + COMMON SENSE + + +"Your wife has been murdered sir," repeated the butler, with growing +conviction of his sudden theory. "I am not a detective, but I am sure, +were it suicide, the door here would have been closed--locked. That is +only common sense, Mr. Kirklan." + +Kirklan Gilmore forced his eyes to that lifeless, crimson-stained form +which so recently had been alive, that lovely creature whom he had +married only three weeks before. His face was set in a rigid paralysis +of horror, which did not change even when he turned his head away and +closed his eyes. + +"No, Bates, no!" he cried thickly. "It--it couldn't be. Look! There +is the gun beside her, where it must have dropped from her fingers +after--after she pressed the trigger. Your first impression was the +right one; Helen has killed herself." + +But the butler was not to be shaken. + +"You heard the scream, sir," he argued; "the scream that sounded before +we heard the shot--the scream that I thought was Miss Joan's." + +"What nonsense!" muttered Gilmore, pressing his hands to his temple. "A +scream is a scream, Bates; they all sound alike." + +"Of course I was mistaken," the butler broke in hastily. "I had heard +Miss Joan scream once, the time you were thrown by the horse, and we +all thought you had been killed. It sounded so much like that, sir, I +thought for a moment----But naturally it could not have been Miss Joan." + +"Certainly not," said Gilmore. "Why do you stand there arguing about +it? Go call the doctor, can't you? Tell Doctor Bushnell to come +quickly." + +Yet Bates delayed another moment to press his theory. + +"Do you remember the scream, sir?" he whispered. "There was terror in +it. Not at all the kind of a scream, Mr. Kirklan, that one would give +unless faced with a terrible danger. And people do not scream when they +are about to shoot themselves." + +Gilmore groaned and tossed his hands wildly. + +"Stop it!" he cried hoarsely. "Get out! Do what I tell you--call the +doctor. You're a butler, not a policeman. In Heaven's name, Bates, get +a move on you." + +As the butler shambled into the hall, almost ludicrous in his haste, he +narrowly escaped a collision with Victor Sarbella, who appeared from +out of the darkness, a dressing gown thrown over his pajamas. + +"What's happened?" demanded the guest of Greenacres. "I thought +I heard a shot." His voice was strained, excited; there could be +considered nothing strange in that, for there was certainly the +promise of sinister, tragic things when the after-midnight stillness +of a peaceable country house is shattered by the startling voice of +exploding gunpowder. + +"The younger Mrs. Gilmore is dead, shot--murdered!" panted Bates, and +dashed on past so headlong that it seemed he would surely tumble down +the steps. + +A smothered exclamation broke through Sarbella's lips, and for a brief +moment he did not move, as he stared toward the half-open door in front +of him. His face was set into tense lines. From within he heard the +sound of a groan, and, stepping forward, he saw Kirklan Gilmore, as his +body sagged in a chair, twisting his hands with such intensity that it +seemed he must snap the finger joints. And then the artist saw the dead +woman on the chaise longue. + +"Great Lord, Kirklan----" + +The novelist turned, flinging out an accusing finger in a wild gesture. +"You did this!" he screamed. "You----" + +Sarbella's eyes narrowed, his face hardened. "Be careful what you say, +Gilmore," he broke in. "It is no light thing to accuse a man of murder." + +"I say you did it! Helen has killed herself, and you--you drove her to +it--you drove her to her death." + +Sarbella was naturally bewildered. + +"Your butler says your wife has been murdered; then you accuse me of +it, and now you switch everything around by telling me that she has +killed herself. I don't know what it all means. What _has_ happened?" + +"Bates is an old fool," muttered Gilmore. "Of course she has killed +herself. You see--there is the gun on the floor, where it dropped from +her fingers. Any one can see that it was suicide." + +One might have thought that a look of relief came into the face of the +artist; he nodded his head slowly in agreement. + +"Yes, that's the way it appears; but if that is the case, why is it +that your butler says----" + +"Oh, what's the use of discussing my butler's notions. He seems to +think that he ought to be a detective, that's all. She killed herself, +and"--his voice became edged with bitterness--"it was you who drove her +to do it." + +The artist tossed out his hands in an imploring gesture. "That is +unfair," he protested. "Perhaps her conscience, but am I responsible +for her conscience? Am I responsible for--for her sins?" + +Kirklan Gilmore staggered to his feet. "What do you mean--her sins?" he +cried hoarsely. "Am I never to know the truth about her?" + +Sarbella shook his head. "Not from my lips," he answered; "she is dead. +Let what past there be buried with her. It will be better that way, +Kirklan--better for every one." + +"Who is dead?" came a tremulous question from the hall. The novelist +recognized the voice of Mrs. Gilmore, his stepmother, and leaped +forward to prevent her entrance. He knew, high-strung, nervous woman +that she was, the gruesome sight would be a tremendous, perhaps even +dangerous, shock to her. + +"You--you mustn't come in here, mother. Something--something has +happened to Helen." + +"You mean," gasped Mrs. Gilmore, clutching at the casing of the door +for support, "that she is dead?" + +"Yes, Helen is dead," finished Kirklan. "Go back to your room, please." + +"I was awakened by something. I am not certain just what it was," +whispered the little, gray-haired woman. "And then there was a shot. +You mean, Kirklan, that your wife----" + +The novelist inclined his head. "Helen has--has killed herself. Bates +has gone to telephone Doctor Bushnell; there is nothing you can +do--nothing. Now please return to your room." + +Mrs. Gilmore began to sob wildly, perhaps not so much from grief as +from the hysteria of horror. + +"She has killed herself--suicide! Oh, the disgrace, the scandal of it; +three weeks married and--a suicide. I--I knew that something awful +would happen. It was in the air. I had a presentiment of it at dinner. +All of you acted so strangely, so tragic. Kirklan, what made her do it?" + +"I don't know," he answered thickly. "Perhaps the reason for it died +with her. I--I don't want to talk any more about it, mother; it's all I +can do to hold myself together. Won't you please go back to your room?" + +Mrs. Gilmore, making a move to obey him, released her fingers from the +support of the door casing and staggered; thus, unintentionally, she +reeled just within the door. As she saw the crimson-stained form on the +lounge, a scream tore up through her throat. She swayed dizzily, her +knees crumpled beneath her, and she would have fallen to the floor in a +limp heap, had not Kirklan reached out and caught her in his arms. + +"Sarbella!" he called. "She--has fainted. I knew that would happen +if--if she saw it. Won't you help me with her? I--I suppose we'd better +take her to Joan's room; she can't be left alone in this condition." + +Victor Sarbella rushed forward to lend his assistance, and between +them they supported the limp, gray-haired figure down the hall to the +wing of the house where Joan Sheridan's belongings had been banished by +the coming of Kirklan's bride to Greenacres. This, the room of tragedy, +had been Joan's until the coming of the house's new mistress. + +"You'll find a light button there, near the corner of the turn," +directed Gilmore, and Sarbella fumbled for the switch. "It's the last +door to the right. She--she's heavier than I thought." + +As the two men came to the door that Kirklan had indicated, there +reached both of their ears the muffled sound of sobbing--convulsive, +hysterical sobs. A tremor went through Gilmore. + +Joan's room being somewhat removed from the other part of the house, it +was reasonable that the sound of the shot might not have awakened her, +but, being awake, how could she have failed to hear it? And she was not +asleep! She was awake--weeping! + +Apprehensive terror clutched at Gilmore's heart--the terror of a +sinister something that he could not explain. Was it possible that, +after all, it had been Joan who had screamed? Sarbella, too, looked +startled and darted his host a quick, uneasy, questioning glance. His +arms being occupied, Gilmore kicked his shoe against the foot of the +door, as a substitute for rapping. On the other side of the panel the +choking sobs suddenly ceased. + +"Yes?" + +"It's Kirklan, Joan. Something has happened, and your mother has +fainted. We thought we ought to bring her here to you." + +"Just--just a moment, Kirk," came the tremulous answer, "and I will let +you in." + +There was a brief wait and the sound of running water, as the girl +within the room turned on a faucet. Then the door opened, and Joan +stood before them. Although it was now almost one o'clock in the +morning, she had not taken down her hair for the night; she had, late +as it was, not yet retired. Evidently the sound of running water had +marked her effort to undo the evidence of tears, but her eyes were red +and her face was ghastly! After a first furtive glance her gaze avoided +Gilmore's eyes. + +"You can put her on my bed," she said in a shaking voice, but she did +not ask why her mother had fainted. + +"Something very terrible has happened, Joan," the novelist said +hoarsely. "Didn't you hear it?" He had placed his stepmother on the bed +and mechanically began to rub her wrists. + +"Didn't I hear--what?" Joan asked so faintly that her voice was hardly +audible. + +"The pistol shot--just--just a few minutes ago," answered Gilmore. + +The girl shuddered, her head averted. Her hands were clenched at her +sides, and her lower lip was imprisoned between her teeth, obviously in +an effort to keep it from trembling. She was making a tremendous effort +to keep her self-control. + +"I did not hear a pistol shot," she said, her voice still very low. "I +did not hear any shot. Why do you ask?" + +"Helen has killed herself, Joan; she shot herself with a pistol." + +There was no startled cry of horror from Joan's lips, as she heard what +might have been supposed to be her first news of tragedy. But was it +news to her? There was not so much as an exclamation of surprise, not +so much as a murmured word of sorrow or sympathy. + +Standing a little to one side, Victor Sarbella stared at the girl in +narrow-eyed, intent interest, evidently greatly puzzled by her peculiar +attitude. Joan still said nothing; almost absently she began massaging +her mother's ice-cold fingers. + +"She faints very easily," she murmured. "It is never serious. She will +be all right presently. Mr. Sarbella, will you please dampen a towel +under the cold-water tap?" + +"I had been out at the studio," Gilmore went on, the words tumbling +out jerkily. "I think I must have fallen asleep out there. When I came +to the house I found that I didn't have my keys, and had to ring for +Bates to let me in. My nerves were in a bad way, so I asked Bates to +mix me a toddy, a nightcap. I was drinking it, when both of us--Bates +and I--heard a scream. Right after that there was a shot. Bates and I +rushed upstairs to find Helen dead; that's all I know." + +As his voice trailed off to a dull, lifeless stop, Joan gave a start +and looked up to take the damp towel that Sarbella offered her. She +placed it across her mother's forehead; Mrs. Gilmore stirred under this +application and moaned faintly. + +"I think mother will be all right now," said Joan. "I don't think it +will be necessary for either of you to stay. If I need you I will +call." + +"Bates has telephoned to Doctor Bushnell. I will have him see mother +when he comes, Joan." + +Joan nodded. + +"Perhaps it would be best," she agreed. "She is very high-strung, and +may need an opiate. It was a tremendous shock to her--of course." + +Kirklan began a retreat from the room, and Sarbella, after another +queer glance at Joan, followed. No word was spoken until they had come +to the room of the tragedy. + +"I can't stand to go back in there!" Gilmore cried hoarsely. "It--it's +all that I can do to hold myself together as it is. I think I'll go +downstairs and have another drink." + +Victor Sarbella, frowning so deeply that his eyes seemed to be closed, +put out his hand impulsively. + +"Don't do that, my friend," he murmured; "for your own sake--don't. +Liquor will not help any at a time like this, and it will look bad, +very bad, for you to be under the weather at a time like this." + +The butler came hurrying up the stairs. + +"I have had Doctor Bushnell on the wire, sir," he reported. "He had +just got home from a call, and he says that he will be here as quickly +as the car can bring him--a matter of minutes. It is only two miles +from the village." + +Kirklan Gilmore glanced shudderingly toward the door of his wife's +room. "It doesn't seem right," he muttered, "leaving her in there +alone, but I can't stand to look at her again. I----" + +"There no use torturing yourself," advised Sarbella. "It is quite +certain that she is beyond all human help. There is nothing that can +be done until the doctor comes. Here, man, you're wabbly--all in; sit +down here on the top step. Hold yourself together the best you can, my +friend." + +Kirklan laughed harshly, mirthlessly. "Stop calling me 'my friend,' +Sarbella," he said unsteadily. "I won't have any more of that from you. +If it hadn't been for your coming down here, Helen would----" He broke +off abruptly, as he realized that Bates was within earshot, and that +very little missed the butler. + +Sarbella shrugged his shoulders, but made no verbal response. The house +had become intensely still again. From the foot of the stairs there +was the steady, measured ticking of the tall clock on the first floor, +as the long pendulum moved to and fro. Gilmore sat down on the steps, +shoulders slumping forward, as he laced and unlaced his fingers. + +Why had Joan been sobbing in her room? What was the reason for her +strange behavior? Why had her face been so ghastly pale, even before he +had informed her of Helen's death? + +He pondered this. + +"Listen!" said Bates, breaking the uneasy silence. The other two men +jerked into an attentive attitude. There came to their ears the hum +of a powerful motor. An instant later an automobile horn blasted the +stillness in brief announcement. Doctor Bushnell had arrived. + + + + + CHAPTER XI + + BUSHNELL CALLS THE POLICE + + +The butler hurried stumblingly down the steps to admit Doctor Bushnell, +who had been the Gilmore family physician for almost a dozen years; +he swung open the door, as the doctor was stepping briskly across the +porch. + +"You got here in a hurry, doctor," said Bates. "It happened upstairs. +Mr. Kirklan is up there now--at the top of the steps. She's dead; I +held a mirror to her face and----" + +"Yes, so you told me over the telephone," broke in Doctor Bushnell; he +was a tall, crisp man, with a pair of gray eyes looking out from behind +a pair of rimless spectacles. + +"She----" began Bates again. + +"This is no time for conversation, my good man," the doctor again +interrupted firmly, but not impatiently. "You can talk later." He +started swiftly for the stairs. + +But Bates was not to be shaken off so easily. + +"You didn't give me a chance to finish telling you over the phone," he +said, blocking the way. "Mr. Kirklan says she killed herself, but I +know better. She was murdered." + +Doctor Bushnell abruptly halted. "Murdered?" he repeated. + +"See if you don't bear me out, sir," whispered the butler. "I'm not a +detective, but I've got common sense enough to know----" + +The physician shook loose Bates' fingers. "There'll be time enough for +that, Bates. Just now there's a chance--a bare chance--that you are +mistaken, and that she is still alive. If there is any chance of saving +her, there must be no wasted time." + +Surgical kit swinging at his side, the doctor bounded up the stairs, +two steps at a time. Kirklan Gilmore was waiting just outside the +door of Helen's room. The doctor offered his hand, and they clasped +silently for a brief moment, the grasp of the physician warm-hearted, +sympathetic. + +"Am I too late, Kirklan?" + +The novelist bowed his head. "Yes, Doctor Bushnell, you are too late. +She is dead--I am sure she is dead. She shot herself with a pistol. +She is--there." He pointed to the partly open door. "It--it won't be +necessary for me to--to come in there with you?" + +The doctor gave a pitying glance at the young husband, whose wife had +been taken from him after three weeks of marriage; he saw the haggard, +drawn face, the horror-filled eyes, the twitching lips. + +"It will not be necessary," he answered quietly. "Perhaps you had +better wait downstairs. If I need you I will call." + +"Th-thanks," gulped Gilmore. + +Doctor Bushnell, after a glance at Victor Sarbella, who, of course, was +a stranger, passed on into the room and closed the door behind him. +Being a doctor, he was steeled to death, but he was hardly prepared for +the sight that shocked his eyes. Despite himself, his nerves reacted +with a tingle of horror, and a gasp slipped through his lips. + +Quickly he bent over the still form of the beautiful woman; it was +the first time that he had seen Kirklan's wife, although gossip of +the surprisingly sudden unannounced marriage had reached the near-by +village. Little more than a cursory examination was necessary to +verify the butler's earlier findings. Helen Gilmore was dead; she had +succumbed to that bullet wound which the doctor found in the chest, +just a little below the left armpit. + +"She was murdered!" The butler's statement came back to Doctor Bushnell +with a rush of conviction now. It would have been almost impossible +for such a wound to have been self-inflicted. For the woman to have +shot herself would have meant the holding of the weapon at a decidedly +awkward and unnatural angle. Possible, perhaps, but highly improbable +from a medical viewpoint. + +Doctor Bushnell's face had become grim. Swiftly he unfastened the +surgical kit and found a long, slender probe, with which he might +approximate the direction that the bullet had taken. Ranging downward! +Still further argument against the wound having been self-inflicted. + +"Bates was right!" muttered the physician. "I wonder how he knew." He +stepped back and glanced at the gun on the floor. He had, of course, +noted that the moment he had entered the room, and he took it at the +moment as proof of suicide. The pistol had every appearance of falling +from the hand flung out over the edge of the lounge. + +"Who could have killed her--this beautiful bride of three weeks?" he +said under his breath. As a physician, as a surgeon, he knew the right +thing to do at the right time, but now a feeling of helplessness came +over him. Obviously something had to be done. What? + +As he stood there in the center of the floor, staring down at the dead +woman, debating, there came to his ears the sound of a muffled cough in +the hall. He took a quick step toward the closed door, more than half +suspecting that some one was eavesdropping. + +"Oh, it's you, Bates," he grunted, as he saw the butler. "You might as +well come in; there are some questions I wanted to ask you, anyhow." + +"Yes, sir," murmured Bates, entering the tragedy chamber willingly +enough. "Have you discovered anything, doctor?" + +"Did you examine the body, Bates?" + +The butler shivered. + +"Examine it?" he whispered. "Heaven, no! I held a mirror close to her +face; I touched her with my hand; that is all. Why did you ask me that, +sir?" + +"I wondered what made you so certain that it was murder, Bates, and +whether you had observed the nature of the wound which caused her +death." + +"It wasn't that made me know it was murder; it wasn't anything more +than just common sense. The door into the hall was open when we found +her." + +"The door was open? What significance was there in that?" + +"Would you shoot yourself, sir, with a door standing half open?" + +Doctor Bushnell stared and, after considering this question for a +moment, shook his head. "No," he answered slowly; "since you mention +it, I don't suppose I would." + +"And you wouldn't scream, doctor, while you were getting ready to pull +the trigger," added the deductively inclined butler. + +"You mean----" + +"I mean, sir, that she screamed horribly. Oh, it was a terrible scream, +the kind of a scream that makes a man's blood turn to ice." Bates made +no mention of his first impression that the scream might have been +that of Miss Joan; he had, in his own mind, entirely rejected that +possibility as too absurd for any consideration whatever. "As I take +it, sir, she screamed when she knew that she was about to be murdered." + +"Humph!" murmured Doctor Bushnell. "You've got quicker wits than I'd +given you credit for. You figured that out like--well, like, I imagine, +a trained detective might do it." + +Despite the situation, Bates gave a faint smile of pleasure at this +compliment. + +"I have always read a great many detective stories, sir," he said. +"I've not only read them, I've studied them. I might say that I am +quite a student in a way. Had I not waited so late in life to develop +my mental faculties, I hardly think that I should have remained a +butler. In fact, I am quite sure that I would not." + +"You're a queer fellow," mused the doctor. "What else have you +deducted, Bates? Can you manage your tongue?" + +"Why do you ask that, doctor? If you mean, can I keep from talking too +much, I can be very discreet." + +"All right, Bates; then I'll tell you that you were right. This woman +has been murdered. The nature of the wound verifies your guess." + +Bates looked grieved. "You don't call it guessing?" His tone was +protesting. + +"Well, no, not guessing," Doctor Bushnell answered slowly. "It had +more foundation than a guess. Very logical, Bates, reasoning out that +business about the door. What else can you tell about this business?" + +"Very little, sir, very little, indeed. Mr. Kirklan and I rushed +directly upstairs when the shot was fired and then----" + +"Wait a minute. You rushed upstairs? What time was this?" + +"A few minutes after half past twelve, very shortly before I had you on +the telephone." + +Doctor Bushnell gave the man a quick glance. "You had been in bed, +hadn't you? I judge from your state of dress----" + +"Quite so, doctor; I had retired early. I was sound asleep when I was +awakened by the ringing of the doorbell. It was Mr. Gilmore; he had +locked himself out and was trying to get in. He had been out at the +studio--the old stable, you know, where he does his writing. The poor +man was quite badly upset; he was in a terrible way, and asked me to +make him a toddy." + +The physician looked uneasy. "Good Lord, Bates," he muttered, "you +don't think it possible that Kirklan----" + +"Oh, certainly not, sir," the butler broke in quickly. "It was quite +impossible. I was standing within four feet of him when we both heard +the scream and the shot. The glass dropped out of his hand, and he +stood there like a man of stone, his hands shaking, his face white as +a sheet of paper. He said: 'My God, Bates, what's that?' And while we +were both still listening, there came the shot; it must have followed +the scream by half a minute, perhaps not so long as that. We both +dashed up the stairs, I in front. While we were mounting the steps, +sir, we both heard a sound that seemed to be the slamming of a door." + +"Ah!" exclaimed the doctor. "The slamming of a door? Then you think +that some one in the house----" + +"That would be but guessing, doctor. The door of this room was open, +the light was burning, and I was the first to see her. It seemed +to me--I cannot be sure--that she took her last breath while I was +watching her. The bleeding had stopped. Am I right, doctor, in +supposing that the flow of blood stops when death takes place?" + +Doctor Bushnell nodded. "Yes, when the heart action ceases," he +answered. "What else, Bates?" + +"The gun was just as you see it now, sir. It was only natural that Mr. +Gilmore should be so firm in his belief that she had taken her own +life. He was not even convinced when I mentioned the matter of the door +and the scream. Poor man, he couldn't be expected to do any thinking at +a time like that. He was very much in love with her; he seemed fairly +to worship her. It was too bad that she wasn't the right wife for him. +Miss Joan is the one he should have married; she's only his stepsister, +you know, no blood kin. I guess it nearly broke her heart, poor girl, +when----" + +"What do you mean by saying she wasn't the right wife for him, Bates?" +broke in the doctor, moving toward the bed, where he began removing +a sheet with which to cover the body until an undertaker could be +summoned. + +"She had good looks, but she wasn't his kind," Bates replied. "She'd +managed to climb up in the world--most likely from pretty near the +bottom. A servant can usually tell, sir, from watching them at table, +and a letter came--day before yesterday, I believe it was--a most +disreputable-looking letter it was, sir, to be received at Greenacres, +all smudgy and dirty. It gave her a shock, too, although she tried to +pass it off casual." + +"What the servants don't know!" murmured the doctor under his breath, +and then added, aloud: "You think there may have been some connection +between the letter and the murder?" + +"As to that, I couldn't say, Doctor Bushnell, but she was much +agitated, it seemed to me. I would say that it must have been written +by some very low person, a most peculiar sort of a missive for Mr. +Kirklan's wife to be getting." + +"All these little scraps of information may prove valuable, Bates," the +doctor said meditatively. "You were pretty sharp on naming it murder. +Perhaps you have some theory as to who killed her." + +Bates looked crestfallen; his slender stock of theory was completely +exhausted, and then he brightened. + +"Finger prints!" he exclaimed. "Perhaps the murderer's finger prints +are on the gun." He made a move to pick up the weapon, but the doctor +stopped him with a gesture. + +"Better not," he warned. "I understand it's such a simple matter to +destroy a delicate thing like a finger print. We'd better leave that +for more practiced talents than ours; I'm afraid that all finger prints +look alike to both of us." + +"It wasn't robbery, sir," offered the butler. "She is still wearing +some jewelry." + +"Yes, I'd noticed that. There are no back stairs, Bates?" + +"There are none." + +"In that case, Bates, it hardly seems likely that the slayer could have +fled from the second floor without you or Kirklan seeing him. That +probably means that the murderer is still in the house. That would not +give us a very large list, eh?" + +The butler's eyes widened. + +"You mean, sir," he whispered tensely, "that you think Mr. Sarbella +could----" + +"I mentioned no names, Bates. Sarbella--is that the man I saw in the +hall when I arrived?" + +"Yes, sir, that's him; he's a friend of Mr. Kirklan's, a guest who +came out only this afternoon--yesterday afternoon it is now, speaking +precise. He's some kind of an artist, I believe. I guess he's an +Italian, sir. I don't want to go around accusing any one, Doctor +Bushnell, but----" + +"But what, Bates? This talk is strictly between ourselves." + +"There was a most peculiar attitude at dinner, sir; Mr. Sarbella and +her"--pointing toward the sheet-covered lounge--"did not so much as +speak once, while I was serving. They were all on edge--even Mr. +Kirklan. I didn't understand it; I don't understand it now. After +dinner the younger Mrs. Gilmore went very quickly to her room; she was +pale and nervous. I don't think I know anything more, doctor." + +"Just one more question, Bates. You and Mr. Kirklan were downstairs. +Sarbella was upstairs. Who else?" + +"The elder Mrs. Gilmore, Miss Joan, and her." Again he pointed to the +dead woman. + +"What about the other servants?" + +"Elizabeth, the maid, went to Yonkers yesterday, sir. She pleaded that +her mother was ill, but I doubt it. She don't know what the truth +is, that girl; she's always making excuses, and Mrs. Gilmore is that +soft-hearted she never refuses her." + +"Or doubts her stories," added Doctor Bushnell with a faint smile. "A +most credulous woman, Mrs. Gilmore." + +"Exactly, sir," agreed the butler. "Mrs. Bogart, the cook, does not +sleep at Greenacres; she comes every morning from the village and goes +home again at night. And the gardener isn't employed full time--only +three days a week." + +"To me it looks very much like Mr. Sarbella," murmured the doctor and +glanced around the room. For all that the physician knew there might be +clews within touching distance, but which he, untrained as he was in +such business, would never be able to recognize as clews. + +"I am going to lock this door, Bates," he said. "No one must enter it +without my express permission. I am going downstairs now. I suppose you +might as well go to bed." + +"What's the use?" muttered Bates. "Not a wink of sleep would I get +after this." + +The key was in the lock; Doctor Bushnell removed it and put it in the +outside of the door. Then he turned off the lights, stepped into the +hall, shot the bolt, put the key in his pocket, and went down the +stairs. He found Kirklan Gilmore and Victor Sarbella in the library, +the latter sitting in a chair, puffing nervously at a cigarette, while +the novelist paced back and forth like a caged beast. At the doctor's +step, Gilmore swung around. + +"You found her dead, of course?" he muttered thickly. + +"Yes, Kirklan, I found her beyond all help." Doctor Bushnell gave a +quick glance at Sarbella, who returned it steadily for a moment with +his intense black eyes. "I would like to talk with you, Kirklan, +privately if I may. Suppose we go across the hall into the den." + +Sarbella inhaled deeply at his cigarette and got to his feet. + +"I am going to my room," he announced; "if you need me for anything, +I shall be at your service." He moved perhaps three paces toward the +stairs and then turned; his face was in the shadows, so that it was +impossible to see any expression that may have been on his features, as +he asked: "You discovered that it was self-destruction?" + +"So it would appear," answered the doctor, deliberately indulging in +a deceiving play on words. With suspicion pointing toward Sarbella, +it was perhaps best that the man not know too much--just yet. If the +artist were guilty, there might be something gained by keeping him in +ignorance that the suicide sham had fooled no one. Sarbella moved on up +the stairs; Doctor Bushnell would have given a pretty penny to have +had a good look at his face, wondering if he might not see there a look +of relieved suspense. + +Kirklan Gilmore's hands fidgeted restlessly in his pockets. "You say +that you want to talk with me privately?" + +"Yes, suppose we go into the den." + +"That isn't necessary now, is it? Sarbella has accommodatingly gone +upstairs to his room." + +"The den, if you don't mind," insisted Doctor Bushnell. "I'd prefer +taking no chances of being overheard." + +Gilmore's head jerked up. "I can't understand the reason for all this +secrecy," he muttered; nevertheless he led the way across the hall to +the room known as the den. It had in former days been his father's +favorite room. The physician followed and gently closed the door. + +"Sit down, Kirklan," he murmured. "I dislike to add to your strain, +but there is something that I must tell you. Your wife did not kill +herself." + +The novelist winced. + +"You mean----" + +"Kirklan, it's murder." + +Gilmore staggered and dropped limply into one of the big leather +chairs, face buried in his hands. "But, Doctor Bushnell, it--it can't +be that. There--there was the gun beside her. That is proof----" + +"Only proof of an effort to make murder appear suicide," broke in +the physician. "The nature of the wound is such as to preclude any +reasonable thought of self-infliction." + +"Murder?" Gilmore whispered dully. "Bates was right, after all, then? +I can't understand it. Who would have killed her?" + +"Ah, that is what remains in front of us. I am in a very peculiar +position, Kirklan. I am your family physician, but at the same time I +am a deputy coroner; I accepted the appointment only last month. It is +my official duty to do everything in my power that the law may take its +proper course. I don't suppose you know whom the gun belongs to?" + +"I do not know." + +"It is a heavy gun, Kirklan; not at all the sort of weapon that would +belong to a woman, or that a woman would use if it were left to her own +choice. I have not examined it; I have not so much as touched it. I was +afraid that I might destroy possible finger prints; I thought it best +to wait." + +"Wound or no wound," muttered Gilmore, "I can't believe that it was +murder. Why would any one have killed her?" + +"Kirklan, I am going to put a frank question. How well do you know this +guest of yours, the man Sarbella?" + +"Great Lord, doctor, you don't think that he----" + +"I'm afraid I don't think anything yet. I'm just stabbing around in the +dark. Was Sarbella previously acquainted with your wife?" + +"See here, I don't want any insinuations of that sort." + +"I am not insinuating, only asking a question. Bates thought he noticed +a peculiar, strained situation at the dinner table. Since you and Bates +rushed directly upstairs, and since that is the only means of reaching +the second floor, it seems quite certain that she was killed by some +one who is still in the house. There is no evidence of robbery. There +were but five persons in the house--Sarbella, your stepmother, Joan +Sheridan, Bates, and yourself. Unless we want to suspect Mrs. Gilmore +or Joan----" + +"Oh, that's too absurd for words," broke in Gilmore, making no mention +of having heard Joan's sobbing. + +"And that leaves Sarbella." + +The novelist beat his clenched hands against his knees. "Doctor, I tell +you that you're wrong--wrong!" he cried. "Helen killed herself; there +is no other explanation--none! I must tell you something; my wife asked +me for a thousand dollars. She must have needed it desperately. Because +I did not give it to her----What are you doing with that telephone?" + +Doctor Bushnell had picked up the instrument from the desk and lifted +the receiver from the hook. + +"I am doing what I must do, Kirklan," he answered with quiet firmness. +"I am calling the village police." + + + + + CHAPTER XII + + "WIGGLY" PRICE + + +The local police authority in the village of Ardmore was vested in the +person of Mr. Hamilton Griggs, who held the office of constable, and +whose most important duty was the enforcement of the municipality's +automobile laws. Since the roads were exceptionally good, and since +Constable Griggs received a fee of two dollars and fifty cents for +each arrest resulting in a collected fine, he found the office fairly +lucrative during the touring months. + +Constable Griggs--generally called "Ham" by way of brevity--was a +widower and occupied with his daughter a neat, green-shuttered cottage +on Hudson Street. His police equipment was a high-powered motor cycle, +and his most profitable hours of patrol duty were between nightfall +and a little past twelve, when automobilists were hurrying over the +highways, probably feeling more secure in their breach of law under +cover of darkness. + +It had been a good night for speeders, and "Ham" Griggs was mightily +pleased with himself; an even ten arrests he had made, the fines had +all been paid, and the neat sum of twenty-five dollars in fees reposed +in a trousers pocket of his khaki uniform. At a quarter of one his +motor cycle putt-putted stormily into the yard beside the cottage. He +shut off the engine, locked the ignition, and, going to the rear of the +house, let himself in through the unlocked kitchen door. + +Etta, his daughter, had set out a cold lunch for him, as was her +custom, and the constable lost no time in "falling to." With a chuckle +of satisfaction he took the little wad of crumpled bills from his +pocket and tossed them to the top of the kitchen table, where he might +enjoy the sight of them. + +"Pretty good," he told himself with a grin. "Let 'em speed!" + +There was even further reason for jubilation. During his patrol of the +roads within the village's corporate limits, he had found the deserted +blue taxi, where Don Haskins, fleeing the New York police, had left it +to continue his journey to Greenacres on foot. + +Taking the number, he had reported his find to the New York company +which controlled an entire fleet of like cabs. There ought to be a +ten-spot from the taxi company, the constable told himself. All in all, +it had been a most satisfactory night. + +Ham Griggs was a heavy-set, dull-faced man of forty-odd; he had, +prior to his elevation into public office, been a caretaker for one +of the summer homes which border the Hudson River. Having an appetite +in proportion to his stalwart build, he ate with a gusty heartiness. +When the last chicken bone had been picked clean, he leaned back in +the chair, which creaked protestingly on its two rear, straining legs, +loosened his belt, and took from inside his uniform cap, always the +policeman's cigar cache, a rich-looking Havana which had been the +ineffectual peace offering of a gentleman who had been doing forty +miles per, when Mr. Griggs halted him. + +"Ah!" murmured the constable, puffing deeply. "Betcha this is a +twenty-center--mebbe twenty-five." He removed it from his mouth and +examined the embossed band with utmost respect. "A smoke like this sure +tops off a good feed." + +His coat unbuttoned, his thumbs hooked beneath the straps of his +wide-webbed suspenders, he continued smoking until the electric light +seemed to be swimming in a sea of smoke. And then the telephone rang, +a loud, insistent jangling from the front of the cottage. Ham Griggs' +chair thudded down on all fours with such force that there was the +sound of cracking wood. + +"Now I wonder what that is?" he grunted. Ardmore being a quiet, +law-abiding community, a night call for the constable was highly +unusual. He lumbered hastily to his feet and plunged toward the sitting +room, where the telephone was located. The bell was still ringing when +he took down the receiver. + +"Hello!" he shouted into the transmitter. "Hello there! Dang it, +central, quit ringin' in my ear; you'll bust an eardrum!" Possibly in +retaliation of this impolite tone, the switchboard operator buzzed +again. + +"Constable?" + +"Yeah, this is Ham Griggs." + +"Doctor Bushnell speaking, constable. There's been a tragedy at +Greenacres--the Gilmore place, you know. Can you come at once?" + +"Whatcha mean--tragedy, doc?" + +"There'll be time enough for that when you get here," came the voice of +the village physician. + +"I gotta right to know," grunted Ham Griggs. "Let's have it." His +voice was officially important now. "Y'mean robbery?" + +"Worse than that, constable. Oh, I might as well tell you--Kirklan +Gilmore's wife has been killed. It is--murder." + +"Good Lord, murder!" cried Griggs, his voice rising thunderously loud. +"Who killed her, doc? Who done it?" + +"That's our job, constable, to find out. You'll come right away?" + +"Sure I will. Whatcha think I'm constable for? How--how was she killed?" + +"Shot, Griggs; let's not waste any more time talking now." And at the +other end of the line the receiver clicked, breaking the connection. + +It was not surprising that the persistent ringing of the phone and +Ham Griggs' loud-pitched voice should have aroused the constable's +daughter, Etta. She appeared in the sitting-room doorway, her hair done +up in curlers, her rather plain face a glistening smudge of cold cream. + +"What's happened, fawther?" she demanded, her none-too-plump arms +hugged tight across her flat chest. + +"Ain't I told you to cut out that 'fawther' stuff?" growled Ham Griggs. + +"Yes, fawther, but did you say somebody had been murdered?" + +"That's the size of it," nodded the constable, beginning to button his +coat. "Out to Greenacres--Gilmore's new wife, so Doc Bushnell says." + +"My Gawd!" gasped Etta Griggs, momentarily forgetting her little book, +"Social English." Etta was ambitious for herself; she was engaged in +writing a play, and wished to equip herself to move as one of the +elect in literary circles, when the moment of her great success should +arrive. "The--the author's wife? Why, they ain't--they haven't been +married a month yet! Did he kill her, fawther?" + +Ham Griggs was impatient of questions, eager to be off, but his +daughter barred the sitting room's one door, and he knew that the only +way to pass without absolute violence was to answer her. + +"I don't know nothin' 'bout it," he grunted, "except what the doc told +me, which was precious little. Seems like she's been shot. I dunno who +done it. Now get outta the way, Etta, an' let me get goin'." + +"Chances are he did," mused Etta; "we literati are so temperamental, so +given to quick, strong passions." + +"You just natcherally make me sick!" snorted her father, as he plunged +past her. A moment later she heard his motor cycle bark into life and, +with staccato explosions from the exhaust, race out of the yard and +down the quiet village street. + +Etta's rôle in the Greenacres tragedy was more important than one might +imagine it could be, and for no greater reason than that she aspired to +be a playwright. Her play had reached its fourth and final act; with a +few minor corrections here and there, it was ready for its journey to +New York. She had not the slightest doubt of its immediate acceptance +and production. + +She realized in a vague sort of way the power of the newspapers; +and, little knowing into how many independent departments a great +daily is divided, she was suddenly seized with an idea--a great idea. +The murder of Mrs. Gilmore, she reasoned, was news, stupendous news; +Kirklan Gilmore was a famous novelist. The newspaper which she read +regularly would, as she saw it, naturally feel grateful to her for +giving them firsthand information regarding the tragedy. It would serve +as a pleasant introduction to the editor of that great metropolitan +publication, would tincture the review of her "play" with a personal +kindliness. + +What queer notions people do get into their heads! But the merit of her +idea is neither here nor there; the important thing is that Etta Griggs +did call the office of _The Morning Star_, and she was thus responsible +for the appearance on the scene of a certain news hound named Jimmy +Price, sometimes more intimately known as "Wiggly." + +The news-gathering staff of _The Star_ is a high-pressure, hectic +organization; one would wonder how they could get out an intelligent +paper in the midst of such a mad scramble. It was nearing press time +for the final edition; Scoggins, the city editor, was bellowing at +the top of his nasal voice; the copy desk was railroading a last +batch of late news matter; the assistant make-up man, who is one of +the important gentlemen who keep the type in the right columns, was +screaming frantically about something of which no one except himself +seemed to know anything, and, from the way the office boys were +sliding back and forth across the floor, one might have thought the +city room was the skating rink of an insane asylum. + +And then, with a breathless suddenness--silence! In newspaper parlance, +"the paper had been put to bed." From the street below there sounded +the blump-blump of a flat-wheeled surface car journeying along Park +Row. Scoggins, the city editor, gave a look at his news schedule, +sighed, and jerked off the shade which protected his eyes. + +"There's not a live piece of local news in the whole darn paper!" he +muttered. "Here, Milne, take the desk; I'm going home, and----" He took +a last survey around the long, paper-cluttered city room, and saw Jimmy +Price, who was cognizant that he had incurred the displeasure of the +gods, trying to do a quick sneak out. + +"Hey, you, Price!" he bawled. + +Jimmy Price turned, and it became apparent why he had been saddled with +the nickname of Wiggly. In moments of inner excitement or of strong +emotion, Jimmy's protuberant ears became animate objects. They were +unruly ears, always wiggling when he least wanted them to; it seemed +that Jimmy had absolutely no control over his ears. They were wiggling +now, for their owner sensed what was coming. He turned slowly and +retraced his steps toward the city editor's desk, which was set up on +a platform. The boys called it "the throne," and certainly no monarch +ever held more despotic sway than Caleb Scoggins, the city editor of +_The Star_. + +Scoggins was a good city editor, but he was a man of strong +prejudices, and he was prejudiced against Wiggly's animated ears. +It annoyed him to look down the room and have a perfectly good idea +take sudden flight, as he was forced to stare in fascinated, almost +hypnotized, interest at a pair of ears doing a sort of uncanny dance +on the side of a man's head, while the owner of those remarkable +appendages bent industriously over his typewriter entirely unaware of +his innocent havoc. Bob Roddy, the star rewrite man, that high-salaried +word slinger, whose supple brain and nimble fingers could paint a +column word picture with no more material than a five-line news +bulletin, was, likely as not, to be discovered staring, vacant-eyed, at +"Wiggly" Price, while the desk was waiting for the rest of his story. + +And Jimmy Price was a good reporter, a rattling good one, so good, in +fact, that Scoggins had been at a loss for an excuse to fire him. But +now he had the excuse. + +"Price," he rasped, "you fell down on the Hammerslaw kidnaping case." +His voice had the tone of doom, but Wiggly, except for the renewed +twitching of his ears, moved neither of body nor tongue. He was too +wise to point out that he had registered this one failure to fifty +successes, or to remind Scoggins that no reporter can bat a thousand in +the news-gathering league. + +"Where you belong," went on the city editor with withering sarcasm, +"is in a side-show tent, along with the rest of the freaks, not in a +newspaper office. As a reporter----" He broke off, as the telephone +rang; mechanically he spun half around in his chair and pulled the +instrument toward him. + +"Yeah?" he grunted. + +Etta Griggs had chosen this opportune moment to call. + +"Is this the editor of _The Star_?" came her sweetest, most cultured +tones over the wire. Scoggins admitted it with a grunt. + +"This is Miss Griggs, the playwright, and I am calling to give you a--a +scoop, I believe you call it." + +Had it been a busy hour, Scoggins would have switched the call over to +his assistant; experience had hardened him to persons calling him up to +give him a scoop. Usually they didn't pan out, these scoops. + +"What is it, Miss Griggs?" he inquired with a deference that he never +used toward his staff. + +"It--it's very important news," went on Etta Griggs tremulously, almost +overwhelmed by the realization that she was in conversation with the +great editor of her morning paper. "There has been a murder--a very +prominent family, and I thought you might be interested----" + +"I should say I am!" exclaimed Scoggins, picking up a pencil and +poising it over a sheet of paper. "What did you say the name was?" + +"Miss Griggs. I am----" + +"Not your name--the murdered person's name." + +"Oh, of course! Why, Mrs. Gilmore--the wife of Kirklan Gilmore, the +famous novelist, you know." + +Now, as a matter of fact, Scoggins didn't know; he didn't read the book +reviews, and Gilmore, while he had written a selling book, wasn't +quite so famous as Etta imagined. + +"You say she has been murdered, Miss Griggs?" he purred. "Where did +this happen?" And, waiting for the reply, he put his hand over the +transmitter as he said out of the corner of his mouth to Milne, his +assistant: "Who the devil is Kirklan Gilmore, the novelist? Get the +clippings on him outta the reference room. Picture of his wife, if +there are any. Hurry! We gotta stop the presses and make a lift, if +this pans out." + +"Ardmore--Ardmore-on-the-Hudson," went on Etta. "The Gilmore estate is +Greenacres. She was shot--killed. Poor thing, they'd only been married +three weeks, too." Scoggins' eyebrows went up. In a flash he visualized +the headline, "Bride of Three Weeks Slain." + +There followed a few rapid-fire questions in which the city editor +had all available information. The constable had been summoned--Etta +neglected to state that this constable person was her father--and the +village physician, a Doctor Bushnell, was at the house. + +"Fine!" exclaimed Scoggins with that inhuman delight with which some +city editors receive the news of a crime. "If you will give your name, +I will have the business office send you a check, and then----" + +"Oh, no!" cried Etta. "But I expect that my play will be coming out +soon, and----" + +"Certainly--certainly," Scoggins murmured mechanically and snapped the +receiver to its hook. "She's a nut," he grunted. "Gotta verify this +story before we can use it, but I guess it's safe enough at that. +You, Kinsella, call up the Gilmore place, Ardmore, and ask for Doctor +Bushnell. You, Roddy, bat out a coupla sticks for a lift on page one, +and----" His eyes roved over the now empty city and then back to Wiggly +Price, who had withdrawn a few feet from the desk. In the pressure of +the moment he forgot that he had been about to fire the reporter with +the animated ears; he only remembered that he needed a good reporter +for a good story, and that Jimmy Price was a good reporter. He slid +open a drawer of the desk and tossed over a roll of bills. + +"Here's a hundred dollars for expense money, Price," he snapped +crisply. "Gilmore place, Ardmore. Author's wife--bride three +weeks--murdered. May have to take taxi. Get pictures--lots of pictures. +Gotta hunch this is a good yarn." Wiggly's ears wiggled violently, +probably registering his delight that the catastrophe of being fired +had been so narrowly and unexpectedly averted, but Caleb Scoggins had +turned his vigorous attention to other details of the new story--the +only real piece of local news during the night--and he did not notice. + +Price grabbed up the expense money and left the city room with discreet +swiftness. Less than five minutes later he was in a taxicab, speeding +out Broadway toward Greenacres. + + + + + CHAPTER XIII + + WHAT DID JOAN KNOW? + + +Awaiting the arrival of the constable, Doctor Bushnell was still in the +den of the Greenacres house, while across from him Kirklan Gilmore sat, +like a man dazed, in one of the great leather chairs, staring vacantly +into space. He had not spoken for almost five minutes. + +"So you had to call in the police," he muttered bitterly, breaking the +silence. "They've got to come, snooping through the house, prying into +things, asking questions, badgering, bullying----" + +"You're taking the wrong attitude, Kirklan," the doctor broke in +gently. "I know how you feel, of course; you abhor the legal procedure, +but a crime has been committed, and the law must function. You would +not want your wife's murderer to escape, would you, no matter what the +price?" + +"I can't believe yet, doctor, that it was what you claim--murder," +protested the novelist with a shudder. "Your opinion is based on--just +exactly what?" + +"The nature of the wound, Kirklan. Look, here is my pipe." He produced +from his pocket a straight-stemmed brier, holding it by the bowl. "Let +us suppose that this is the pistol. Your wife is right-handed? Yes, I +supposed as much; imagine any person holding a gun in the right hand +and reaching halfway around their body and shooting themselves under +the left armpit. You can see how absurd that is; even supposing she +might have been left-handed, it is almost as ridiculous." + +Gilmore debated this a moment. + +"I suppose you consider that incontrovertible--medically," he argued, +"but I've got a theory to suggest. I've had to study things a bit along +such lines--the material for my books, you know. My last was a mystery +story." + +"Helen was lying on the lounge. The gun was heavy, hard for a woman to +handle, as you have said. Suppose she used _both_ hands in firing the +pistol; one to support it in range, and the other to press the trigger?" + +Doctor Bushnell toyed with his pipe for a moment; absently he filled it +from a chamois pouch and struck a match. + +"It's possible," he admitted, and then he shook his head, adding, "but +improbable. I did work at Bellevue in New York, while I was at medical +school. Naturally we had some suicide cases. It's a queer thing, but +most of the men shot themselves through the head, while the women aimed +for their heart--perhaps a natural horror of disfiguring their faces. +But, looking back, none of them tried to reach the heart from so far +around at the side. Always in front. Adding weight to the medical +aspect of it, there are those very significant points that Bates +raised. Quite an intelligent fellow, that butler of yours. He's been in +the family a long time, hasn't he?" + +"More than twenty years, I think; he was much attached to my father." + +"It is significant, Kirklan, that you and Bates found the door standing +open. And the scream--ah, there's the big point! Why did she scream? +Not because she had reached a decision to end her life. As I consider +the matter, this man Sarbella----" + +"No!" + +"Is your friendship for him so blind as that, Kirklan? Stop and think +things over, man; on the second floor, when the shot was fired, were +only your stepmother, your stepsister, and Sarbella. It must have been +one of the three; there is no other explanation!" + +As his voice came to a dramatic pause, there was a rap at the door. + +"Doctor Bushnell," came the voice of the butler from the other side of +the panel, "will you answer the telephone? There is a call for you." + +The doctor looked puzzled. "There was no ring," he said. + +"That is an extension," explained Gilmore. "There is no bell in this +room." + +"Oh, I see," murmured the physician, and, leaning across the table, he +pulled the telephone toward him. + +"Yes, Doctor Bushnell speaking," he said. "Who--what? Where did you get +that information?" A pause. "Yes, that is true, but there will be no +further information--positively none. You are quite wasting your time +in pressing these questions." He cut the conversation short by clicking +down the receiver. + +Gilmore lifted his haggard face in a glance of curiosity. "Who was it?" +he wanted to know. + +"_The Star._ It is really quite amazing how quickly the newspapers get +hold of a thing like this. Probably the telephone girl at the village +gave them the tip." + +"The newspapers!" groaned Gilmore. "The scandal they will make of it. +Did--did you tell them that it was murder?" + +The doctor nodded. + +"They were already in possession of that report, and I verified it. +There's no use kicking against the pricks, Kirklan; the best that could +have been done was to keep it out of the papers for a few brief hours. +There will have to be an inquest, you know; that is a public hearing. +It's an ugly situation, but there's no escaping it." + +"Yes, I suppose you're right," muttered the novelist, "but I want it +expressly understood that no reporters are to be admitted to my house." + +"They won't bother you until daylight, I suppose," said Doctor +Bushnell, little thinking that already a madly speeding taxi was +bearing Wiggly Price toward Greenacres. "They'll descend upon you in +droves with morning, and they're a persistent lot, those chaps." + +The two men in the den again lapsed into silence; Gilmore's muscles +twitched spasmodically. It looked as if he were about to crack under +the strain. + +"I think I will give you an opiate of some sort and then get you in +bed," the physician said gently. "You've about gone your limit, I'm +afraid." + +"That reminds me of something," Gilmore told him. "My stepmother +fainted; I promised to send you to her when you came. And as for +my going to bed--my room is next to Helen's. You couldn't expect +me to spend the rest of the night there. But I will let you give me +something, doctor; I feel as if my body were about to separate into +atoms. Yes, give me something that will let me forget--for just a few +hours." + +Doctor Bushnell reached for a compact pocket medicine case and selected +a vial containing some small white pellets. + +"The constable ought to be here any moment now," he said. "Not that +I expect Ham Griggs is going to be of very much help to us; catching +speeders is about the limit of his abilities. But he had to be +notified, and in the morning we'll notify the district attorney's +office. We may get an intelligent investigation from that source. Ah, +that must be Griggs now." + +There had reached his ears the sound of the constable's approaching +motor cycle. + +"I'll have Bates let him in and keep him waiting downstairs until I +have a look at Mrs. Gilmore. One of these pellets, Kirklan, and you'll +be falling asleep in no time." + +The doctor left the den and went upstairs, after pausing in the hall +to instruct Bates that Ham Griggs should wait; passing the tragedy +chamber, he tested the door and found it, as he had left it, locked. +Then he made his way around the hall toward the room which, from +previous professional calls, he knew to be the elder Mrs. Gilmore's. +Kirklan had neglected to tell him that she had been taken to Joan's +part of the house. + +Ahead a gleam of light sliced out into the hall from a half-open door, +the room occupied by Sarbella. The doctor's footsteps were audible, +and the guest of Greenacres appeared at the opening. + +"You were looking for me?" he inquired. + +Doctor Bushnell paused, wondering if Sarbella had left the door open in +an effort to keep in touch with what was going on; a guilty man, it was +reasonable to presume, would be nervously anxious to know the progress +of the investigation, to be forewarned of any suspicion turning in his +direction. + +"No, Mr. Sarbella, I am on my way to Mrs. Gilmore's room. Kirklan has +just told me that she fainted some time since." + +"Oh, but you're in the wrong part of the house, doctor; Gilmore and I +took his stepmother to Miss Sheridan's room." He paused for a moment, +and then added: "It has been a terrible night for all of us." + +"It is a very puzzling business," murmured Doctor Bushnell. + +"Very," nodded Sarbella. + +"How long have you known the--ah--the dead woman?" + +The artist hesitated briefly, and when he did reply gave the shrewd +doctor the impression of carefully chosen words. + +"I met her last evening for the first time," he said. "I had never met +her before." + +"During the dinner," pursued the physician, watching the man's face +closely, "did you notice anything strange?" + +Sarbella shot him a quick glance. "She may have been depressed," +he answered evasively. "Other than that I can tell you +nothing--absolutely nothing. Please do not let me keep you from +attending Mrs. Gilmore." + +The doctor had the baffled feeling that something was being hidden, +that Sarbella knew a great deal more than he was willing to tell. +Yet he felt that this was the wrong time to ply questions, that +he would only muddle things until he was better fortified for a +cross-examination. So he turned and retraced his steps around the hall +to Joan's room. + +Even before he rapped, he heard the sound of moans, punctuated by a +hysterical rambling of speech. His knuckles descended upon the panel, +and Joan promptly admitted him. Mrs. Gilmore tossed upon the bed like a +woman in physical pain. + +"I am glad you have come, Doctor Bushnell," murmured Joan. "Mother is +almost beside herself with the horror of it." + +"Kirklan was so upset that he didn't tell me until just a moment ago. +Your mother fainted, I believe." + +"Yes, she was awakened by the shot and went to investigate. She +saw--her." + +"I knew something was going to happen!" moaned Mrs. Gilmore. "It was in +the air. I felt it--impending disaster. Every one acted so strange." +There she broke off into wild weeping. The doctor reached for Mrs. +Gilmore's wrist and took her pulse. He decided that it was safe enough +to administer a soothing hypodermic. When this had been done, and the +morphia had taken effect, Bushnell turned to Joan. + +"What does she mean by saying that she felt something was going to +happen?" he asked. "Did you notice anything peculiar in the behavior of +Kirklan's wife last night?" + +Joan hesitated, twisting her fingers and biting her lip. "I--I don't +think she was quite herself," she answered, her voice very low. "She +seemed greatly worried." + +"And the guest, Mr. Sarbella?" + +A gasp escaped the girl's lips, as she gave the physician a startled, +wide-eyed stare. "Why--why do you ask about him?" she whispered. + +"Joan, you are holding back something, and you have no right to do +that. This atmosphere of secrecy, concealment--what does it mean? +You are a sensible girl, and I feel that I can tell you something +confidentially. Kirklan's wife did not end her own life." + +Standing near the foot of the bed, one of the girl's hands clutched at +the rail. + +"Kirklan said that--that she had--killed herself. So you think that she +was shot by some one else? What makes you think that?" + +"Without going into the unpleasant details, it would have been +practically impossible for her to have shot herself in such a manner. +And there was her scream. You didn't hear it?" + +Joan's face was white. + +"N-no," she stammered. "I--I did not hear Helen scream." + +"Scream she did--a terrible scream of terror, according to Bates. +Added to that, the door of her room was found open, and--it was Bates +who suggested it--people do not scream when they are about to kill +themselves." + +The girl's lips moved soundlessly as if she were trying to speak but +could not find the words. + +Her eyes refused to meet his, and the physician had a baffled, +apprehensive feeling that she knew something she was very unwilling to +tell. Her attitude was one of terrified concealment. Was she trying to +protect some one? Or was she trying to protect herself? What did Joan +know? + +"But," she said, after this tense pause, "you--you don't think that Mr. +Sarbella----" + +Doctor Bushnell lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "I don't +know what to think," he replied. "From what I have gathered there is +something under the surface and----" + +Before he could complete the sentence Ham Griggs' voice bawled from +down the hall: + +"Hey, doc! Where are you?" + +The constable was not disposed to bide his time downstairs; officially +important, he had brushed the butler aside and mounted the stairs +in search of the physician. Joan drew a breath of relief and Doctor +Bushnell frowned. + +"That's Constable Griggs," he said; "he's looking for me. Isn't there +something you can tell me, Joan, that will throw some light on the +tragedy?" + +"Nothing," she answered faintly, "absolutely nothing. Only--I feel very +positive that Mr. Sarbella did not do it." + +"Doc! Where the thunder are you, anyhow?" Again Ham Griggs' raucous +bellow, edged with impatience, boomed through the upper hall. The +physician turned toward the door, having no choice but to respond. +Joan's attitude troubled him. Why did she express such a positive +conviction of Sarbella's innocence, the most obvious suspect? + +He found Griggs around the turn in the hall, stern and grim. + +"This is a fine howdy-do," Griggs rumbled, "keepin' an officer of the +law coolin' his heels, when there's murder been done, an' there's +a murderer to be put under arrest." His hand moved in his pocket, +jingling a pair of handcuffs. "Who done it, doc?" + +Doctor Bushnell sighed wearily, realizing that the constable was going +to be a difficult person to deal with. There is nothing more trying +than official bigotry. + +"That's the job in front of us--to ferret that out," he answered. + +"Reckon Gilmore----" + +"No, Gilmore was downstairs talking to the butler when the shot was +fired," broke in the doctor. Briefly he related the facts, as he had +found them, but he confined himself strictly to facts, and indulged +in no theories or suspicions; he was afraid to trust Ham Griggs with +theories. + +The constable listened, rocking his heavy body on his heels and +frowning sternly. + +"Hum!" he grunted when the other paused. "Where's the body?" + +"I'll take you there," the latter answered. "I locked the room--didn't +want anything disturbed, of course." He took the key from his pocket +and led the way to the tragedy chamber. + +For all of his outward bluster, Ham Griggs was inwardly nervous and +uncertain, for this was his first murder case. + + + + + CHAPTER XIV + + THE GIRL IN THE SARBELLA CASE + + +As Doctor Bushnell unlocked the door and snapped on the lights, +the constable was close upon his heels, staring at the lounge with +its sheet-shrouded burden. From beneath the edge of the white linen +covering, where it almost touched the floor, was the automatic pistol. + +"Do you know anything about finger prints?" asked the physician. "I +thought there might be finger prints on the grip of the gun; but I +doubt it. The weapon was left behind to give the appearance of suicide; +the murderer, being deliberate as that, would hardly have been fool +enough to leave his signature behind him." + +Ham Griggs neither admitted nor denied knowledge of the finger-print +science; as a matter of fact, he knew precious little about it, but +that did not deter him from stepping promptly forward, with great show +of confidence, and picking the pistol up by the barrel. He did have +gumption enough for that. + +Stepping close to the electric light burning from one of the wall +brackets, he turned the gun slowly, examining the butt plates at +various angles. + +"Gotta have a smooth surface, doc, to get finger prints," he grunted, +tapping the corrugated rubber with his finger. "There ain't any--no, +sir, there just natcherally ain't any." + +Doctor Bushnell nodded. "You're right about that," he agreed. + +"Guess I better keep this for evidence," said Griggs, handling it +gingerly; ignorant of an automatic's mechanism, he did not know just +how easily it might be discharged. + +"Careful there!" warned the doctor. "It's ready for firing; the +explosion, you know, ejects the shell and throws back the plunger for +another shot. There's a safety catch on the side; I'll attend to it for +you." + +Griggs willingly surrendered the gun and glanced around the room. + +"Don't look like there'd been no scuffle," he muttered. "None of the +chairs is turned over, or nothin' like that. Don't seem like there is +any clews." + +Doctor Bushnell handed back the gun. "I understand that there are +always clews, Griggs. No doubt there are plenty of them right here, but +our eyes aren't trained for seeing them. We're just overlooking them, +that's all, and I am afraid that we shall continue to overlook them. +This is a job for a detective--a real detective." + +Ham Griggs looked resentful. + +"Just you hold your horses a little while, doc," he growled. "Gimme a +chance, can't you? You don't expect me to clear this thing up in the +battin' of an eye, do you? Mebbe if I'd been on the ground long as you +have, an' talked to all the folks in the house, like you've done, I'd +have got somewheres by this time." + +"Yes--maybe," murmured Doctor Bushnell. + +"Well, anyhow," retorted the constable, "I allow to ask a heap of +questions. I ain't gonna stand here suckin' my thumb. Where's Gilmore?" + +"I gave him an opiate, Griggs; the poor chap's a nervous +wreck--naturally. Give him a chance to pull himself together. It would +be rank cruelty to subject him to an inquisition until he's had an +opportunity to come out from under the first shock. Remember, he had +been married but a few weeks; a terrible blow, Griggs." + +"Who else did you say was in the house?" + +"Bates, the butler, the elder Mrs. Gilmore, Miss Joan Sheridan, Mrs. +Gilmore's daughter by her first marriage, and a Mr. Sarbella, a +guest from New York. Mrs. Gilmore is in a state bordering on nervous +prostration, and, as her physician, I should certainly refuse to admit +her to be questioned just now." + +"Seems like to me," grunted the constable, suspicion in his voice, +"they don't mebbe want to be questioned. The other three--they got +prostrations, too?" + +"No; there is nothing to prevent your cross-examining the others." + +"The butler feller, you said he was downstairs with Gilmore when the +gun was shot off?" + +"Yes, that's right." + +"An' that the two womenfolks an' this--whatcha say his name is?" + +"Sarbella, Victor Sarbella." + +"Sounds dago. So you say that Sarbella an' the two women was upstairs?" +In his slow-witted, blundering way, Ham Griggs was arriving at the +obvious. "That bein' the case, doc, I guess--hum--I reckon we better +have a look at this Sarbella. I hope you ain't give him no chance to +escape?" + +"I'll call him," responded Doctor Bushnell, "but do you want to +question him here?" + +"Best place I can think of, doc; if he done it he'll kinda give himself +away by bein' in the presence of the victim." + +"Up to date," imparted the physician, "Sarbella thinks we believe she +took her own life." + +"That's good; we'll spring a surprise on 'im. Go get 'im, doc." + +When Bushnell had responded to this command, Ham Griggs stepped to the +lounge and drew back the edge of the sheet, staring at the beautiful +face below him. He was surprised at the woman's beauty. + +"Sure was a swell looker," he said to himself and drew the sheet back +in place. With his stubby, thick fingers clasped behind his back, he +took a turn across the room, so intent with his sluggish thoughts +that he did not notice the trodding of his heavy shoes upon a bit of +dark porcelain that lay upon the rug near the table which stood by +the north wall--a bit of porcelain no larger than a silver dollar. It +splintered beneath his weight, with a faintly crunching sound. In his +preoccupation he did not hear it. + +A moment later Doctor Bushnell had returned with Victor Sarbella. Ham +Griggs turned and stared intently at the guest of Greenacres, who had +himself well under control. + +"The doctor tells me that you wish to see me," murmured Sarbella. "I am +at your service." + +"You betcha I want to see you," grunted the constable, motioning to a +chair that faced the sheet-covered lounge. "What do you know about this +case?" + +Sarbella let himself into the indicated chair, facing the shrouded body +without flinching. "Nothing," he answered steadily. + +Griggs whipped the automatic from his pocket and thrust it before the +man's eyes with what might have been considered an accusing gesture. + +"Ever see this before?" he demanded, and, when Sarbella nodded, he went +on with a triumphant exclamation: "Oh, you admit it, do you?" + +"Yes," answered the artist, "I saw it on the floor, where it must have +fallen from her hand, after she shot herself." + +"She didn't do no such thing," the constable retorted belligerently. +"It was murder." + +Sarbella's head jerked up, and his hands suddenly froze rigidly +about the arms of the chair. Into his intense black eyes there came +a startled, narrow-lidded gleam that Doctor Bushnell, watching him +closely, decided could have been guilt. But he recovered himself +quickly. + +"I don't believe it," he said flatly. "I begin to understand. You are +hinting that I----" + +"Matter of fact, now, ain't this your gun?" broke in Ham Griggs. "No +use lyin'; we can trace it easy enough." + +Sarbella did not become angry; he did not bluster. + +"I do not know what has given you this ridiculous idea," he said +quietly, "but I shall make a statement that, in so far as I am +concerned, covers everything. The gun is not mine; I have never seen +the gun until, aroused by the pistol shot, I saw Gilmore's wife dead. +Never in my life had I ever seen the woman until I was introduced to +her before dinner last evening. It did not for a moment enter my mind +that it was other than suicide. If, as you claim, it is murder, I did +not do it, and I do not know who did, or why. That is all I have to +say." His tone had a firm finality that was discouraging to further +questioning; over the room there fell a silence, a silence so tense and +absorbed that none of the three men heard the automobile that sped into +the Greenacres driveway and came to a halt beneath the portico. + +Constable Griggs reached behind him and drew the sheet from the dead +woman's face. Even the bosom of her crimson-stained silk robe was +exposed to view. But no cry of guilty horror came from Sarbella; in +fact, he seemed a little contemptuous of this dramatic play. His face +was stonily hard. + +Below, the taxicab bearing Wiggly, otherwise Jimmy Price, had arrived +at Greenacres, and Wiggly, bidding the driver wait, leaped across the +porch to the entrance. His finger pressed the bell button with one +brief, curt ring. He waited grimly. + +Now, Wiggly Price was wise in the ways of his craft; he knew that +in a case like this, among such people, a reporter is emphatically +unwelcome. From countless previous experiences he had learned that the +big thing is to keep the door from being slammed in one's face. There +was an old trick that he had used with success before; possibly it was +chicanery, but the good reporter must get the story to hold his job. +There are times when the exigency of the situation demands a blind +eye toward strict ethics, and he knew that, unless he made good on the +Gilmore murder yarn, Scoggins would complete the fatefully interrupted +business of firing him. + +There had been a day when New York newspaper men were given neat +nickeled and numbered badges, issued by the police department to +identify them in getting past the police lines at fires, parades, and +the like. They looked official, these badges, and, although they had +long since been withdrawn by the department, Wiggly Price had retained +his; that word "Police" stamped upon the metal in much larger lettering +than "Press" had more than once been the open sesame for him. + +So when Bates, the Gilmore butler, opened the door in answer to the +ring, Wiggly Price flipped back the lapel of his coat so that the +servant might be misled by the brief flash and glisten of the metal. + +"I'm here on the case," Wiggly announced briskly, knowing full well +that if he revealed his true identity he would get about so far as "I +am a reporter." Then the door would have closed in his face. + +Bates readily admitted him. "Doctor Bushnell is expecting you?" + +Wiggly, having no notion of committing himself, evaded the question. + +"Hum!" he said. "Bad business, I understand. How long since it +happened? I'll hear what you know about it before I see Doctor +Bushnell." + +Thus Bates, who would have let his tongue be cut out before he would +have divulged so much as a grain of information to a reporter, +was misled into telling all he knew. Thinking he was talking to +a detective summoned by the doctor, he pridefully told of his own +deductions of murder; he omitted nothing, and Jimmy Price's animated +ears wiggled delightedly, as he realized how lucky he was. + +"Fine!" he murmured. "You're a pretty good detective yourself. Now just +between us--strictly confidential, y' understand--who do you think +killed her?" + +Bates looked around cautiously, and then lowered his voice to a mere +thread of a whisper. + +"Things began to be queer, sir, after Mr. Sarbella arrived. Mind you, +I don't say that he did it, but----" His voice tailed off meaningly. +Jimmy Price's ears moved rapidly--swift thinking. + +"Sarbella?" he said under his breath. "Sarbella? I've heard that name +somewhere before." And then aloud: "Where is the doctor now?" + +"Upstairs with the constable; I think they are in the room where it +happened. Who shall I tell him is here, sir?" + +"Oh, don't bother about that," Wiggly Price said carelessly. "I'll go +right on up. No, don't bother. Which room?" + +"At the head of the stairs." + +"Gee, but I'm one lucky bird!" chuckled Wiggly, as he hurried up the +steps. "Now what's going to happen? Get pitched out on my ear, most +likely." + +Reaching the top of the stairway, there was no need for him to seek +further directions. The door of the tragedy chamber was not fully +closed, and there came to his ears the voice of Constable Griggs, +badgeringly insistent, as he sought in vain to batter down Victor +Sarbella's brief statement. + +The guest of Greenacres remained calm. "I have told you all that I can +about the case--the murder, as you insist," he was saying. "I have +nothing more to say." + +Wiggly edged closer to the crack of the door, peering within, and saw +the face of the dead woman across which Griggs had not replaced the +sheet. As he stared, his ears began to wiggle violently. Without any +more hesitation he walked into the room. Ham Griggs looked up with a +hostile and questioning frown. + +"Who're you?" he barked. "Where'd you come from?" + +"Price, Price of _The Star_," Wiggly murmured mechanically, as he +continued staring at Helen Gilmore. + +Doctor Bushnell took an angry step forward. "Mr. Gilmore issued +specific instructions that no newspaper men were to be admitted," he +said. "I don't know how you managed to get in, but I know how you're +going to get out." + +"Wait a minute!" muttered the reporter. "I've seen her somewhere. I +never forget faces, and she----Wait a minute, I tell you, and I'll +place her. Let a fellow think, can't you!" He moved a little closer, +staring at the beautiful features. Victor Sarbella had strained forward +in his chair, and there was something so tense in his attitude that +Doctor Bushnell signaled to the constable that the intruding newspaper +man was not to be interfered with for a moment. The constable did not +notice that; he seemed little short of hypnotized by Price's animated +ears. + +"She must have figured in some story that I worked on," went on Jimmy +Price, hardly conscious that he was thinking aloud. "And it must have +been some time ago, or I wouldn't have so much trouble remembering." + +The doctor made a suggestion that bore more fruit than he could have +expected. + +"Take a look at this gentleman," he said, pointing to the artist; "you +don't happen to remember him, I suppose?" + +Jimmy Price shook his head slowly and positively. "I am quite sure," he +answered, "that I have never seen Mr.--Mr.----" + +"Mr. Sarbella," supplied the doctor. + +The effect of that name on Jimmy Price was startling. It seemed that +his ears would surely work themselves loose from the side of his head. + +"Sarbella?" he exclaimed, turning swiftly and looking again at the dead +woman. "Sarbella? Yes, I know her now; she was the girl--the girl in +the Sarbella case!" + +A grunt of elation escaped Constable Griggs, as he stared triumphantly +at the artist; this reporter had supplied the missing link between +the dead woman and the suspect. Victor Sarbella's body stiffened and +relaxed, as his shoulders moved with a sigh of weariness and defeat. +The secret which he had guarded with his silence was out. + + + + + CHAPTER XV + + SARBELLA SPEAKS + + +No longer was Wiggly Price an interloper, an unwelcome intruder facing +eviction; for, instead of asking for facts, he was supplying facts, and +extremely vital facts they seemed to be. Both the constable and Doctor +Bushnell, since the Sarbella case stirred no memories, were both eager +for further enlightenment. + +"Yes," said Wiggly, "I am sure of it now; this woman was the girl in +the Sarbella case. I think I must have written five or six columns +about it; queer that I shouldn't have spotted her the minute I put eyes +on her, but a fellow's memory does slip sometimes. The minute I heard +the name just now it all came back to me with a rush." + +"I knew you was hidin' something," grunted Constable Griggs, fixing +Victor Sarbella with a stern eye. "I had a feelin' that you was lyin' +about never havin' set eyes on 'er until last night. I guess you killed +her, all right--that was the reason you wouldn't talk. Guess you +thought you was pretty slick." He turned to the newspaper man. "I guess +it wasn't nothin' short of Providence that let you get into the house +just now. Queer, ain't it, how things is always turnin' out?" + +"My statement," said Sarbella, his voice husky, "was entirely true. I +had never seen the woman until last night--when my friend introduced +her as--as hees wife. She--she the wife of my good friend!" + +"I guess you think we're a lotta country boobs to swaller a thin yarn +like that. Never seen her before, huh? That's likely--I guess not." + +Doctor Bushnell looked eagerly at Wiggly Price, impatient to hear what +was meant by "the Sarbella case." + +"Let's hear what he's got to say, Griggs," he urged. + +"Sure," nodded Ham Griggs; "talk right up, mister. I guess we're all +wantin' to hear it--except Sarbella. You've put us on a hot trail, all +right, young feller." + +"For all I know," said the reporter, "he may be telling the truth about +never having seen the woman before. It sounds reasonable enough, as you +shall see. + +"The Sarbella case got into the newspapers a little over two years +ago. There was a young chap--handsome kid he was--a violinist. Born in +Italy--forget what place--and came to New York in concert work. His +first name"--he frowned meditatively--"I think it was Andrea." + +"Yes, it was Andrea," muttered Victor Sarbella. "Poor Andrea! And that +woman--death was too good for her!" + +"He fell in with a girl, a beautiful girl, with bronze hair. The +attraction of opposites, I suppose; he was dark--naturally, being +Italian. But this girl's past wasn't as pretty as her face. A lot of it +is coming back to me now--the details. She'd been raised on the fringe +of the underworld. Maybe you know what I mean. Her father and her +brother had served time. Oh, not her; she tried to pull away from that +sort of thing. + +"Anyhow, the young violinist fell in love with this girl, madly in love +with her. I think they were planning to be married, and then he found +out the truth about her. How? I can't tell you that, but he did. The +note he left behind him told that--how she had lied to him, deceived +him. + +"He went into the bathroom of his hotel and shot himself through the +heart. You see, this young Sarbella came of a very proud family--his +father related to the nobility and all that sort of thing. He couldn't +marry a girl like that, and he couldn't give her up. There was only one +way he could forget her, and he took that way. + +"In brief, gentlemen, that's the Sarbella case. The girl disappeared; +the police didn't hold her, since it was so obviously a suicide. I saw +her at the inquest; she seemed pretty badly cut up over it, but--well, +you can't always tell about that." + +"My word!" whispered Doctor Bushnell, aghast. "Kirklan Gilmore's +wife was that woman, a woman of the underworld? It seems incredible, +preposterous!" + +"Sarbella," went on Wiggly Price, looking steadily at the guest +of Greenacres, "had a brother who was in Italy at the time of the +suicide. This brother caught the first boat to New York with the avowed +intention----" + +"I think that I am the best qualified person to finish your narrative," +the voice of Victor Sarbella broke in. + +"So you've decided to start your tongue workin'," crowed Constable +Griggs; his chest bulged importantly. "It is my official duty to warn +you that anything you may say will be used against you." + +Sarbella waved his hand impatiently. "This is an explanation, not a +confession," he retorted. "My first statement to you remains true, +although I admit that I did not tell you all the truth--for two reasons. + +"Yes, this dead woman," his voice dripped with bitterness, "was the +girl in the Sarbella case. It is necessary for me to tell you that +Andrea, my younger brother, and I were born and reared in Florence. Our +mother was American, our father Italian. + +"I came to America where I could find a better market for my drawings, +and I brought with me Andrea, who was a violinist and expected to +earn a great deal of money with his playing. He had wonderful talent, +Andrea; even so young, his playing was attracting attention. Would to +Heaven that I had left him in Italy. Then that woman would never have +set his brain on fire, driven him mad with the madness of infatuation. + +"It was the first winter that we were in New York, and I returned to +Florence that I might accompany my mother back to America. She, too, +was to make her home in New York, my father having died. It was while +I was away that Andrea met this devil of a woman. How? I do not know, +but he loved her madly; the letter he left behind for me told me the +intensity of his passion for her. + +"Andrea was young, idealistic; he thought her everything that was good, +noble. And then there came to him a man; a low, common person, who was +the woman's husband! + +"You see how she had tricked him? She was not the innocent, lovely girl +she had led my brother to believe. He had thought to marry her--soon. +The shock of the truth dethroned reason; he could not have her, and he +could not give her up. There seemed to him only one way that he could +forget. + +"If I could but show you his farewell letter to me, the letter that +he wrote a few minutes before he fired the bullet through his heart!" +Tears came into Victor Sarbella's eyes, and his voice trembled and +broke. "Could you read that letter of Andrea's you would understand +better. + +"He was my brother, my only brother, and I loved him devotedly. News of +his death was cabled to me, but it was not until the boat docked in New +York that I knew how he had died--and why. + +"My mother--Andrea was her very life. She--it killed her. This woman, +this vampire, killed both of them--Andrea and our mother--as surely as +though she had driven daggers into their hearts. And that--that would +have been a kindlier way." He pointed a dramatically accusing finger to +the couch. "There she is, a murderess, a moral murderess, and she has +reaped as she had sown!" + +Victor Sarbella's voice came to a pause. + +"All right," said Constable Griggs, "let's have the rest of it. You +killed her for revenge!" + +"A life for a life!" murmured Wiggly Price, his ears twitching again, +as he thought of a dramatic line for this amazing story that he was to +write for _The Star_. "'The code of Latin vengeance!' Wow! What a whale +of a yarn!" + +Victor Sarbella shook his head slowly. + +"Time passes, and the deepest of wounds heal--although there may be a +scar," he said. "It is futile for me to deny that in my first grief +and rage against this woman I made bitter threats, that I said I would +hound her down and make her pay. I do not deny that I meant it--at the +moment; I do not deny that I sought her in vain." + +"But you did find her yesterday," exclaimed Constable Griggs. "I've +heard tell of them Eyetalian vendettas. You hadda wait most three +years, but you got 'er all right. Ain't no use holdin' out on me no +longer, Mister Sarbella; we gotcha, an' we gotcha cold. Mebbe you can +get by with that revenge business over in Italy, but you can't work it +here." + +Victor Sarbella looked tired, and his face was drawn, haggard. + +"Yes, I found her here yesterday," he nodded. "I found her--this +murderess--married to my good friend, who loved her madly--as poor +Andrea loved her. While I had never seen her, I knew her from that +picture of her that lay beside Andrea when he died. Every detail of +that face was burned into my memory; I recognized her instantly. And +she--the name and the family resemblance--she, too, knew me for who I +am. + +"Kirklan Gilmore saw that something was wrong, but I could not tell +him. He was my friend; she was his wife; my lips were sealed. I swear +to you that no thought of killing her entered my mind, although in the +past I had thought many times of putting my fingers about her throat +and----" + +"Huh!" broke in Ham Griggs' grunt. "I guess you'd swear to most +anything to keep yourself from goin' to the chair. What made you hold +out on us about knowin' who she was, if you wasn't guilty?" + +"As I told you a few minutes ago," answered Sarbella, "there were two +reasons. One was that I wished to spare Gilmore, my friend, the torture +of the truth." + +"And the other reason," said Griggs, "was that you knowed blame well it +would make things look purty black for you. You knowed that it would +throw suspicion square on you." + +Sarbella hesitated. + +"At first," he replied slowly, "I had no other thought than that the +woman had ended her life--driven to suicide by fear, fear that I would +denounce her for what she was before her husband; but, when the butler +kept insisting that she had been murdered, I knew that I had a vitally +personal reason for keeping silent." + +"But little good it did you--thanks to this feller," exulted the +constable, jerking his thumb toward the newspaper man. "Victor +Sarbella, you're under arrest for----" + +"Be careful, sir--be careful," warned the guest of Greenacres, his face +gray. "The gun is not mine, and you will never be able to prove that it +was. If you subject me to false arrest----" + +Ham Griggs hesitated, glancing at Doctor Bushnell for encouragement. + +"I don't think you need worry about false arrest," advised the doctor. +"An officer has a perfect right to hold a man on suspicion. There need +not be positive proof, and there were but three persons on the second +floor when the shot was fired--Mrs. Gilmore, Miss Joan, and Sarbella." + +Victor Sarbella leaned forward in his chair, and he seemed on the verge +of saying something further in his own defense, but did not speak. It +may have been that he realized how useless it would be to say anything +further in his own behalf. + +The constable dragged from his pocket a pair of handcuffs. "Stick +out your mitts," he ordered, holding open the steel jaws to receive +Sarbella's wrists. + + + + + CHAPTER XVI + + THE FOUR CLEWS + + +As Constable Griggs, proud as a pouter pigeon, departed with his +prisoner, Doctor Bushnell replaced the sheet over the face of the dead +woman, but not until he had looked again at the beautiful features, +shaking his head, as if he could not understand the anomaly of +countenance and character. + +"A--a woman of the underworld! It's just a little hard to believe that +a woman with that face----" + +"On the fringe of the underworld, I think I said," corrected Wiggly +Price. "Her associations were criminal, but I hardly imagine that she +had led a vicious life, for that _would_ show." He paused for a moment. +"Sarbella told me something about her that I hadn't known before--that +it was her husband who came to Andrea Sarbella and told him the truth +about her. I was just wondering if--if she had gone to the trouble of +divorcing him. It's a difficult thing, getting a divorce in New York +State." + +Doctor Bushnell looked grave. "Sarbella was right; she was a vampire. +She tricked Gilmore, fooled him with her pretty face, as she fooled the +other one--young Sarbella. I am apprehensive of the effect that this +is going to have on Kirklan; already he is on the verge of a nervous +breakdown, and when he learns the truth--well, I hope it can be +withheld from him until he has had a chance to pull together." He made +a move to depart, but Wiggly stopped him with a gesture. + +"Just a moment, doctor. You're satisfied that Sarbella did the +shooting?" + +The physician seemed surprised by the question. + +"Certainly," he answered promptly. "There were but five persons in the +house; two of them downstairs, three upstairs, when the fatal shot +was fired. You don't mean to tell me that you have any doubts----" He +broke off, disturbed by the recollection of Joan's evasiveness and +perturbation. + +"I'm not saying Sarbella isn't the guilty man," answered Wiggly; "but I +do say that it would be next to impossible to have a jury convict him +on such evidence." + +"But he was the only person in the house who could have any possible +motive for the crime," argued Doctor Bushnell. "Revenge, young man--a +trait that is strong with the Latins, particularly the Italian. You +don't for a moment entertain a notion that Mrs. Gilmore, the gentlest +soul I have ever known, or Miss Sheridan----" + +"I admit the motive," interrupted Wiggly; "I admit the opportunity, and +I admit that, on the face of things so far, he is the guilty man. But +where is the proof--the proof that will convict him before a jury? + +"The proof of guilt is somewhere--somewhere in this house; it may be +right in this room. I have been a newspaper reporter for ten years, and +a lot of my assignments have been crime stories. I did headquarters for +nearly five years; experience tells me that there are clews, definite +and convincing clews, that will convict. There are always clews." + +"Yes, so I have gathered; but the room here--there is no evidence of a +struggle--nothing visible----" + +"The same things, doctor, are not visible to all eyes; seeing a clew +is one thing, and observing it is quite another thing. A newspaper +reporter gets to be a sort of detective, sometimes he's a darn good +detective, and, if you have no objection, I'll look around a bit and +see what I can find to clinch the case against Sarbella." + +Doctor Bushnell hesitated. "Kirklan Gilmore gave orders that no +newspaper men were to be admitted," he said; "still you have rendered +valuable assistance, and----" + +"And," added Wiggly with a faint smile, "I've already got my story. +Even if you pitch me out, it won't stop my paper from printing the +facts that I have gathered." + +"Yes, that's true," nodded the physician, "and personally I've a +profound respect for a good newspaper reporter. Gilmore naturally +shrinks from the thought of having this thing blazoned across the front +page; but, if he understood the situation, I feel sure that he would +give you every chance to fix the guilt where it belongs. He seemed +to resent the suggestion I made, that Sarbella was the most obvious +suspect, but he did not know the past which linked the lives of his +wife and his friend. + +"The constable is little better than helpless in a case like this; +his job is catching automobile speeders, and a murder is outside of +his experience. It was nothing short of luck for Ham Griggs that you +happened in and gave him the right tack. I intended urging Gilmore to +employ a private detective, but if you can make any progress--well, I +shan't stop you." + +"That's mighty decent of you, Doctor Bushnell, and, before I start in +Sherlocking, I'd like to ask you a question or two about the wound. The +bullet pierced her heart?" + +"No, it did not; I followed the course of the bullet with a probe, and +it missed the heart by a fraction of an inch." + +"Good Lord, you don't mean it! Then death was caused----" + +"From the best I can determine, a punctured artery." + +"In other words, she bled to death; isn't that what you mean, doctor?" + +"Yes." + +"Would she have bled to death so quickly?" + +"That is hard to say--evidently very quickly. Both Gilmore and the +butler are positive that she was dead when they reached the room here. +They rushed upstairs immediately after hearing her scream and the shot." + +"And that was a matter of less than minutes--seconds," mused Wiggly +Price. "The bullet must have pierced the aorta, or one of its main +branches." + +"So it would seem, and I see that you know the anatomical terms." + +"Some of them; a reporter has to know a little about everything. I was +just wondering if perhaps she wasn't still alive when her husband and +the butler reached the room." + +"Bates thought he saw the last breath leave her body, but I wouldn't +accept that with absolute finality. He is, of course, not a medical +man, and he might have easily imagined it." + +Wiggly Price's eyes searched the room with a slowly moving gaze, his +animated ears twitching faintly. He seemed to be studying the rug, +which was of a neutral shade; any discolorment, such as a bloodstain, +would have stood out glaringly, and there was none. + +"I've been thinking," he said, "that she might have been placed on the +couch there--after she was shot. Yet, with all the profuse bleeding, if +she had fallen to the floor there would be some signs of it. I wonder +if you noticed whether she was shot while reclining on the lounge, or +if the bullet was fired while she was standing?" + +The doctor looked bewildered. "Great Heavens, man, how could you expect +me to know that?" he exclaimed with a hint of asperity, suspecting that +the reporter was trying to "show off." But he was mistaken about that. + +"I feel that we may be able to determine that, if we take another look +at the dead woman's clothing," Wiggly told him. "There's the law of +gravity you know." + +"Gravity? What's the law of gravity got to do with it?" Puzzled, the +physician lifted the sheet to permit the reporter's examination. The +latter leaned forward for a moment and took note, also, that the silk +robe was powder burned--in fact, that the explosion had been so close +as to scorch the undergarments as well. + +Wiggly Price pointed to the meandering line of dried crimson which +dyed the expensive dressing gown almost to the fur-edged hem of the +garment. "Blood, like water," he said, "must obey the law of gravity +and flow downward; she had to be standing on her feet for the crimson +stream to seep down, almost level with her ankles. She was placed on +the lounge by whoever shot her; that is evident. Gad, but she was +a beautiful woman, wasn't she? It's no wonder that men lost their +heads over her. You know, doctor, I've always felt sorry for a truly +beautiful woman; so many of them end up in misery. But that's neither +here nor there. The wound is in the side, isn't it?" + +Doctor Bushnell nodded slowly. "I understand now what you're getting +at. Yes, I can see that she must have been shot while standing on +her feet, and either she staggered back to the couch herself, or was +supported to the couch by the slayer. The wound--under the armpit?" + +"The weapon must have been pressed close to her body judging from the +evidence of burned powder. I see that the robe was set on fire, which +burned quite a hole before it smoldered out. Doctor, wouldn't you say +that it was a most unusual place for an intentionally mortal wound? Her +arm would have to have been raised away from her body." + +The doctor agreed with a tight-lipped "Yes." + +"Of course," went on the newspaper man, "she might have turned +suddenly, squirmed in the slayer's grip--I am taking it for granted +that he was close enough to have seized her--but that's only +speculation. What became of the gun?" + +"Ham Griggs took it with him. It was an automatic, a large-caliber .44, +I think." + +"Finger prints?" + +"The butt plates had a corrugated surface." + +"I see; in that case there would have been no finger prints on the gun. +Probably wouldn't have been, since the slayer deliberately left the gun +behind. Only a very stupid person would have neglected to wipe away +finger prints had there been any. Hello, what's this!" + +Wiggly's foot had crunched against a bit of porcelain, and he leaned +forward swiftly, picking it up; it was a rough-surfaced piece of +pottery, black in color and, as much as he could judge from the +fragment, had belonged to some convex object of which it was a +shattered part. + +"A broken piece of something--but what?" he murmured, holding it up for +the doctor's inspection. + +"I'm sure I couldn't say," answered Doctor Bushnell, who was not +greatly interested. He considered it a waste of time to speculate over +such an insignificant trifle, when there was murder evidence to be +looked for. + +"The Hitchcock murder last summer--remember that, doctor? It was solved +by nothing more noticeable than a black pin, a mourning pin, and the +widow of a man whom Hitchcock had ruined, confessed when she was faced +with that pin. This is larger than a pin, doctor, but, to be frank, I +doubt there's much value to it." He was near a small mahogany table by +the room's north wall; the light was not very good, the chamber being +lighted only by wall fixtures, and the incandescent rays were softened +by parchment shades; but his eyes pierced the shadows and saw, on the +floor beside the table, several other pieces like the one which he held +in his hand. + +"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Here's the answer to it, doctor. It's a vase, a +black pottery vase; yes, here's the neck of it." + +"That might be evidence of a struggle," suggested Doctor Bushnell. +"The vase might have been knocked off the edge of the table, don't +you think, when the woman tried to escape Sarbella's vengeance? She +probably knew, the minute he got into the room, that his intention was +to kill her." + +Price's ears wiggled briefly, as he considered the matter of the broken +vase, and with a dismissing gesture tossed down the broken bit which he +held in his fingers. + +"You may be right," he agreed, "it doesn't seem important enough +to bother about, but----" His voice broke off sharply, as he stared +toward the window directly in front of him; he had noticed the sagging +curtain, where it had been ripped some two and a half hours earlier, +when Don Haskins had made his surprise entrance into Helen's room. But, +of course, Wiggly had no way of being aware of the fleeing crook's +existence. + +"Take a look at this, Doctor Bushnell," said the reporter; "this torn +curtain. Funny we didn't notice that before; it's mighty near jerked +off the rod." + +"And what do you make of that?" + +Wiggly's eyes were meditatively half closed, and his ears as well as +his mind were active. + +"I'd say one of three things," he answered slowly. "Either the murderer +barred Mrs. Gilmore's flight through the door, and she was trying to +get out the window--which somehow I don't take much stock in--or the +murderer himself came in through the window, or, thirdly, that he +got out through the window. In the last two cases it doesn't seem +reasonable that he would have taken the time to shut the window behind +him. It seems to me that the best thing to do is just store this away +for future reference. It doesn't seem to mean much in itself." + +"No, it doesn't," grunted the physician. "It might not have been torn +to-night." + +Wiggly glanced about the neat, precisely kept room. "She was particular +about the orderliness of things," he said. "I don't believe she would +have left a torn window curtain unrepaired for long. No, the curtain +was torn to-night; but, as I said, we'll just store that away for +future reference." + +And then Doctor Bushnell made a discovery of his own, a half-burned +cigarette that had been mashed down into the heavy nap of the rug, some +eight feet from the chaise longue and even a farther distance from the +door. He gave a brief exclamation, as he pointed to his find. + +"Sarbella is a cigarette smoker; if this is his brand----" + +Wiggly Price picked up the cigarette, which evidently had been +flattened out beneath the pressure of a shoe. + +"It's a little hard to believe, doctor, that a man with premeditated +murder in his mind, would walk into his victim's room smoking a +cigarette," he said quickly. "For that matter, it might be the murdered +woman's cigarette--so many women do smoke 'em these modern days." He +examined the flattened thing which, as it happened, bore the name of +the brand. "Cheap--ten cents a pack. Hardly a woman's cigarette, I'd +say. Perhaps Gilmore himself dropped it." + +"Not Gilmore; I happen to know that he doesn't smoke anything except +an occasional after-dinner cigar; but I do recall very clearly that +Sarbella was smoking a cigarette downstairs. If he smokes that kind, +it's clinching proof that he is the guilty man!" The doctor was +becoming quite excited over this clew. "Since Gilmore doesn't smoke +them, who else could have dropped it on the rug? Answer me that!" + +Wiggly took a piece of copy paper from his pocket, carefully wrapped +the cigarette butt in it, and tucked this important, or unimportant, +bit of evidence in his vest pocket. + +"As you say, doctor, if it's Sarbella's brand of cigarette it means +something--but it's rather difficult to imagine a chap like Sarbella +smoking this cheap fag; just about as hard as it is to imagine him +walking into this room, a gun in one hand and a cigarette in another, +ready to avenge his dead brother. However, when I get to the jail, I'll +see the constable and check up on this. I'll have a look at Sarbella's +cigarette case." + +Although, as he had just said, it hardly looked like the sort of +cigarette a woman might be expected to smoke, he was thorough enough to +look about the room, and he even went to the dressing table in search +of any proof that Helen Gilmore herself had been addicted to a little +puffing now and then. But there was no telltale flickings of ashes, not +so much as an ash receiver. + +Wiggly compressed his lips. + +"You know, doctor," he said slowly, "this cigarette thing bothers me +a little--quite a little, too. She isn't a smoker unless she does it +on the sly and----Oh, confound it, it just isn't reasonable that this +is Sarbella's cigarette butt. I've got a hunch that this business runs +deeper than we think." + +Doctor Bushnell gave an impatient gesture. "Stuff! You're trying +to manufacture a mystery; the papers like mysteries so that they +can spread the story out over days and days. You're afraid that the +solution is going to be too easy, too tame." + +"Tame?" exploded Wiggly Price. "I can imagine nothing more dramatic +than Sarbella being the guilty man--beautiful vamp, handsome, talented +young foreigner, related to nobility, a suicide, a brother's vendetta, +an unexpected meeting, arranged by Fate, at the home of a friend who is +a popular novelist, and then--revenge! + +"Good Lord, I hope you don't call a yarn like that tame! Scoggins, my +city editor, will weep with joy if it pans out that way--and probably +give me a raise in salary, although it's his burning desire to fire me. +But I'm making the guess that the cigarette butt that we've picked up +out of the rug didn't belong to Victor Sarbella." He paused, looking +about the room again. "Electric lights are so tricky to the eyes; +it's so easy to overlook something, some little thing that might be +tremendously important. It still lacks some time of being daylight, and +I'm anxious to scoot over to the jail and check up on this cigarette +clew--make sure whether or not it's Sarbella's. Are you going to remain +here for a little while, doctor?" + +Doctor Bushnell glanced at his watch. + +"Yes," he answered; "at least until the undertaker arrives--probably +later. It's my official duty to remain, I suppose." + +"Your official duty?" + +"As it happens, I am a deputy coroner." + +Wiggly showed his surprise. "You hadn't mentioned that; I hardly think +that even the constable realized it. Of course you understand, doctor, +that, in a case like this, your authority exceeds that of any other +official. You are the commanding officer, so to speak." + +Doctor Bushnell nodded. "In a way my position is somewhat embarrassing. +I have been the Gilmore family physician for a good many years." + +"I was wondering if I should be able to get inside the house again," +said the reporter; "but, if you are the----" + +"Deputy coroner," corrected the physician. "Doctor Whitestone, the +coroner, is vacationing at Saranac Lake." + +"Anyhow, doctor, you are in charge, and all I need is your permission." + +"Probably it can be arranged," Doctor Bushnell said after a moment +of hesitation. "Of course it will be rather difficult to admit one +reporter and bar the others, and there will be a regiment of them +swooping down on us; but you have rendered valuable assistance that +makes it very hard for me to refuse you. You will let me know, just as +soon as you have clinched the matter, whether the cigarette butt was +dropped by Sarbella." He was taking the door key from his pocket and +was starting to leave the room. + +"Certainly," answered Wiggly, moving to follow. "I came out from the +office in a taxi, and it's waiting downstairs. I shall come back +immediately after I have----" His voice trailed off, as he squinted at +the floor, where the chaise longue with its tragic burden cast a shadow +over the rug. Swiftly he bent forward and picked up something. + +Doctor Bushnell stared; it was nothing more startling than a hairpin, +and he was rather impatient that the newspaper man should subject it to +such an apparently interesting scrutiny. + +"As I said," murmured Wiggly, "artificial light is tricky. Either one +of us should have noticed this before." + +"It's nothing but a common, ordinary hairpin," grunted the physician; +"there's nothing in that--probably fell out of her hair." + +Price's forehead was wrinkled into a frown, and his ears were wiggling +again. + +"It dropped from some one's hair," he muttered. "Her hair? I wonder if +it did?" + +"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Doctor Bushnell. + +"Look at it!" the other commanded tersely. "What color is that hairpin?" + +"Black, of course," the doctor said impatiently. + +"Exactly--black! The dead woman's hair is blond. Step over to her +dressing table, and perhaps you'll be puzzled, too. See, she uses +bronze hairpins, doctor. Any woman with hair the color of hers, would. +A black hairpin! I wonder if this is a clew, a real clew?" + +"Rot!" retorted the physician. "Any one might have dropped it; the +maid----" + +"Where is the maid?" + +"Bates said that she went to Yonkers." + +"And has the maid black hair?" + +Doctor Bushnell considered for a moment, trying to remember. "Dark +hair," he nodded; "perhaps not black. I couldn't say as to the +identical shade." + +"The other Mrs. Gilmore?" + +"Quite gray." + +"And the other--what is her name?" + +The doctor frowned indignantly. "Such a suspicion is too ridiculous, +too absurd!" he protested. Yet with a vaguely uneasy feeling he +remembered Joan Sheridan's strange behavior, her anguished protest of +Victor Sarbella's innocence--and Joan's hair was black, jet black! + + + + + CHAPTER XVII + + KIRKLAN PROTESTS + + +Hint of the physician's disturbed thoughts must have shown in his +face, for Wiggly Price gave him a keen, curious look, which seemed +to increase the former's discomfiture; he dallied nervously with the +fraternal charm attached to his watch chain. + +"What color did you say, doctor?" pressed the newspaper man. + +"It's ridiculous, absurd!" Bushnell repeated explosively. "What if +Joan's hair is dark? Confound it, you make me downright angry, casting +an insinuation like that, just because of an inconsequential thing like +a hairpin." + +Wiggly gave a faint smile which was grim rather than humorous. + +"I haven't insinuated anything, doctor; just asked a question, that's +all. Oh, I admit there's nothing conclusive about a hairpin, and +yet--well, there was the Hitchcock case that I mentioned, solved by a +black mourning pin." + +"For murder there's got to be a motive," argued Doctor Bushnell; "no +one besides Sarbella had a motive. I don't care what you find, I'd +never believe that any one except Sarbella----" + +The door was flung open with a startling violence, and Kirklan Gilmore +lunged into the room, hair disheveled, eyes wide and staring. + +"What--what does this mean?" he cried hoarsely. "Bates tells me that +the constable has arrested Sarbella. Is that true? Come, answer me, +what does it mean?" + +Under his breath the doctor cursed the butler for adding this to the +man's nervous strain. + +"I thought I gave you a sleeping tablet, Kirklan. Bates should not have +excited you by----" + +"Certainly he should have," Gilmore broke in. "I've a right to know +what's going on in my own house. Bates was perfectly right; but what +does it mean? Bates says that Sarbella was taken away--handcuffed. It's +true, isn't it?" + +Doctor Bushnell nodded. "Yes, Kirklan, it's true; Sarbella is +being--ah--detained, pending--well, at least pending further +investigation of your wife's murder. Certain things developed which +made it advisable and necessary." + +"Great Lord!" whispered Gilmore, his shaking fingers raking back a +tangled shock of hair that fell across his forehead. "You mean--you +mean that Sarbella has been arrested for--for that?" His other hand +went out, pointing to the couch. + +"Try and calm yourself, Kirklan," soothed the physician. "I hadn't +intended that you should know this until you had pulled yourself +together somewhat. I knew that it would be a tremendous shock for you +to know that your friend, a guest in your home----" + +"Why," broke in the novelist, "was Sarbella arrested?" + +Doctor Bushnell hesitated over the answer, and Wiggly Price drew back +to one side, making himself as inconspicuous as possible. + +"I demand to know," insisted Gilmore, and the doctor saw that there +could be no further evasion. + +"As I told you downstairs, Kirklan," said Bushnell, "we have +established beyond all question that it was murder. Since she was +killed, some one had to kill her." + +"But why Sarbella?" the author pressed impatiently. + +"Obviously," went on the doctor, "an effort has been made to make it +appear suicide, but the effort failed; such efforts usually do. It's +hard to destroy evidence, next to the impossible. There were but five +persons in the house; you and Bates downstairs, your stepmother, Joan +and Sarbella upstairs. Taking the list into consideration it was only +natural that suspicion should turn to Sarbella. And then----" + +"But that's not proof, doctor--that's only suspicion," broke in +Gilmore. "If you had no evidence, I don't see how you dared----" + +"We had a little more than that," said Doctor Bushnell with obvious +reluctance, realizing that circumstances had made it unavoidable that +Kirklan should know the terrible truth about Helen's past life. "You +see, Kirklan, we discovered that Sarbella had a motive." + +"A motive?" Gilmore muttered dully. "What do you mean by that? What +reason could he have had? Out with it! Why do you torture me with this +suspense?" + +Doctor Bushnell stepped forward and put a hand on the other's shoulder. + +"Heaven knows that I wish I could spare you this, Kirklan, but it's +bound to come out at the trial and in the newspapers. You were not +aware, I suppose, that there was a previous relationship between----" +He had phrased it clumsily and Gilmore started back with a shudder, a +look of anguished horror on his face. + +"You mean that Sarbella and my wife were----He lied to me--he lied to +me--gave me his word of honor that he had never seen her before. I knew +there was something wrong; I saw her face when she met him; I knew----" + +"No you misunderstand me, Kirklan. There was nothing like that. Perhaps +you did not know that Sarbella had a brother, a younger brother named +Andrea, who----" + +"Who shot himself," finished Gilmore. "Yes, I'd heard of it; that +happened before I knew Victor. But what has that got to do with this?" + +"Young Sarbella shot himself because of a woman," went on Doctor +Bushnell. "Because a woman, a very beautiful woman whom he loved +madly, had misled him about herself. She lied to him, tricked him, and +then--the woman's husband came to him and told him the truth." + +Kirklan Gilmore stared dully; he seemed not to grasp the inference of +it all. The room was tensely quiet. + +"I--I don't understand," he muttered thickly, "what that has to do with +Sarbella and my wife." + +"Andrea Sarbella," the doctor went on gently, "was the idol of his +mother and his brother. Shock of the tragedy cost the mother's life, +and Victor, it seems, took an oath that he would avenge himself on the +woman responsible for his double bereavement." + +The dawning light of comprehension showed in Gilmore's horror-stricken +eyes; a cry arose in his throat, as he staggered back into a chair and +buried his head within his hands. + +"You mean," he choked, "that the woman was--was--my wife!" + +"Yes, Kirklan, your wife was that woman. Now you can understand why +Sarbella has been placed under arrest." + +Again the room was silent, silent except for the choking sob which came +from the man huddled low in the chair. After a moment he staggered to +his feet and flung his arms wildly. + +"It's a lie!" he shouted. "It's a lie! I don't believe it; I'll never +believe it. Why, if what you say is true, she----" + +"Calm yourself, Kirklan. Sarbella has admitted what I have told you. We +might have never known the truth except that this young man recognized +her and put us on the right track." + +Gilmore, for the first time, seemed aware of Wiggly Price's presence. + +"Who are you?" he demanded hoarsely. "What do you mean by coming here +with these lies--about my wife? Answer me--who are you?" + +"My name is Price, and I am a newspaper man." + +Gilmore wheeled accusingly upon the doctor. "Who let him in?" he +shouted. "Didn't I tell you----" + +"Easy, Kirklan, easy now. I can't answer as to how Price got into the +house, but I'll say it's a lucky thing for us that he did. Except for +him we might still be beating our heads against a stone wall. When +you've calmed down you'll thank him instead of berating him. It may be +that he is the agent who will bring your wife's murderer to justice. +No matter what the woman did, a murder has been done; Sarbella had no +right to take vengeance into his own hands." + +The novelist dropped limply back into the chair, his muscles twitching, +as he stared at the sheet-covered body. + +"Sarbella?" he muttered thickly. "What--what does Sarbella say?" + +"Naturally he denies it," answered the doctor. "We hope to find proof. +We must find proof; I doubt if he could be convicted on the purely +circumstantial evidence that we have so far. Unless we can establish +his ownership of the automatic pistol, we will have to find something +else. If he thought the gun could be traced he surely would not have +left it behind." + +Gilmore lifted his head slowly. + +"Then there is no proof--only--only suspicion?" He paused for a moment +and then added: "I can't believe it! I can't believe that Sarbella +killed her. And she--she was--that kind of a woman!" + +Doctor Bushnell touched his shoulder. "Try not to grieve, Kirklan," he +urged quietly. "You were in love with the woman you thought her to be, +and she did not exist. She wasn't worth a good man's grief. We do not +even know--in fact, I doubt--if her marriage was legal." + +"I can't believe that Sarbella did it," repeated Gilmore dully. +"She--she must have killed herself to escape the truth." + +"Did you happen to notice the brand of cigarettes that Sarbella +smokes?" asked Wiggly Price. + +Gilmore's resentment against the newspaper man seemed to have vanished; +he displayed no curiosity over this apparently idle question, only +shook his head absently, like a man in a daze. + +"And your wife," pressed Wiggly, "I don't suppose that she used a +cigarette now and then?" + +Again Gilmore shook his head, almost stupidly and without verbal +response, his hands dangling inertly across the arms of the chair. + +"Sarbella didn't do it," he muttered again, as if talking to +himself; "she did it to escape the truth. Nothing will ever convince +me--nothing!" + +Around the edges of the drawn curtain was creeping the light of a +graying dawn. Price moved toward the door. + +"I'm going down to the village," he said in an undertone to the doctor; +"I'll come back when I've talked with Sarbella about his brand of +cigarettes. Remember my hunch and the black hairpin." + +With that he hurried down the stairs and to the still waiting taxicab, +with its driver napping behind the wheel. + + + + + CHAPTER XVIII + + TWO BRANDS OF CIGARETTES + + +The Ardmore jail was located in the basement of Borough Hall, and, +since it was but a place of temporary detention until prisoners could +be removed to the county seat, it consisted of a single cell, a narrow +steel cage tucked away in one corner adjoining the furnace room. It was +here that Victor Sarbella, who had ceased his protests and had lapsed +into a stony silence, that took no cognizance of Constable Griggs' +persistent and exasperating questioning, had been lodged. + +Wiggly Price found Borough Hall locked, and the place was in darkness. +Griggs had decided to let the prisoner "cool his heels" for a while, +and he had gone home to freshen himself with a nap before continuing +the cross-examination. The village was still soundly asleep, and +Wiggly, thinking that the constable must return shortly, made himself +as comfortable as possible in the cab. + +Time dragged past, and the reporter considered the Greenacres tragedy +and its various angles. A great little rider of hunches was Wiggly, +and, in the face of the obvious, he was riding the hunch that Sarbella +hadn't shot Helen Gilmore. And the black hairpin, small a thing as it +was, occupied a conspicuous corner of his thoughts. The broken vase he +thought of only casually. The half-burned cigarette butt he admitted +might have some importance, but he much doubted that it had belonged +to Sarbella. As he had told Doctor Bushnell, he couldn't conceive a +murderer, smoking a cigarette, would walk in on his victim. It just +wasn't reasonable. + +The east was bright with the dawn of a brilliant day; the sun mounted +higher, and still Ham Griggs had not returned. Wiggly glanced at his +watch with a growl of impatience; he knew that it wouldn't be long +until other news hounds would be keen on the scent of the big story. + +"Confound that fellow!" he muttered. "Where's he gone to? More than +likely he considers the case solved and has gone home to tell his folks +what a great detective he is!" + +From far up the deserted street just one sound broke the stillness, +a particularly cheerful, but tuneless, whistle which, as it came +nearer, brought into view an elephantine youth who approached with a +flat-footed shuffle, his shoes flapping noisily, as if they might be +trying to mark time to their owner's musical efforts. The village fat +boy, drawing closer, left off whistling and turned to song, singing in +a shrill treble, "Yes, we have no bananas. We have no bananas to-day." + +Wiggly stepped from the cab to intercept him, and for no reason at all, +unless it were taken for granted that it was outward evidence of an +otherwise unexpressed mirth, Wiggly's ears twitched. + +"Say, son," Wiggly said briskly, "do you know where Constable Griggs +lives?" + +For the moment Master Frederick Throgmorton, as the local juvenile +heavyweight was named, was totally bereft of speech, completely +hypnotized by the amazing gymnastics of Jimmy Price's ears. + +"Huh?" he finally gulped. "Whatcha--whatcha say?" + +"I said: Do you know where Constable Griggs lives?" + +"Sure--sure thing," gasped Fatty Frederick. "Right--right down this +street--third block, second house from the corner. Say, mister, tell a +feller somethin'--how did you learn to do it?" + +Wiggly flushed, as he always did when reminded of his refractory +appendages, and he dived swiftly back into the cab, as he gave the +chauffeur further directions. The taxi shot forward with a jerk. Less +than a minute later they had negotiated the three blocks, and the New +York newspaper man was on the sidewalk and at the picket gate of the +Griggs cottage. + +Etta, the constable's daughter, was ambitious, but her ambition was +centered upon becoming a playwright and did not, as a rule, extend to +early rising. But this morning she was up, fully dressed, and, at +the moment of Wiggly Price's ring, pressing her father for further +details of the Greenacres murder. For once in her life she was actually +taking some pride in the fact that her parent was a constable. And Ham +Griggs willingly sacrificed his intended "forty winks" that he might +elaborate, none too modestly, on the part he had played; after all, it +was something to be a hero to the critical and exacting Etta. + +"I wouldn't be a lot surprised," he was saying, "that the reporter +feller will be wantin' my pitcher to put in the paper. There ain't no +use for me to deny, Etty, that I done a purty slick piece of work. I +knowed the minute I clapped eyes on the Eyetalian that he was the one +that done it. Wouldn't be surprised but what I'd better scoot down to +Jess Burnside's pitcher gallery an' have some new pitchers struck; I +ain't set for a pitcher since----" He was interrupted by the ringing of +the doorbell. Father and daughter had been so absorbed that they had +not heard the arrival of the taxi. + +"I'll answer it, fawther," said Etta, and for once Ham Griggs did not +correct the affectation which ordinarily so annoyed him. They had been +sitting in the kitchen, and Etta had put on a pot of coffee which, +entirely unnoticed, had boiled over. Ham tilted back in a chair, +uniform coat thrown open, snapping his suspenders smartly against his +chest. + +Etta frisked through the brief hallway to the front of the cottage. +As she opened the door, the upper portion of which was glass, with a +frosted design alleged to be artistic, she faced Wiggly Price, who +neglected the polite formality of removing his hat. + +"Constable Griggs live here?" + +"He does," admitted Etta, one hand resting upon her practically hipless +waist, chin slightly tilted. "Who shall I tell fawther is calling, +please?" + +"Price, of _The Morning Star_." + +"O--oh," gasped Etta, flustered. "Come--come right in; I'll tell him." + +But there was no need to tell him. Ham Griggs, the intervening doors +being open, had heard him and came striding out from the kitchen, +morally certain that his prediction was well founded, and that the +reporter had come for a photograph. + +"Come right on in, son," he boomed hospitably. "Etty's just fixin' me +up a cup of Java, an' I guess she can scare up a flock of eggs. Guess +you ain't had no breakfast, huh? Come right on into the kitchen an' +make yourself to home." + +"Fawther!" cried Etta in embarrassed indignation. "Ain't you--haven't +you forgotten your manners? In the kitchen? Why the very idea! I'll set +the table in the dining room, and----" + +"The kitchen for mine! Don't bother, Miss Griggs. I'm in pretty much +of a hurry, but I can't turn down a cup of coffee after being up all +night." + +"Sure," the constable nodded complacently and then added: "Guess +nothin' new turned up out at Greenacres, huh? I nailed the right man, +all right; not a bad piece of work for a hick constable, if I do +say so myself." With a laugh he led the way into the kitchen, while +the mortified Etta bit her lip in chagrin; but there was no choice +in accepting the situation. She recalled a line from her "Social +Etiquette" which told her, "When embarrassed by an unexpected caller, +the hostess should at once accept the situation in good grace and +make her guest feel welcome." But a guest in the kitchen! Her little +reference book was mute as to that. + +"I want to see Sarbella just as quickly as I can," said Wiggly, sitting +down and hitching his chair close to the table. He sniffed avidly. "Ah, +that coffee does smell good!" + +"Sure," agreed Ham Griggs. "But whatcha want to see him about? What's +happened?" + +"Nothing's happened--exactly," Wiggly answered cautiously, knowing +that the constable would in all probability resent any intimation of +Sarbella's possible innocence. Even a seasoned detective, once he has +made up his mind, does not relish the idea of being shown that he had +been wrong. In Griggs' case, it would be a hard blow to his exuberant +vanity. "But, as you may realize, our evidence against the man is so +far purely circumstantial." + +"Oh, don't you worry about that," the constable said complacently; +"he'll come through with a confession, after he's had a good taste of +jail. Stubborn as a mule he is so far, but he'll break down; they all +do." + +"Isn't it thrilling!" broke in Etta, pouring coffee. "It's what you +call a big story, isn't it?" + +Wiggly gave a smiling nod. "It's about the best murder story I've ever +worked on." + +Etta beamed. "It was I who called up your editor and told him about +it," she announced. + +"The thunder you did!" grunted Ham Griggs. + +"If it's a scoop," promised Wiggly; "I'll tell the city editor to have +the business office mail you a fat little check for the tip." + +"Oh, no! I didn't do it for any mercenary reasons. But, if the editor +wants to say something nice about my play----" + +"Eh--your play?" + +"I expect it to be produced this fall. It's nearly finished; I have +promised to let a New York producer stage it." + +"Yes, I see," murmured Wiggly gravely. He had the good sense not to +indulge in a smile, but his ears moved faintly. "And I'll certainly +speak to the dramatic critic about it--I certainly will." Under his +breath he added: "Lord, what the play bug does to people!" + +Etta was so excited by what she considered the total success of her +plan to establish a cordial personal relationship with the press that +she tipped a cup, spilling hot coffee over the back of her father's +hand. + +"The murder at Greenacres has given me the inspiration for another +play," she said. "It shall be a mystery play; they're so popular in New +York." + +"A good mystery is about the most interesting thing in the world," +declared Wiggly, dropping a spoonful of sugar and stirring vigorously. + +"And the Gilmore tragedy--fawther has just finished telling me all +about it--isn't it dramatic?" + +"It certainly is, Miss Griggs," agreed the reporter, wishing the girl +were in Halifax. + +"And to think," she rushed on, "that Kirklan Gilmore's new wife was +such an awful woman. So pretty, too; I saw her only the other day. You +know it was such a surprise when he married her. Mrs. Huggins--she's +a seamstress and used to sew for the Gilmores--thought it was certain +that he would marry Joan; such a sweet girl, Joan." + +Wiggly's wandering thoughts suddenly became centered upon what the +gushing Etta was saying. + +"Joan?" he murmured. + +"Young Mr. Gilmore's stepsister, you know. Didn't you see her? Such a +sweet girl! Oh, I suppose some people would consider it unusual for a +man to marry his stepsister, but Mrs. Huggins thought it would turn out +that way. She's got sharp eyes, Mrs. Huggins has, and she said that +Joan was simply in love with Mr. Gilmore; she used to help him so much +with his work, I understand. And then, while she was away in Europe, he +married the other one. It was such a terrible surprise to everybody. +And Mrs. Huggins said----" Her gossip broke off into a gasp, as she +stared at the reporter's ears which were now wiggling almost violently. + +So Joan was in love with her stepbrother; she had dark hair; and he +had found a black hairpin on the floor beside the slain woman's body! +This certainly was food for thought--not only food, but a feast! The +Greenacres story gave promise of being a live mystery. + +And there was the cigarette butt; the husband did not smoke cigarettes; +therefore it could not be explained by his dropping it there, and, if +it wasn't Sarbella's----There was another angle. + +During Etta's moment of speechlessness, Wiggly debated these matters +swiftly, as he gulped down his coffee, and Constable Griggs embraced +the opportunity to get back into the conversation. + +"Whatcha say you wanted to see Sarbella about?" he demanded. + +"As I said," answered Wiggly; "there's no proof against him except +that he might be considered to have a motive, and that he also had an +opportunity to commit the crime. Juries don't send men to the death +chair on that sort of evidence. Of course, if he makes a confession +or we can trace the murder gun to him, that automatically solves our +difficulty; but Sarbella is probably shrewd enough to realize what a +weak case you've got against him; if he does realize that, and if he is +guilty, he'll have sense enough to keep his mouth shut." + +"Whatcha hittin' at?" growled Ham Griggs. + +"After you left Greenacres, Doctor Bushnell and I looked around a +little, and we found a half-burned cigarette mashed down into the +rug of the room where the woman was killed. Since Gilmore doesn't +smoke----" + +"Sarbella smokes 'em," broke in the constable. "Sure he does; purty +near one right after the other. Regular cigarette fiend, the feller is. +That clinches the case on him, huh? Is that what you're drivin' at?" + +"If he smokes the same sort of cigarette as the one Doctor Bushnell +found on the rug, I'd say it was pretty much a clincher. It would be +evidence that he had been in the room." + +"Of course it's his cigarette!" exclaimed Ham Griggs, lumbering swiftly +to his feet. "I'd bet a hundred dollars on it. Come on, son, we'll get +right down to the jail and prove it." + +"Why, fawther!" came Etta's protest. "Won't you let Mr. Price wait +until I have cooked the eggs? I was going to put them on the fire this +minute." + +"Speaking for Mr. Price," said Wiggly, "the coffee is sufficient. +Thanks just the same." He pushed back his chair and moved to follow the +constable. + +"Like as not when we face 'im with this," suggested Griggs, "he'll +break down an' make a clean breast of it." + +"Oh, Mr. Price," called Etta, "you won't forget to--to speak to the +dramatic critic about my play?" + +Wiggly promised, without committing himself as to just how he would +speak of it; there are some things, from a diplomatic standpoint, best +left unsaid. + +The constable clumped briskly out of the house with the reporter +following. As they got into the taxi, Ham Griggs wondered if he were +not to be asked for a photograph with which to adorn the first page of +_The Star_; already he had visualized the caption: "Figures in Gilmore +Murder Case--Local Officer Who Solved Baffling Mystery." + +"If you want my pitcher for the paper," he suggested, "I'd better see +about havin' one struck. Of course I ain't lookin' for no puff, but----" + +"No use going to that expense," Wiggly broke in; "we'll probably have +a staff photographer down during the day, and he can snap you on the +scene--examining the murder gun, you know, or something like that. +Action pictures always more interesting, Mr. Constable," he ended +emphatically. + +The brief trip was completed, and, as the machine again drew to a halt +in front of Borough Hall, the chauffeur entered a protest. + +"Say, boss," he exclaimed, "you don't expect a guy to sit at the wheel +forever, do you? A man's gotta sleep some time. Guess you'd better pay +what the meter reads an' let me skim back to the big town." + +Wiggly paid the charge, which was twenty-seven dollars, gave a +three-dollar tip, and let him go. Griggs entered the village's public +building and led the way down into the basement, where Sarbella was +lodged. At the sound of their footsteps, ringing on the concrete floor, +the prisoner left off his nervous pacing of the cell's narrow confines +and came to the steel door of the cage. His attitude was weary, +dejected. + +"Mebbe you're ready to speak up, huh?" grunted Ham Griggs, facing him +from the other side of the bars. + +"I have nothing to add," Victor Sarbella answered; "you already have +the only statement I care to make," he paused briefly and then added, +"for the present." + +"Silence ain't goin' to do you no good, for I aim to keep you right +where you are until you get ready to start talkin'," blustered the +constable. "We know you killed her; we've dug up some more evidence on +you--little matter of a cigarette that you dropped on the floor of that +room out to Greenacres." + +"Cigarette?" muttered Sarbella. + +"May I have your cigarette case for a moment, Mr. Sarbella?" requested +Wiggly. + +The prisoner hesitated, gave the newspaper man a wary glance, and, +evidently realizing that they would take it away from him by force, +if he refused, slid his hand into his pocket, producing a silver case +inlaid with gold stripes. He shrugged his shoulders. + +"I don't know what it's all about, but you're welcome; please do not +destroy the smokes. I've only two left." + +Wiggly Price took the elaborate case, which Sarbella passed through +the bars, and snapped it open. One glance was sufficient to verify +his logical doubts that the butt of the cheap cigarette which Doctor +Bushnell had discovered on the floor of the tragedy chamber had not +been the artist's. The two cigarettes before him were of an expensive +imported brand, straw-tipped and monogrammed with the man's initials. + +The constable was looking over his shoulder, as Wiggly extracted from +his vest pocket the flattened bit of evidence upon which both Doctor +Bushnell and Ham Griggs had expressed so much faith. He unfolded the +strip of paper that enwrapped it. + +"They are not the same," he announced. "I didn't expect them to be. +The question now is--to whom did this belong? It looks very much like +another man--a man with cheap tastes in tobacco--was in that room last +night!" + +Victor Sarbella pressed his body tensely against the bars, but not so +much as a syllable passed his lips. Perhaps there was a look of relief +in his face. + + + + + CHAPTER XIX + + ENTER SERGEANT TISH + + +The constable and Wiggly had left the basement, and Griggs was almost +apoplectic with anger. He glared at the reporter with indignant disgust +and, as they entered the room used for the sessions of the borough +council, flopped down in a chair. + +"Now if you ain't made a fine mess of things! An' I give you credit for +havin' some sense! I might have got a confession outta him except for +your meddlin'. Dog-gone you, anyhow! He'll think now that he's got a +chance to get out of it after you tellin' him that there must have been +another man in the room where the woman was killed." + +"You've got to admit that it isn't Sarbella's cigarette butt," defended +Wiggly. + +"If I'd have known you was goin' to pull a stunt like that, I'd never +have let you in to see him," raged Ham Griggs. "Next time I'll have +better gumption than to let some fool reporter gum the cards for +me--you just bet I will." + +"Let's talk it over," Wiggly urged placatingly. "Let's use a little +simple logic. You admit, don't you, that this isn't Sarbella's brand?" + +"I don't admit nothin' of the sort," raged the constable. "Chances are +that he dropped that cheap cigarette on the floor as a blind, tryin' to +leave a false scent to fool us." + +Wiggly shook his head. "That won't hold water, constable; you forget +that the murderer tried to make it appear suicide. And, as I tried +to impress on Doctor Bushnell, can you imagine a man set on murder +slipping in on his victim--smoking a cigarette?" + +But Ham Griggs was in no mood for logic; he considered that he had +solved the case in arresting Sarbella, and he wanted it to stay solved. +A re-opening of the facts led him into water over his head, and he +foresaw himself floundering helplessly beyond his depth. + +"Sarbella done it!" he shouted. "He killed the Gilmore woman; he shot +her to get even. He shot her--with this gun." Dramatically he dragged +forth the automatic pistol and waved it almost wildly. "And you've +gone and messed things up by lettin' him think he had a chance to get +off--darn your hide!" + +The outburst was checked by the opening of the door which led into the +council room from the outside entrance, and there entered a short, +rotund man who wore his hat perched upon a bandaged head. + +"Where's the chief of police?" was the stranger's greeting. + +"I'm the constable; it amounts to the same thing in Ardmore," Griggs +answered shortly, "but I ain't got no time to be bothered." + +The corpulent little visitor moved back the edge of his coat, revealing +a badge of the New York police department. + +"I'm Detective Sergeant Tish--New York headquarters," he announced. +"Your name Griggs? You telephoned last night to the Consolidated +Taxicab Company that you'd picked up an abandoned taxi on one of the +roads near Ardmore?" + +"Yes, I did," grunted Constable Griggs, "but I ain't got no time to +bother about taxicabs now. I've got a murder on my hands." + +"And I want to get my hands on a murderer," shot back Sergeant John +Henry Tish. "That taxicab was stolen by----" + +"Don't give a hoot if it was!" shouted the constable. "The taxi's at +Presley's garage. Go get it, if you want it." He even forgot that he +had expected to receive a ten-dollar gift from the taxicab company. + +Sergeant Tish, however, was not to be put off so easily. He projected +his short, portly form closer and occupied a chair beside the council +table, with the air of having something to say and being determined to +say it. He wasted no time. + +"Listen!" he commanded, wagging a pudgy forefinger with a forceful +gesture. "This is just as important to me as your case is to you. See +this?" He tapped his bandaged head. "The man I'm after did this to me, +and I'm going to get him. He knocked me cold--after I had the nippers +on him, see? I've got to get him. + +"There may be some time when you'll want a favor from the New York +department. I want a little information--and a little courtesy. I'm no +windbag, and I won't keep you long." + +"All right," grunted Constable Griggs. "What is it you want?" + +"Thanks," said Sergeant Tish. "First, where was it that you picked up +the machine?" + +"Out on the Hudson Road, 'bout half a mile from the village proper. I +called Presley's garage an' had 'em drive the bus into their shop--and +that's all I can tell you about it, every blessed thing. I notified +the taxicab company." + +"Sure, I know that, and they flashed it right to headquarters. +There was a general alarm out for that taxi. So it was run into the +garage--under its own power, huh? That means Haskins didn't ditch the +car because something went wrong with the engine. That may help some. +Pretty swell folks live out on the Hudson Road, eh?" + +Griggs nodded. "Most of 'em is rich," he agreed; "either rich or pretty +well fixed." + +"Sounds like it might be a warm trail," said Sergeant Tish, puffing out +his plump cheeks. "Y'see--well, I'll have to give you the inside for +you to understand just what the situation is." + +Despite his first impatience, Constable Griggs became interested and +offered no protest. + +"This bird I'm after," pursued Tish, "is named Don Haskins. He's got +a record as long as an income-tax report. Done a couple of short +stretches at Sing Sing, one out West--Illinois--and has been in the +line-up down at headquarters and in the Tombs. It would take an expert +accountant to keep the count. He used to be a slick crook, nifty +dresser and free spender, but he'd started slippin'. They all do. +Clever--and hard-boiled." + +Here Tish told the constable of his encounter with Haskins. + +"Humph!" grunted Constable Griggs. "I see. And you're looking for your +man in these parts. Sorry I ain't got the time to help, but----" + +"Just a minute," broke in Sergeant Tish. "I ain't quite through yet. +I'm right at the nub of it. Eighth Avenue Annie, I guess, wanted to +cover up; anyhow, she runs out on the street yellin' bloody murder, +and a couple of uniform men rushes in to find me laid out, dead to the +world. But they brings me around, and then--oh, the grillin' we did +give old Annie! We still got her locked up on a technical charge. + +"Before we got through with her, she comes through with a lot of dope +she didn't want to cough up. She hadda admit that Haskins had paid her +big for his hide-out, and that he was gettin' ready to make the big +jump out of town; that he had a rich sister, a real swell, who made him +a visit and give him some dough. She was goin' to come back with more. + +"Now, that's the funny part of it; one of the boys down at headquarters +knows Don Haskins from the first time he went to Elmira Reformatory, +and he says that Haskins did have a sister, but that she died eight or +nine years ago, and that she didn't fit the description which Annie +give us. No matter about that, it's a cinch that some swell jane did +bring him the money. Annie says she was the class. + +"Now, I was just wondering, gents--Haskins leaves the swiped taxi out +on Hudson Road. The engine was O. K. That's proof that he left it there +because he wanted to, and not because the car stopped on him. Where was +he headin' for? Mebbe this swell who calls herself his sister lives +around here. Now, you've got the whole works. I want somebody to help +me check up. See?" + +Ham Griggs' cap was on the desk which belonged officially to the +borough council's president, his honor, Mayor Ripley. The cap +accidentally--not from any design--covered the automatic pistol which +had killed Helen Gilmore. + +"As I told you," reiterated the constable, "I'm too busy this mornin' +to do anything for you. Mebbe this afternoon, when I've got a +confession outta the prisoner I got downstairs, I'll have more time." +He reached for his uniform cap with a gesture of unshakable finality. + +Sergeant Tish suddenly strained forward, his eyes bulging from out of +his plump round face, staring in open-mouthed and bewildered amazement +at the .44 on the desk. + +"Where did you get that gun?" he gasped, lunging out of the chair and +making a dive for it, getting his hands on it before Griggs could stop +him. "Where did you get my gun?" + +Ham Griggs snorted derisively. "Your gun? This here ain't your gun. It +belongs to that prisoner I got downstairs, and he shot a woman with it +last night. That's the murder case I'm workin' on." + +Tish's face was a strange study of emotion. "It's my gun!" he shouted. +"Here's a little place chipped off one of the butt plates. Sure it's my +gun. Police department issue--you can tell that by the serial number. +Sure, it's my gun--the one Don Haskins took off of me yesterday when he +knocked me out. And you say that a woman was shot with it--murdered? +You say that you took it off a prisoner, and that you've got him here? +You mean that you've got Haskins locked up?" + +The questions all jerked out with no pause, leaving him breathless, +his fat cheeks quivering. Constable Griggs was speechless, and Wiggly +Price's ears seemed determined to work themselves loose from his head. + +"You're dead sure, sergeant, that it is your gun?" Wiggly demanded +tensely. "It--it's very important that there should be no mistake about +this." + +"Don't you suppose I know my own gun?" snapped Sergeant Tish. "That's a +funny question, askin' a cop if he knows his own gun. I want Haskins, +and I want him now." + +Constable Griggs found things happening just a little too fast for +his slow wits. "I think you must be plumb crazy," he sputtered. "The +prisoner we got is named Sarbella, an Eyetalian feller; he's the one +that shot the woman with the gun. Gimme it back." + +"Like thunder I'll give it back!" retorted Sergeant Tish. + +"Wait!" said Wiggly. "I--I think I'm beginning to see some daylight. +Haskins was a crook; some good-looking, swell-dressed woman brought him +money--posed as his rich sister. And the minute Haskins got nabbed he +made tracks for Ardmore. The cheap, ten-cents-a-pack cigarettes! Just +the kind that Haskins might be expected to smoke. Haskins had Sergeant +Tish's gun--and that's the gun that killed her. Don't you understand, +constable? We've made a bad mistake because we didn't know anything +about Haskins. The murderer was Haskins--the crook!" + +And for the moment Wiggly forgot all about the black hairpin. + + + + + CHAPTER XX + + A QUEER JUMBLE + + +"Haskins killed her!" Wiggly Price repeated excitedly. "We're on the +right trail; there doesn't seem to be any other explanation now. +Haskins, the crook, shot her--with that gun." + +While Sergeant Tish's identification of the murder gun, as the same +automatic pistol that Don Haskins had taken from his unconscious person +the previous afternoon, plus the certainty that Haskins had deserted +the stolen taxicab at no great distance from Greenacres, made it an +obvious theory that it might have been the crook who had murdered Helen +Gilmore, Constable Griggs sputtered protestingly. No man likes to admit +a mistake. For a moment he was too eternally flabbergasted for words; +this sudden development, the appearance of a new and unknown suspect, +floundered him helplessly in a sea of bewilderment. + +Possibility of Victor Sarbella's innocence endangered his triumph and +put the brakes on his ego, for, by that mental process which makes men +heroes in their own eyes, Ham Griggs had given himself a good deal more +credit than he was really entitled to. He forgot that it had been the +newspaper reporter's well-functioning memory, identifying the slain +woman as "the girl in the Sarbella case," which had supplied the vital +link, the possible motive, and that, except for Wiggly, there would +have been nothing upon which to have detained the artist. + +Not that Wiggly Price begrudged the constable feeding his vanity +fat; for Wiggly was interested only in the story and concerned not +at all with whatever transitory fame might attach to the solver of +the mystery. Give Wiggly the story, and he was willing that Constable +Griggs should monopolize the credit. + +Sergeant John Henry Tish, realizing the importance that attached to +a positive identification of the automatic, examined it still more +carefully, reaffirming an already firm conviction that it was his. His +own excitement, too, matched that of the newspaper reporter. + +"There's no doubt about it, gents," he declared. "It's my gun." + +"Huh!" grunted Constable Griggs, at last finding his tongue. "There +must be hundreds of guns like that, as much the same as peas in a pod." +His skepticism was, of course, backed by the wish that it be a mistake. +"Mebbe it looks like your gun, mebbe it _has_ got a busted place on the +butt plates, but that don't prove----" + +"A cop gets pretty well acquainted with a gun when he's packed it as +long as I've packed this one. There's a lot of little marks on it that +I recognize. I know it's my gat, and the serial number will prove it; +the department keeps a record of the numbers." + +"It's a police regulation, all right," grunted Wiggly Price. "I ought +to have noticed that the first thing, but I didn't. I don't think +there's much chance of Sergeant Tish being mistaken, constable, +especially since the deserted taxi gives us proof that Haskins did come +to Ardmore last night." + +"Well, I ain't sayin' that it ain't, but at the same time I ain't +sayin' that it is," growled Ham Griggs. "Nor am I goin' to admit that +Sarbella didn't do the killin'; if he's so all-fired innocent, what +makes him keep his mouth shut so tight? If you think I'm goin' to turn +him loose just because somebody else _might_ have done it----" + +"Oh, I'm not trying to have you turn Sarbella out of jail, constable," +said Wiggly. "I've no interest in him, personal or otherwise, beyond +seeing you put hands on the guilty man. Detain him long as you like, so +far as I'm concerned." + +"You betcha life I'll detain him long as I like!" blustered the +constable with a glare. + +The rotund Sergeant Tish stood impatiently to his feet, shoving the +automatic into the empty holster, where it belonged. + +"It sure looks like Haskins is wanted now for two croaks instead of +one," he said gruffly. "Suppose we make tracks for the place where the +woman was killed. Just wasting time here." + +"Huh!" sneered Constable Griggs. "You don't think the feller you're +after will still be out to Greenacres?" + +"Hardly," answered Tish, "but we've got to start from there, anyhow. +Haskins won't get far, I guess; there's already a general alarm out for +him. When they do nab him, I aim to have the goods on him--right." + +"Yes, we've got to go back to the Gilmore place," agreed Wiggly. +"We've got an entirely new angle to work on now." + +Ham Griggs, still voicing a half-hearted protest, perhaps further +embittered that this New York detective was now upon the scene and +would probably try to take all the glory for himself, got grudgingly to +his feet. The three men left Borough Hall and went out to the street. + +"Confound it!" complained Wiggly. "It must be a two-mile walk out there +to Greenacres. Why didn't I keep that taxi? And there's a real hurry, +too. Where can we get a machine, constable?" + +"Presley's garage--if Presley has opened up," Ham Griggs answered +sourly. "It's right around the corner." + +"Ain't necessary," said Sergeant Tish. "I came out in one of the +department's flivvers. Got it parked just around the corner. It's only +a two-seater, but I guess we can manage it. The main thing is to get +out to that place quick as we can." + +He led the way around the corner, where stood the roadster with "Police +Dept." painted upon the sides. The New York plain-clothes man got in +first, wedging his portly form in behind the steering wheel. Constable +Griggs, too, was a man of considerable bulk so that, even without +Wiggly, all available seat room was occupied. + +"The running board for mine," Price said cheerfully and climbed up. +"Let 'er go, sergeant." + +Tish started the engine, manipulated the foot pedals somewhat +awkwardly, and the little car started forward with a violence that +almost jerked the newspaper man to the ground; to save himself what +might have been a bad spill, one arm encircled Ham Griggs' neck, adding +to the latter's ill humor. + +"I've always heard that you newspaper fellers was a pesky nuisance," he +muttered. + +If Wiggly was tempted to a retort, he gave no signs of it, merely +murmured an apology. There was a moment of silence, the constable +frowning deeply. + +"We do know why Sarbella would have killed her," he argued; "because +she vamped his brother and drove him to suicide, but why would this +Haskins feller have done it? Answer me that!" + +"Haskins is a hard guy," growled Sergeant Tish. "He wouldn't have +needed much motive, that bird. Look at the way he clouted me over the +head with his handcuffs. Like as not he had some sort of hold on her. +The murdered woman must of been the swell dame that Haskins told Eighth +Avenue Annie was his sister. See?" + +"That ain't nothin' but guessin'," said Constable Griggs. "How are you +goin' to know if she was?" + +"It may be guessing, but it's a darn' good guess," replied Tish. "And, +far as that's concerned, we can have Annie down to look at the body +and tell us whether or not it was the skirt who come to her place and +handed Haskins some dough." + +"But _why_ would Haskins have killed her?" persisted Ham Griggs. + +"Well, I can't say positive as to that," answered Tish, "but it would +be a pretty safe bet to figure it out. When I dropped in on him at old +Annie's yesterday afternoon, he had to beat it in such a hurry that he +left his money under the mattress; perhaps he made tracks for this +Greenacres place to get money. Y'see, constable, she was going to bring +him some more jack Wednesday--which is to-day--but I spoiled that. +Since she couldn't come to him with the dough, he come to her. Like +as not she was a little slow in coming across with the money, and he +croaked her." + +"Robbery, huh?" demanded Ham Griggs. "Ain't that what you're drivin' +at?" + +Sergeant Tish admitted that this was his tentative theory regarding the +murder at Greenacres. The constable's grim face broke into a triumphant +smile, for he had led the New York detective into a deliberate trap. + +"That ain't no good," he said with a grunt of satisfaction. "There +wasn't no robbery, Mr. Tish, for the Gilmore woman was still wearin' +her jewelry when we found her dead. There must have been diamonds and +the like worth a good many hundred dollars. Wouldn't he have taken the +jewelry? I ask you, wouldn't he?" + +"Well, I didn't know about that," answered Sergeant Tish, looking +not so crestfallen as Griggs would have liked. "That seemed the most +plausible, and it's still not impossible, for Haskins may have taken +money and have been too pressed for time--you haven't told me anything +about the facts, you know--to strip off the jewelry. + +"Anyhow what we _do_ know is that Haskins did go to Greenacres, and +that murder was done with the gun which was in his possession. If +Haskins didn't kill her, then--how did the murderer get this automatic +pistol?" + +Constable Griggs could not, of course, answer this question. Wiggly +Price, his feet planted firmly upon the running board of the little +car, and his fingers wrapped tightly about the rods supporting the top, +thought of something which added, to his mind, a fresh puzzler to the +whole mysterious business. + +"There's something else, Sergeant Tish," he said, raising his voice so +that he might be heard above the sound of the motor and the rush of the +wind, as they hurried along. "If Haskins killed her, why did he leave +the gun behind? He is a desperate man, already in open flight to escape +one charge of murder, and a man in a position such as his would want to +be armed. Chances are that he would shoot it out before submitting to +capture. You say that Haskins is a clever crook, and----" + +"Used to be," broke in Tish. "Been going down grade for some time. +Booze--dope, too, likely as not." + +"If he had any head on him at all," continued Wiggly, "he would have +known that there was every chance in the world of that gun being +traced. There's something else. The gun was planted beside the dead +woman's body, an effort to give it every appearance of suicide. Why +should Haskins have done that?" + +"I wish you'd give me the low-down on the case," urged Sergeant Tish. +"How do you expect me to get anywhere when you gimme the facts in jerks +and starts like that?" + +Constable Griggs' face wore an elated expression as he listened to +Wiggly. The reporter had declared his positive conviction of Haskins' +guilt, and yet here he was shooting his own theory full of holes. + +"So you've come back to my way of thinkin', eh?" he crowed. "Come on +now and admit that I put the handcuffs on the right man. The Eyetalian +done it. Sure he did. I was right all the time." + +The reporter's ears twitched meditatively. + +"I'm not saying positively that Haskins didn't kill the woman," he +answered. "But I do say that I can't understand why _he_ should have +been so anxious for it to appear suicide. It's very easy to understand +a possible link between this crook and Gilmore's wife; she began life, +I think I told you, on the fringe of the underworld. Oh, I admit that +I'm stumped--bad, but there must be a hidden something, somewhere, that +will put us right." + +The detective sergeant's car was now at that point of the road where it +ran in front of the Gilmore place. + +"Turn in here, Sergeant Tish," grunted the constable, as they neared +the driveway, and Tish turned the wheel sharply. Before they had quite +reached the house, Tish stopped the machine. + +"Listen, gents," he said crisply, "let's get down to cases. It looks +to me as if Haskins did the job here at this place, although, as our +reporter friend says, it _is_ queer that he left the gat behind. I want +to put my mitts on Don Haskins, whether he did the croak or not. And +you wanna get hold of the same bird, for, if he didn't do it, you want +him to tell you how this gun of mine got away from him. + +"I want Haskins, and you want Haskins. Circumstances puts us in +the same boat, and we ought to work together on this business." He +suppressed a wise grin, as he saw the look of displeasure on Griggs' +face. "Aw, don't worry, constable, I'm not going to butt in on your +territory. I'm not tryin' to steal your thunder." + +Sergeant Tish paused for a reply. + +"Humph!" grunted Ham Griggs, not finding any valid excuse for refusing +this offer of coöperation. + +"About all I know to date," pursued Sergeant Tish, "is that a woman +was bumped off with my gun, the one that Haskins lifted from me, when +he handed me a knock-out at Eighth Avenue Annie's, that the pistol was +left beside the body to make it look like suicide, and that you've +gathered in a guy named Sarbella. If I'm goin' to help you any, I've +got to have the low-down. See?" + +"Yes, constable, we'd better tell him," said Wiggly Price, as Griggs +remained silent. "If you've no objection, I'll give him a brief outline +of the facts." + +"All right," agreed Griggs, and Price related to Tish the facts in the +case. + +Sergeant Tish listened thoughtfully to Wiggly Price's digest of the +tragedy, and, puffing out his plump cheeks to a balloonlike roundness, +nodded his head. + +"It's sure a queer jumble, ain't it?" he grunted. "I don't blame you, +Griggs, for thinkin' this Sarbella fellow pulled the job, but how would +Sarbella have got hold of the gun? No, it still looks like Don Haskins +to me. Nobody else to be suspected, I suppose?" + +Wiggly thought of the black hairpin and that germ of suspicion which +Etta Griggs had planted in his mind by telling him of the suspected +one-sided romance between Joan Sheridan and her stepbrother. He +hesitated a moment and decided to keep this to himself, at least for +the present. Let Sarbella and Don Haskins, walking so unexpectedly into +the mystery, be eliminated before other complications were added. He +sidestepped this question by ignoring it entirely. + +"Surely," he said, "if Bates had let Haskins into the house, he would +have mentioned it." + +"Why don't we ask him whether he did or not?" grunted Constable Griggs, +for at this moment the butler had stepped out of the house into the +warming sunlight of the wide porch. + + + + + CHAPTER XXI + + A CRY OF TERROR + + +The three men left the little police car where it stood and walked the +remaining few yards to the house. Bates saw their coming; as a matter +of fact, he had from within noticed their approach, and he had come out +to meet them. Despite his evident weariness, he was patently eager for +any news. Constable Griggs, quickly forestalling any move that might +tend to crowd himself out of the major role, planted himself directly +in front of the butler, frowning sternly. + +"When was the last time you saw the dead woman alive?" he demanded. + +"Immediately after dinner," answered Bates; "she went directly +upstairs, and I did not see her again until--until she was dead." + +"How long had you been in bed when it happened?" + +"It was some time, sir; at least two hours, I am sure." + +"What I'm hittin' at is this," explained Griggs; "we've got some new +dope that may mean something, and then again it may not. Did you let a +strange man into the house last night, or did you see any strange man +prowlin' about the place?" + +"I--I don't believe I understand," murmured Bates. "A strange man, +sir--prowling about the house?" + +"That's what I said," grunted the constable, "and it's evident that you +didn't. Was the doors locked?" + +"Absolutely," Bates answered firmly. "I always lock up before turning +in for the night. I have been very careful about that, especially since +the burglar scare that we had last year." + +"Then the man couldn't have got into the house unless you had let him +in?" pressed Griggs. + +"The woman herself might have let him in, constable," interposed +Sergeant Tish. "If the butler had gone to bed she might have done it +without any one hearing her." + +"Huh!" retorted Ham Griggs, with a quicker flash of reasoning than +might have been expected. "How would she have known Haskins was about, +unless he rung the doorbell, or called her on the phone, or something +like that? Until you, Sergeant Tish, trapped 'im in that place in New +York, he didn't know his own self that he was comin' to Greenacres." + +"I am positive that there was no ring of any sort, either doorbell or +telephone, until Mr. Gilmore got me up to let him in--just before the +shot," offered Bates. "Any sort of ringing would have awakened me. But +this strange man--I do not understand. Who----" + +"Might as well tell you, I suppose," grunted the constable. "We've +found out that the murder gun most likely belongs to this man"--he +jerked his head toward Tish--"who is a detective from New York. The gun +was taken away from him by a feller named Haskins, who swiped a taxi in +New York to make his get-away, and that same taxi was found by myself +out on the road, 'bout one and a half or two miles from here. So----" + +"Then it isn't Mr. Sarbella's gun?" broke in Bates with a gasp of +surprise. + +"That don't mean I've turned Sarbella out of jail, not by a whole lot, +it don't," growled Ham Griggs. "He might have got hold of the gun +somehow; he might----" But, being unable to supply any further theory +of Sarbella's guilt, his voice stopped abruptly. There was a moment of +silence, broken by Bates. + +"Did I tell you about the letter?" he asked in his thin voice. "No, I +think not. It was Doctor Bushnell that I told about the letter." + +"What letter?" demanded Griggs. + +"The letter that came for Mrs. Gilmore on Monday," supplied the butler. +"I considered it most peculiar at the time, a very dirty envelope, +addressed with a lead pencil. She seemed much upset over it, although +she tried to pass it off." + +"It might have been from Haskins at that," spoke up Wiggly Price, +and he turned to Sergeant Tish. "It was yesterday--Tuesday--that you +cornered Haskins in the place you call Eighth Avenue Annie's. What day +was it that the swell-dressed woman called on the man at that place?" + +"Monday," answered Tish. + +"Ah!" exclaimed the newspaper man triumphantly, and his ears wiggled a +bit. "It was Monday that the murdered woman got this letter that Bates +tells about. Bates, did she go to New York on Monday?" + +"I don't think to New York, but she did drive somewhere in the +motor--out into the country, I believe she said." + +"Yes, so she said," nodded Wiggly with meaning emphasis. "That doesn't +make it true that she didn't go to New York. Any one accompany her on +this motor trip?" + +"She went alone; she returned late in the afternoon." + +"Say!" exploded Ham Griggs with a glare. "One would think _you_ was the +officer in charge the way you're bustin' in with all these questions." + +"Just one question more, Constable Griggs," urged Wiggly. "I'm not +trying to be officious. Bates, let us suppose for a moment that this +man, Don Haskins, did get into the house in some way or another, would +he have had time to get down the stairs before you and Mr. Gilmore +rushed up--and then let himself out of the house, while you and Mr. +Gilmore were upstairs?" + +Bates debated this question for a moment and then shook his head +positively. + +"He would not," he replied; "but he might have easily found a place +to conceal himself in one of the rooms upstairs. There is one bit of +detail that I may have forgotten to mention. When Mr. Gilmore and I +were about halfway up the stairway, I am positive that I heard a door +slam very loudly--very loudly, indeed." + +"Huh!" grunted the constable. "That don't mean anything much. It might +just as well have been Sarbella rushin' back to his room after havin' +shot her." And then he indulged in another bit of reasoning which did +him credit. "If it was the Gilmore woman who went to see Haskins in +New York, we know she wasn't too afraid of him to go see him in that +cheap joint Sergeant Tish told us about. And yet she was afraid of the +one who come in on her last night--because she screamed. Why did she +scream? I'll tell you why she screamed; it was because she knowed that +Sarbella had come to kill her! Just put that in your pipe and smoke it +a while." + +"Not a bad deduction," nodded Sergeant Tish, "but the thing that +puzzles all of us is--how did Sarbella get the gun away from Haskins? +We're just wastin' good time arguing back and forth. Let's go upstairs +and see if we can't pick up something new." + +"The--the body has been removed," the butler informed them. "The +undertaker left an hour since. Doctor Bushnell was very careful that +nothing else should be disturbed, and the room is locked. Doctor +Bushnell----" + +"And took the key off with him, I suppose," growled Constable Griggs. + +"Doctor Bushnell, as I started to say," went on Bates, "is still here. +Mr. Gilmore seems to be in quite a bad way, and the doctor is looking +after him." + +"We'll go on upstairs," declared Griggs. "Tell the doc that we want him +to come right on up and let us into that room." + +Wiggly Price did not follow them immediately; he loitered downstairs +until Bates had delivered the message to the doctor and had returned. +The butler, luckily for Wiggly, had not been told the reporter's true +interest in the case, else he would have doubtless guarded his tongue +most carefully. + +"It's a bad business, Bates," said the newspaper man to begin the +conversation. + +"A terrible business," agreed the butler. "You don't think that Mr. +Sarbella killed her?" + +"You do?" + +"What else could I believe, with all the queer happenings? But I hope +not--as much for Mr. Gilmore's sake as anything, sir; he seems to take +Mr. Sarbella's arrest almost as hard as the murder." + +"She was a bad lot, your master's slain wife, Bates." + +"I am not surprised at that," murmured the servant. "I sensed that +she wasn't the right sort. I think we all realized that--except Mr. +Kirklan." + +"Of course he wouldn't; she was a remarkably beautiful woman, and he +was in love with her. Quite a sudden marriage, I understand." + +"Very sudden; a surprise and a shock to all of us." + +"It's much too bad, Bates, that Mr. Gilmore did not marry a woman +of the right kind--Miss Joan, say." Wiggly's tone was disarmingly +careless, and Bates did not understand that information was being +sought. + +"Yes, it certainly is," agreed the butler earnestly, falling +straightway into the little trap. "We were all hoping that it would +turn out that way. All of us, except Mr. Kirklan, could see with +half an eye that Miss Joan was in love with him, even if she is his +stepsister; it cut her up terribly when she came home from Europe and +found her here. Not only here, sir, but in Miss Joan's own room." + +"The room where the murder was committed?" + +"Exactly, sir; that was Miss Joan's old room--the one that she had +occupied since she was quite a small girl. When she came back I didn't +have the heart to tell her about the room. 'Bates,' she says to me, +'take the bags up to my room.' And I didn't have the heart to tell +her--knowing how much store she put by it." + +This information, verification of what Etta Griggs had told him, might +mean something or nothing, Wiggly knew; probably nothing. It was just +that he had that avidity of the trained newspaper reporter for all +the facts, because experience had taught him it is often the smallest +detail which, in the light of other things, achieves prime importance. +And there was the black hairpin; he was thinking of that again. + +That could not be overlooked. + +At this moment Doctor Bushnell appeared from the room on the first +floor, where he had placed Kirklan Gilmore, and whose bedside he was +just leaving. + +"Gilmore is in a bad, nervous state," he imparted after a nod to the +reporter. "You saw him upstairs before you left for the village; he was +bad enough then, but I'm afraid of a complete collapse--one of those +high-strung, emotional chaps, you know. If his thoughts are allowed to +torture him, they might even drive him to insanity; he must be kept +quiet. Poor devil! It's much too bad that a love like that should have +to be wasted on a woman like her. Then, to make matters worse, to make +the shock double, the man whom he considered his friend----" + +He paused, remembering the cigarette butt that Wiggly had taken down to +the village. + +"What did you discover?" + +"That it was not Victor Sarbella's cigarette that had been dropped upon +the rug. More than that, doctor, we've got another suspect now." + +"Another suspect? What other suspect could there be?" + +Briefly Wiggly Price told the physician of Sergeant Tish's appearance +at Borough Hall, his identification of the murder gun, and the other +matters which turned the finger of suspicion so strongly toward Don +Haskins, the crook who had already been in flight from one murder +charge. This information left Doctor Bushnell almost speechless. + +"It's astounding!" he gasped. "Positively astounding! It--it does have +a plausible sound, for a fact." + +"The thing that bothers us," Wiggly told him, "is why Haskins should +have been so careful to have it appear suicide. Surely no one besides +Helen Gilmore knew that he was inside the house. Obviously he came for +money--he had a hold of some kind on her; probably knew about her past +and was levying blackmail; but there's no evidence that he got any +money, and he didn't touch her jewelry." + +"You can't spend jewelry without first pawning or selling it," the +doctor said shrewdly; "possibly he realized that it would be too +dangerous for him to risk appearing in a pawnshop. Perhaps he did get +money." + +"He wouldn't have had to kill her for that," countered Wiggly. "If +he did know of her past, this knowledge alone was sufficient to +extort money. He wouldn't have had to kill her. But let's be getting +upstairs. Griggs and Sergeant Tish are waiting for you to let them into +the murder room. Now that we're working from a new angle, it's best to +go over the ground again, and we've daylight now." + +The physician nodded and started for the stairs. + +"The crook's guilt would be the most satisfactory solution," he said, +"but it did look bad for Sarbella. Is he still being detained?" + +"Yes. You can't blame Griggs for holding him; the murder isn't solved +yet, and it won't be, to my notion, until a number of points are +cleared up," answered Wiggly. + +As they reached the second floor, Ham Griggs and Sergeant Tish were +waiting, the former with considerable impatience. Doctor Bushnell +unlocked the door of the murder chamber and threw it wide. The body of +Helen Gilmore, as the butler had informed them, had been removed, but +the chaise longue, its creton upholstering stained with dark splotches, +bore its mute testimony of the tragedy. + +"Here we are," grunted the constable, "but I dunno what you expect to +find more'n has already been found." + +Sergeant Tish projected his rotund form to the center of the room, +glanced about briefly, and then went to the windows, raising the shades +to their full height so that all possible light would be admitted. At +the second window the ripped curtain dangled before him and drew his +attention. + +"It would be my guess," he said, pointing to the curtain, "that this +means one of two things: Either it was done in a struggle with the +murdered woman, or when the murderer beat it through the window." He +paused a moment and added: "Still, it doesn't look as if he'd have +taken the time to shut the window behind him." + +He peered through the glass to the roof of the porch, puffed out his +round cheeks, and quickly threw up the sash. There had been no rain in +weeks, and the porch shingles were covered with a coating of dust. This +film was broken where Don Haskins' body had wiggled upward from the +cornice in his careful approach to the window, and, in more places than +one, the imprint of the man's stockinged feet showed. At Tish's grunt +of elation, Constable Griggs dashed forward, with Doctor Bushnell and +Wiggly behind him. + +"Somebody either entered or left this room through the window!" +exclaimed Tish. "There's his trail in the dust on the shingles." + +"Entered!" said the newspaper reporter, his ears twitching. "You can +see that those footprints--and the man was in his stockings--are all +turned this way. Yes, he came in by the window, but he didn't leave by +the window. Another check in Sarbella's favor. + +"The man must have torn the curtain here, as he came into the room." + +Constable Griggs gulped, but said nothing. Sergeant Tish bent forward +and examined the pane of the raised sash. Clear and distinct there were +the prints of a man's fingers--on the inside of the glass. These prints +were punctuated with downward streaks, as if the fingers had slipped, +but the whorls had not been obliterated; in fact they were clear and +distinct. + +Tish reached his pudgy fingers to the breast pocket of his coat and +drew forth a Bertillon card which he had borrowed from headquarters, +and which bore, in addition to rogues' gallery photographs, full-face +and profile, of Don Haskins, the crook's finger prints. + +He bobbled his head back and forth, getting the light at the best +possible angle, and then he compared the finger prints on the window +glass with those upon the card. He gave a grunt of satisfaction and +nodded his head in affirmation. + +"Yep, this clinches it, gents. These are Haskins' finger prints on +the window. Good thing I brought this card along, huh?" It is hard +for a man with a chubby face like Tish's to look grim, but his voice +certainly was grim, as he added, "Haskins is wanted now for two +murders. The job now is--find Haskins." + +Wiggly Price leaned closer, and he, too, observed that the finger +prints were on the inside of the pane. + +"That means," he said, "that Haskins came in the window and closed +it behind him. Those smudges at the top of the prints show that his +fingers slipped a little on the glass, and that his pressure was +downward. And, had he been raising the window, the finger prints would +have been at the top of the sash rather than at the bottom." + +"That's true," Tish agreed absently, returning the Bertillon card to +his pocket and turning away from the window. "Haskins must have climbed +to the roof from the porch below. Guess we'll find evidence of that, +too, on the porch pillars, although it's not particularly important how +he got up; the thing that counts is that he did, that the man was in +the house, in this very room." + +Ham Griggs realized that this new evidence, the incontrovertible proof +of the finger prints, completely knocked the legs out from under +his persistent theory of Sarbella's guilt, and for the moment he +surrendered to a stunned and bewildered helplessness. + +Doctor Bushnell's eyes remained upon the windowpane, with an intent and +fascinated interest. + +"Most remarkable!" he murmured. "How much can be proven by such a small +thing as the touch of a man's finger! The one witness, I understand, +that cannot lie. But what is the next move?" + +"Find Don Haskins," Tish answered promptly. + +"And that's a big order," sighed Wiggly Price. "The man's probably +miles away from Greenacres by now. However there's nothing like being +thorough, and, if Constable Griggs can get a posse together----" + +"Huh!" snorted the constable. "You don't think he'd still be hangin' +anywhere around Ardmore?" + +"That depends on whether he got hold of any money," replied Sergeant +Tish. "He was broke when he left New York, y'know." He took a step +across the room and bent forward, as his foot crunched down upon a +piece of the broken vase on the floor beside the table. He picked it up +and held it in his fingers. + +"Haskins probably lurched against the table and knocked it off," said +Wiggly, explaining what it was. Tish glanced with slight interest at +the shattered bit of porcelain and tossed it down. It did, of course, +seem too trivial a thing for any serious consideration. + +"We've put in a pretty good quarter of an hour here," grunted Tish, +"and I guess we've done about all----Good Lord! What was that?" + +From out in the hallway there had come to the ears of the four men the +sound of a choking, terrified cry, a jarring, dull thud, a rending +crash of broken glass. And then--silence. + + + + + CHAPTER XXII + + WHAT THE COOK SAW + + +There is no drama greater than the drama of life. The actors are more +than often thrust into rôles that are not of their choosing, and they +respond to cues that they do not recognize as cues, blindly obeying the +director as he plunges them into unsought situations. + +Mrs. Bogart, the Gilmore cook, who came to Greenacres each morning and +returned to her home on the outskirts of Ardmore each evening, was in +the kitchen; and, although it was baking day, not so much as a cup of +flour had been sifted. She had arrived shortly after daybreak, to be +greeted with news of the murder, and immediately she gave herself over +to intermittent outbursts of weeping. Not that Mrs. Bogart, wide of +hips, ample of bosom and stolid of countenance, with straight, black +hair brushed severely back from her low and usually damp forehead, +had any great feeling of bereavement; but, for all of her phlegmatic +aspect, the cook was given to strong emotions. At the funeral of a +comparative stranger, for instance, it was the sound of her sobs which +arose above the muffled grief of the immediate family. + +So Mrs. Bogart, except for brewing a bit of breakfast tea and toasting +some slices of bread--badly burned, at that--neglected her kitchen +work and gave way to her emotional nature. From Bates she had learned +that the undertaker had arrived, and that "the new Mrs. Gilmore" had +been, as she phrased it, "laid out" in one of the spare bedrooms on the +second floor. + +Now, Mrs. Bogart, her attendance at funerals amounting to an obsession, +had gazed into the face of death innumerable times, but she had never +known the thrill of looking into the features of one who had been +murdered. People about Ardmore were in the habit of dying prosaically +in their beds. This was an opportunity that might never come to her +again; and well-to-do folks, she had observed, frequently had their +funerals conducted privately, turning back the pryingly curious. + +For some time Mrs. Bogart, whose place was strictly the kitchen, and +who had no other household duties, had been trying to think up an +excuse to visit the second floor, considering that this might offer her +an opportunity of viewing the dead woman. Not possessing a particularly +agile mind, it took her some little time to arrive at this bit of +pretense, and she wouldn't have thought of it then except for some +empty fruit jars. And, while the jars might have better gone to the +basement, Mrs. Bogart craftily decided to carry them upstairs to the +third floor and into the seldom-used storeroom. + +"Goodness knows," she murmured, "I've been threatenin' for days upon +days to get 'em out of the kitchen." + +Straightway she mounted to a chair, took the fruit jars from the +shelf where they had been temporarily placed, used a dish cloth in +improvising a sling which would carry the full ten of them, and +started for the third floor. At some time or another there had been +a back stairs to the Gilmore house, but this had been closed off in +making some modernizing alterations, so that Mrs. Bogart perforce +had to wend her way to the reception hall and up the wide front +stairway--hoping that Bates would not see her and order her back to her +own domain. + +Bates, however, did not appear to interrupt her little pilgrimage of +morbid curiosity. She reached the second floor and, having to pass the +room wherein Helen Gilmore had been shot to death, paused for a moment +outside the narrowly open door, as she sought in vain to get anything +like a good look inside. And, while she could not see much, her ears +certainly got her a thrill, for it was at this moment that Sergeant +Tish had said: "Yep, this clinches it, gents. These are Haskins' finger +prints on the window. Good thing I brought this card along, huh? +Haskins is wanted now for two murders. The job now is--find Haskins." + +Mrs. Bogart's eyes bulged, and the empty fruit jars came perilously +near crashing to the floor. Two murders! What did they mean? Who else +had been murdered, and who was Haskins? Up to the moment of her last +talk with Bates about the tragedy all suspicion had been leveled at +Sarbella. + +She tarried a moment, but there was nothing of the conversation on the +other side of the door to enlighten her; not wishing to run the risk of +being caught at eavesdropping, she moved on down the hall toward the +stairs, the top of the house, and the seldom-used storeroom. + +The entrance to the third floor stairway was inclosed, and it was +reached by means of a door. Mrs. Bogart's hand went out to the knob; +her strong fingers closed about it with a muscular grip, and then a +startled gasp sounded on her lips, and a chill swept over her body. +The door had yielded a bare inch when she felt a retarding pressure, +holding it shut against her. Some one was on the other side! + +"Mebbe--mebbe it's just stuck a little," she muttered in a gulping +whisper. "Mebbe I imagined it." She braced her body, took a fresh and +determined grip on the knob, and tried it again. Under exertion of +this strong pull the door, still in the grasp of that opposing, unseen +force, came toward her a bare inch or so, revealing to her staring +eyes, indistinct in the shadows of the inclosed stairs, a bleary, +unshaven face--a face hideously haggard, terrifying. + +Mrs. Bogart staggered back with a choking, frightened cry upon her +lips; the fruit jars crashed to the floor, with a thud and the sound of +splintering glass, and the woman herself toppled over in a dead faint. +From the side of her face there gushed a stream of blood, where the +ragged edge of a broken jar had slashed the flesh. After the woman's +cry, the four men in the room up the hall stood staring at each other +for a brief moment. + +"What's happened now?" gasped Wiggly Price, and Constable Griggs was +too utterly stupefied to make a sound. + +"It sounds like a woman's scream," said Doctor Bushnell, looking no +less dazed than the rest. + +Sergeant Tish was the first to leap into motion, projecting his pudgy +body out into the hall with the other three at his heels. At the sight +of the prostrate Mrs. Bogart, surrounded by broken and unbroken fruit +jars, with the blood still streaming from her face, the New York +detective stopped dead in his tracks. + +"What's this?" he shouted. "Who is this woman, and what's happened to +her?" + +Constable Griggs edged forward and made a number of queer sounds before +he finally found voice. + +"It--it's Mrs. Bogart--she that does the cookin' for the Gilmores!" he +gulped. "She's all bloody. Do--do you reckon that she's been murdered, +too?" + +Doctor Bushnell brushed past and knelt quickly to the floor at the side +of the unconscious woman. + +"She's not dead!" exclaimed Wiggly Price, noting the rapid rise and +fall of Mrs. Bogart's bosom. + +"Nor badly hurt, I think," said the physician, as he made a rapid +examination. "The blood here is from a superficial wound; she's been +cut by this broken glass. I wonder what _has_ happened to her?" He +jerked his head toward the newspaper man. "Get my medicine kit, Price," +he commanded. "You'll find it downstairs; I left it on the table in the +library." + +Wiggly dashed down the stairs in instant response. Yes, what had +happened to this woman whom Griggs identified as the Gilmore cook? Was +this another angle to complicate the Greenacres tangle? + +Passing through the hall into the library he heard a familiar +voice; it was "Tip" Gregory, a star reporter for a rival New York +newspaper, _The Transcript_, pleading with the butler for admittance +and information, and Bates was sternly refusing him either. Wouldn't +Gregory have gnashed his teeth in baffled rage if he had known that +Wiggly Price had things so sweetly to himself! + +But the situation was too tense for wasting any time or thoughts upon +what was, after all, only an accidental triumph. He had the silly Etta +Griggs to thank for being here, on the inside of a big story, instead +of spending the morning canvassing the other papers for a job. In the +library was Doctor Bushnell's medicine kit; he grabbed the handle of +the little bag, wheeled and raced up the stairway again. + +Mrs. Bogart was stirring, a moan passed her lips, but she had not +returned to consciousness. + +"Is she badly hurt, doctor?" Wiggly asked, as he placed the kit upon +the floor. + +"No, this cut would not cause unconsciousness. She must either have +fainted and fallen, or fainted because she fell. Sometimes sudden and +profuse bleeding causes----" + +The physician's words broke off at the sound of a stifled cry coming +from the turn of the hall, where the corridor led off to the wing of +the house. Joan Sheridan, alarmed by Mrs. Bogart's scream of fright, +had hurriedly left her room to investigate. Her face told of a +sleepless, harrowed night, and now her eyes were wide and startled with +this threat of fresh terror. + +"Oh," she whispered, "it's Mrs. Bogart. In Heaven's name what--what has +happened now?" + +"That's what we are not exactly certain of, Miss Joan," answered Doctor +Bushnell, as he cut a dressing for the wound in the cook's face. "She +must have fallen. It is nothing serious; do not let it agitate you." + +Wiggly Price had looked up quickly at the name of "Joan," for this was +the first time that he had seen her, the stepsister who was so much in +love with Kirklan Gilmore. She was not aware of his scrutiny, so he had +ample opportunity to study her closely. His experience at reporting had +given him a sort of instinctive ability to gauge the human emotions, +and he had a feeling that there was more than horror in the girl's dark +eyes, and he read it with one brief word--fear. + +This look of fear was not dissipated by the physician's assurance that +Mrs. Bogart's injury was superficial. It remained, a peculiar, almost +indescribable expression. + +"Your mother, Miss Joan, is resting quietly after the shock?" murmured +Doctor Bushnell, stanching the flow of blood in the unconscious woman's +cheek. "I will see her again presently." + +"Y-yes," Joan Sheridan said faintly; "mother is sleeping, and Bates has +told me that Mr. Sarbella had been placed under arrest." + +"That's true," nodded the doctor, "but it looks now that he will +be released very shortly. You were right when you were so sure +that Sarbella was innocent, and I have a new respect for a woman's +intuition. I think you'd better go back to your room, please." + +But the doctor's reassuring words seemed to have other than a soothing +effect upon Joan; if possible, her face became a shade more pale. +Certainly she gave a violent start, and that smoldering light of fear +leaped into a wild light of terror. + +"You mean----" The shaking whisper that came from her lips was hardly +audible. + +"Please, Joan, please!" exclaimed the doctor. "This is no time for +questions. I've a fainting woman on my hands, and a new suspect +entirely, a crook who got in by the window. The gun was his. No more +questions now." + +A gasp that seemed to be at the same time amazement and relief came +from the girl; a look of bewilderment showed in her face. Her hands, +so tightly clenched at her sides, relaxed; swiftly she turned and +disappeared around the bend in the hall. + +Wiggly Price's ears twitched violently, for he, unlike the others--and +he, too, would have doubtless overlooked it but for the black hairpin +and the gossip Etta Griggs had given him--had observed her agitation +when told that Sarbella had practically been removed as a suspect, and +her surprise and the relaxing tenseness when she learned of the other. + +Did this mean that she had knowledge of the crime, which, for reasons +of her own, she had kept to herself? With this Wiggly linked still +another question: Why had Joan Sheridan been so positive of Victor +Sarbella's innocence? For Wiggly was of the opinion that "woman's +intuition" is something greatly exaggerated. The answer to the latter +question was in itself unimportant; for that matter, so had Kirklan +Gilmore been certain, to the point of vigorous protest, that the +artist had not fired the fatal shot. + +Wiggly made up his mind then and there that, while Constable Griggs was +searching for Don Haskins, he would be searching for the answer to Joan +Sheridan's puzzling behavior. He was certain there must be something +behind it, a vital something that would have an important bearing on +the crime. + +Doctor Bushnell had completed dressing Mrs. Bogart's wound, having +delayed restoratives until this was done. Now he was chafing her wrists +briskly, and the woman was showing signs of coming to her senses. With +startling suddenness her eyes flew open, and she sat erect; since +her first conscious thought was a return to the moment of her swoon, +a fresh cry of terror burst from her throat. It trailed off into a +gurgle, as she realized that she was not now alone. + +"It's all right, Mrs. Bogart," the physician told her soothingly. +"You've had a nasty fall and cut yourself a little on those broken +jars; but it's nothing to worry about." + +"That man!" cried Mrs. Bogart. "Where--where did he go? It's Heaven's +own blessing that he didn't murder me in my tracks. He was peering out +at me, and everything went dizzy black in front of me. I----" + +"Her head ain't right yet," grunted Constable Griggs. Mrs. Bogart, +letting her heavy fingers touch gingerly to her bandaged face, heard +the local officer's skeptical remark and bridled in indignation. + +"I tell you I seen him!" she shrilled, pointing to the door which +closed off the third-floor stairs. "I seen him behind there. He +was holdin' the door shut on me. I was takin' these jars up to the +storeroom. I seen him--lookin' out at me through the crack. He's there +now, if he didn't run out. I tell you I seen him!" + +All four of the men exchanged quick, startled, almost incredulous +glances. The same thought had leaped into all their minds. Sergeant +Tish, staring at the closed door, mechanically hitched his gun holster +within easier reach. + +"Do you think it's possible, men, that she did see a man, and that he +is----" began Doctor Bushnell. + +"Yes, it must be Haskins!" cried Wiggly. "Haskins is still in the +house! We dashed out into the hall when she screamed. The man's had no +chance of escape." + +Sergeant Tish pursed his lips, frowned, and shook his head. "I can't +believe it," he muttered. "I can't believe Haskins would be such a +boob, hiding on the scene of the crime all these hours after the murder +has been committed. It's ridiculous." + +Constable Ham Griggs decided he had been in the background long +enough; events had been developing too fast for him to keep pace with +them, but here was a situation that he could cope with. It required +no deductions, only action. He took a decisive step forward, dragging +forth a somewhat ancient forty-five-caliber revolver, which he gave a +dramatic flourish. + +"Stand back!" he roared. "I'm the officer in charge here, and I'm goin' +up there to get my man!" + + + + + CHAPTER XXIII + + THE TRAPPED RAT + + +With the breath wheezing noisily through his parted lips, which were +twisted back so that his clenched teeth were bared, Don Haskins leaned +tensely against the wall of the storeroom on the third floor of the +Gilmore house. Grim and desperate terror held him in its grip. + +"They've got me--they've got me now!" he groaned. "Caught like a rat in +a trap!" + +Half the night and all of the morning he had tried in vain to slip out +of the house--somewhere, anywhere. Each effort had been frustrated +by the danger of discovery; at each attempt there had been voices +or footsteps in the hall, or floating warningly up the stairs. Then +the coming of daylight had made the contemplated dash all the more +hazardous. + +He had about made up his mind to wait for another coming of darkness, +when he had heard the arrival of a car, and, peering down from the +narrow dormer window, he had seen the arrival of Detective Sergeant +Tish. The coming of Tish naturally filled him with wild terror, for +that could mean but one thing--the New York detective had trailed him +to Greenacres! + +So, after several minutes of tortured indecision, he had crept down the +inclosed stairs, determined to make a break for it. + +He could not put up a fight, for he had no weapon. While he had +crouched at the foot of the stairs, ears straining in an effort to +catch any sound of warning from the other side of the panel, Mrs. +Bogart had turned the knob, and Haskins had seized it from the inside, +holding the door fast. Then she had yanked it again, the eyes of the +two met through the narrow crack, and the woman had screamed. + +For Don Haskins there had been but one choice, that was to hurry back +to the storeroom and wait. There was no bolt on the door, but he +barricaded it with a packing box filled with non-descript odds and +ends, such as people relegate to the garret. There was no means of +escape except the stairs; the dormer window mocked him with its deep, +unbroken drop downward. And no weapon; even the clutter of stuff that +half filled the storeroom offered him nothing that would serve as a +cudgel. So, helpless, defenseless, muttering curses between his locked +teeth, he waited. He wondered why it was so long, why the New York +copper did not come pounding up the stairs to get him. His eyes were +upon the door, his gaze intent upon the knob--watching for it to turn. +And then he got an idea! + +The knob was held in place by a screw, and, for lack of a screw driver, +he went to the task with his finger nail. The screw was set fast, and +the nail tore down to the quick, but he did not notice the twinge of +pain, merely attacked the screw with the thumb nail of the other hand. +At last it turned, and the heavy metal knob was free. + +Haskins, that his shoes might make no alarming sound upon the bare +boards of the storeroom, was in his stockings. Hastily he tore one of +his socks free from his foot, dropped the doorknob into it and he had +a deadly slung shot that he could swing with telling effect. Not much +of a weapon, perhaps, but vastly better than no weapon at all. He put +on both shoes, the one over a bare foot, and again waited with tense, +twitching nervousness. + +It must have been another five minutes--to Haskins the minutes dragged +into the length of hours--before he heard a voice raised to a bellow +and the tramp of heavy feet upon the stairs. He flattened his body even +closer to the wall, at a point where he would be behind the door when +it opened, as he took a tighter grip about the weighted sock. + +There may have been some doubts as to Constable Griggs' nimbleness of +mind, but there could be no doubt as to his personal courage, as, yards +ahead of Sergeant Tish, he dashed, two and three steps at a time, to +the third floor. + +"Come on outta there an' surrender!" roared Ham Griggs. "Dead or alive, +Haskins--that goes for you!" + +But Don Haskins did not come out to surrender. He made not the +slightest sound. Griggs again shouted, but still there was no response, +and he began to share Tish's doubts of the wanted man being in the +house. Perhaps Mrs. Bogart's story had been purely a figment of the +imagination. + +Without, however, relaxing the vigilant position of his gun, he reached +forward and tried the door. It moved back a little, and he met the +obstruction of the barricading packing box. The constable applied the +pressure of his shoulder, and his free hand cautiously cocked the +hammer of the revolver. The door was forced back another few inches. + +The barred door, of course, was proof that the storeroom was occupied; +he paused a moment to peer through the narrow opening. No signs of +Haskins. + +"He's here," he yelled down the stairs to Tish, who was looking up from +the bottom. "He's got the door blocked. I'm goin' in, and I'm goin' in +a-shootin'." Again his body battered against the door. + +Don Haskins, his mouth parted into a terrible grimace, swung back his +arm. As the constable's head and shoulders appeared at the edge of the +door, the sock, the metal knob stuffed wickedly in the toe, described a +swift arc and caught Griggs a heavy blow on the skull. + +With a grunt he pitched forward to the floor in a senseless heap; the +convulsion of his body pulled the trigger of the revolver, and its +roaring, angry voice thundered through the upper part of the house. The +gun slid across the boards and bumped against the leg of the discarded +couch. + +Haskins dropped his improvised weapon and leaped for the gun; his body +had scarcely straightened when Sergeant Tish came pounding and panting +up the steps, drawn automatic in his hand. As Haskins whirled, he again +faced this Nemesis who had trapped him at Eighth Avenue Annie's. No +word was spoken; both knew it was one or the other. + +Haskins fired first, but only by the difference of a split second; +the two shots rang out almost as one. Sergeant Tish's shoulder became +suddenly numb, a searing numbness, as hot lead bored the flesh. His arm +dropped limply helpless to his side, and a sickening nausea paled the +chubby roundness of his cheeks. + +The other man reeled on his feet and steadied himself against the wall. +A gasping gurgle, that trailed off into a curse, burst through his +hideously parted lips, and his left hand, pressing to his waist, became +red with a trickle of crimson. + +But Haskins did not fire again; there was no need. Sergeant Tish's +fingers had lost all their strength, and the automatic clumped to the +floor. He could offer no resistance when Haskins stumbled forward, +cleared the body of the unconscious constable, and went plunging down +the stairs. In the doorway at the foot of the steps Wiggly Price and +Doctor Bushnell were staring upward. Haskins lifted the revolver +menacingly. + +"Get outta my way!" he gritted. "I'll kill the first man that tries to +stop me." + +It would have been a foolhardy thing to have opposed the flight of this +armed, desperate man, wanted for murder, trying to beat the electric +chair. Doctor Bushnell, clutching Wiggly Price's arm, made haste to get +out of Haskins' path. Mrs. Bogart screamed shrilly and dashed wildly +for the first door. She hurled herself into the room and braced her +body against the panel. + +Haskins, as he reached the second floor, was reeling like a drunken +man. His left hand, still clutching his body near the top of his +trousers was hot and sticky with his own blood. He reached the top +of the second stairway which led down to the first floor--and what? +Even in his desperately chaotic state of mind, he knew that the odds +were against him. But anything was better than the chair, and it was +that--or this. He felt his strength swiftly ebbing from his body, +slipping away from him through that hot, burning hole in his abdomen. + +Downstairs, Bates, the butler, had heard the double shot and for a +moment was incapable of movement. It was only with supreme effort +that he got his frail old legs in motion and propelled himself toward +the stairs. Halfway up he faced Haskins, who held weavingly to the +bannister rail. + +"Out--out of my way!" ordered Haskins, but his voice was thick, +hoarsely unsteady. The revolver wabbled with the lurching of his body. +Before Bates, petrified with terror at the menace of the pointing gun, +could obey, the wounded man at the top of the stairs sagged forward and +went crashing down, sliding, bumping, clawing, and his body came to a +halt on the first landing at Bates' feet. He had just enough strength +to lift himself weakly to his elbow. + +"That dirty dick--got me--good!" he muttered. "I--I hope I +croaked--him. Curse the cops! The cops and the skirts--to hell with +both of 'em!" He coughed chokingly. "I'm dyin'," he screeched. "I'm +bleedin' to death--inside." + +His distorted mouth was flecked with red. + + + + + CHAPTER XXIV + + HASKINS KEEPS HIS SECRET + + +Stunned and sick from the paralyzing impact of Haskins' bullet, +Sergeant Tish did not realize that his own shot had found an even more +vital mark; he had failed to see the trickle of crimson that welled +from between the wanted man's fingers, as the latter had pressed his +hand hard against his body. In a daze the New York detective only +realized that the desperate fugitive was escaping from him a second +time, and that his flight must be stopped. As his thoughts cleared +a little, it occurred to him that Haskins might try to leave in the +police car out in front of the house, but he would have a hard job of +that, for the plain-clothes man had the key to the ignition switch in +his pocket. + +The local constable still lay in a huddled, grotesque heap on +the floor, and he had not moved. Despite his own haste to pursue +Haskins--his injury would not stop that--Tish leaned over Ham Griggs, +puzzled that there was no evidence of a terrible, lethal wound. He +had taken it for granted that Haskins must have had another weapon in +addition to the one left beside the body of the murdered Helen Gilmore, +and that he had shot down Griggs, as the latter had burst in upon him +in the attempted capture. All he could find was a purpling swelling at +the edge of Griggs' temple; and then he saw the improvised weapon, the +strangest that had ever come to his notice--the sock weighted with the +doorknob. + +"Huh!" said Sergeant Tish, with a grunt that was more than half a +groan. He saw what had happened. "Haskins beaned 'im with that thing, +handed him a knock-out, and then took his gun away from him." He bent +still a little lower and perceived that the constable's breathing was +reassuringly regular. "Don't look like he was goin' to croak." + +As Don Haskins collapsed and went crashing down the stairs, Wiggly +Price and Doctor Bushnell stood gaping at each other, both struggling +with indecision as to which direction they would turn as their first +move to follow this breathless race of happenings. What had happened +upstairs they did not know, only that to their ears had come the +ominous sound of three pistol shots, and that neither Constable Griggs +nor Sergeant Tish had come down. + +"What's happened to the two officers?" cried Doctor Bushnell. +"Perhaps----" Before he could finish the sentence, Tish appeared at the +head of the inclosed stairway, his right arm dangling limply, a trickle +of blood seeping down beneath the edge of his coat sleeve, twisting +into a fantastic crimson design about his wrist and the back of his +hand. + +"What's happened up there?" shouted the physician. "Heavens, man, +you're wounded! Griggs----" + +Tish had retrieved the automatic and held it in his left hand rather +awkwardly, but determined to use it if he could. + +"The constable is knocked cold," he said, as he came down the steps. +"You'd better look after him, doctor. Haskins has----" + +Wiggly Price had rushed to the head of the other stairs, from where +he could see Don Haskins sprawled upon the first landing, gasping for +breath and mopping the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand. +The revolver had slid several steps down and was safely out of the +man's reach. + +"Here he is, sergeant!" shouted the newspaper man. "He nicked you, but +you got him worse than that." + +Again Doctor Bushnell struggled with indecision. Three men wounded! +Which of them should have first call upon his professional services? +Don Haskins' choking wail, coming from down the front stairs, decided +him. + +"I'm dyin'!" he croaked. "I say I'm dyin'." And with the next breath +he muttered a vicious curse upon "the cops." But, before the doctor +could move out of his tracks, Joan Sheridan had again come flying from +the east wing of the house and clutched his arm. At the moment of her +appearance she saw Tish. + +"Those shots--what do they mean?" she panted. "What--what has happened +now?" + +"We have caught the murderer," answered Doctor Bushnell, gently +pushing her away. "The crook who killed Kirklan's wife was in hiding +on the third floor." Another groan came from Haskins. "There was some +shooting; the man's desperately wounded. I am going to see now. Go back +to your room, Joan; you've had enough horror." + +But the girl crept to the top of the stairs after him and stared down +with a shudder. + +"I--I can't understand!" she whispered. "They say that man killed her. +I--I can't understand!" she whispered. "They say that man killed her. +I can't understand!" + +Had Wiggly Price been privileged to hear those whispered words of +Joan's it would have added fresh fuel to his smoldering suspicion that +she knew more about the death of Helen Gilmore than she was willing +to tell. The newspaper man had hurried down the stairs and, elbowing +the butler out of the way, bent over Haskins. A moment later Doctor +Bushnell had joined him, Tish close behind. The doctor shook his head +gravely, as he saw the bloodstained saliva about Haskins' lips. + +"Internal hemorrhage," he murmured. "I don't think there's much chance +for him." + +As if to verify this diagnosis, Haskins gave a gasping cough, and the +crimson foam became a trickle. + +"Ain'tcha gonna call a priest?" he murmured. "I'm dyin', I tell +you--dyin'." + +"Keep him alive, doc, until I get a full confession out of him," urged +Sergeant Tish. "Haskins, come through; make a clean breast of----" + +"No questions for a moment," broke in the physician. "Let him be quiet +until I see what can be done for him. No matter what he's done, he's +entitled to the best a doctor can give him. It's barely possible that +an immediate operation----" + +Don Haskins made a half-sobbing, half-growling protest. + +"Nix on the--operation stuff. It wouldn't do me no good--anyhow; I tell +you that I'm bleedin' to death--inside of me." + +Doctor Bushnell jerked his head toward Wiggly. + +"Help me with him," he ordered. "We'll have to get him somewhere, so +that I can see what can be done for him." And to the butler: "Bates, up +the stairs quick--get my bag. It's on the floor in the hall--near the +other stairs. And, Bates, where can we take this man?" + +"There are but two guest rooms, sir; one Mr. Sarbella occupied, and the +other--the body has been placed there." + +"Then it will have to be Sarbella's room," declared the doctor. "Help +me up with him, Mr. Price. Careful, Haskins; the more exertion the more +the bleeding and the slimmer your chances." + +Sergeant Tish's bullet-punctured shoulder, now that the numbness of the +thudding impact was passing, throbbed with an excruciating agony, but +he clamped his teeth together, having no intention of making a demand +upon Doctor Bushnell's professional services until a statement was had +from the possibly dying prisoner. He could offer no assistance, but he +followed back up the stairs, as Bushnell and the newspaper reporter +supported Haskins to the second floor and along the hall to the guest +room which had been Sarbella's. + +Joan Sheridan tarried indecisively another moment or so and then +she returned to her own room, her mind in no way cleared of the +bewilderment. She longed for explanations, but knew this was no time to +ask questions. + +In the guest room Haskins was placed upon the bed where, as his first +act in an effort to save the mans' life, Doctor Bushnell quickly +prepared an internal astringent, a drug calculated to check the inward +bleeding. Then he examined the wound with the aid of a probe; Haskins' +slowing pulse warned the physician that life was ebbing, and that +there was no hope. + +"The nearest hospital is fifteen miles away, and the trip would be +fatal," he said. "And I have never specialized in surgery. I have tried +to check the internal blood flow, but there is nothing else I can do. +All that I can suggest is to call Doctor Hollis, who is a surgeon. If +the man is still alive when Hollis gets here----" + +"It--it ain't no use," gasped Don Haskins. "I'm gonna croak, and I know +I'm gonna croak." + +"Yes, Haskins, it looks that way," nodded Doctor Bushnell; "if you've +got any statement to make you'd better make it now. Anyhow I'll +telephone Doctor Hollis and then look after Ham Griggs. Unconscious, +didn't you say, Sergeant Tish? Lord, the house has suddenly become a +hospital! What about your own injury?" + +Tish shook his head. "I can wait--until Haskins has talked," he said. +"You'd better look after the constable first, anyhow. It may be worse +than it seemed to me." + +Don Haskins was breathing heavily, his eyes closed, his hands clenched. +As the doctor left the room, Tish leaned forward, but became dizzily +faint and had to seek the support of a chair. + +"You might as well talk, Haskins," he said. "What made you shoot +Gilmore's wife?" + +The prisoner's lips twisted. "You're gonna give me the rap for that?" +he muttered weakly. "Tryin' to hang two croaks onto me--and I never did +either one of 'em." His eyes opened slowly. "Dago Mike--did he tell the +cops that I did for the watchman--that loft job in the Bronx?" + +Tish nodded. "Yes, that's what he told the inspector," he answered. + +"It's a lie," said Haskins, but without any great emotion of +indignation; perhaps, being so sure that he was dying, he did not +care, or it might have been that he did not have the strength left for +vehemence. Still, again, it was possible that it sounded so flat and +colorless, this denial, because it lacked the ring of truth. "Dago Mike +done it. I knowed he'd squeal; he always was a dirty rat. I was a fool +to go into a job with that--that scum. Yeah, Dago Mike was the one that +did the watchman." + +Tish winced with a fresh throb of pain from his shoulder. "Why did you +shoot Gilmore's wife?" he repeated. + +Haskins turned his head, let his mouth twist into a harsh smile, and, +lifting his hand slowly, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. +There was again a little blood. + +"Gilmore's wife?" he retorted in a hoarse whisper. "She was--my wife!" + +Wiggly Price started forward with an exclamation of amazement, and his +ears danced with excitement. + +"W-what?" he gasped. "Y-your wife? You mean that? Great heavens, Tish, +I believe he's telling the truth!" + +The New York detective gestured for silence with his uninjured arm. + +"Shut up!" he commanded tersely. + +"Yeah, that's--that's what she was--my wife," went on Don Haskins in a +whisper, which, as he continued to talk, was at times hardly audible. +"She done bigamy when she married--Gilmore. She--she never got no +divorce--from me. + +"I'm gonna talk, see. What I'm tellin' you is strictly on the level. I +know I'm goin'--fast; there ain't no use for me to--cover up. Curse the +skirts! If it wasn't--for her----" His voice trailed off in a choking +excitement, his eyes closed momentarily, and the two eagerly listening +men were afraid that it was all over with him, but Haskins looked at +them again. + +"I--I guess she thought she'd shook me--after I busted up a mash she +had on a guy named Sarbella; but I kept cases on her--got a line on her +when I come back from Chi--parole from a long stretch at Joliet. + +"Then I gets into that Bronx job jam, and I needs dough--bad. And +quick. So I send for--for her, and she----" He had to stop again to +wipe his mouth free of that trickle of blood which oozed upward from +his punctured stomach. + +"And she came to Eighth Avenue Annie's," supplied Tish. "She gave you +some money. We know that much; go on, Haskins." + +"She was comin' back--to-day--with a thousand iron men," proceeded the +prisoner's weakening whisper. "Then Annie tipped off the cops. Curse +the old hag! I dunno why Annie----" + +"She did not," grunted Sergeant Tish; "I saw her buying some duds and +trailed her. Annie didn't double cross you." + +"When I lays you out--and beats it," went on Haskins, "I--I guess +you know part of it, how I swipes a taxi an' blows out here?" Tish +nodded. "I sneaks around the house an' spots--Helen's window, does a +porch-climber stunt to the roof, gets into her room, an'----" + +"And shot her--with my gun," prompted the detective. But, if Haskins +was the murderer, he did not fall into this trap of suggestion. + +"I'm givin' it to you--straight," his whisper went on. "I didn't croak +her; I--I grabbed her, and she--got the gat--outta my pocket, but +I didn't know that--then. We hears a door slam, an' we thinks it's +Gilmore--in the--next room. She sneaks me into the hall and tells me to +hide--third floor. Says she'll get me some dough and get me--away." + +The man's words were so faint and came from his lips in such a jerky +tumble that both Tish and Wiggly Price had to lean close in order to +hear the rest of his story. + +"When I gets up there--third floor, I knows it was her--took--the gun. +I--I guess she was afraid I was gonna--use it--on her. She knowed she'd +done me dirt. Curse her--she made a bum--outta me. + +"I--I wants that gun, see! After a while I sneaks back down to--second +floor--to make her--gimme the gat. As I gets to--to the foot of the +stairs I hears a scream. It comes from--from her room. Then--then +there's--a shot." + +Both Tish and Wiggly looked skeptical at this, but neither of them +spoke; both sensed that Don Haskins had something to add. They were +right; he had. After another moment of silence, Haskins' lips moved +again. + +"The--the door--was open; the--the light was burnin'--inside, an' I +seen--the one who did the job--comin' out--of the room." + +Sergeant Tish snorted derisively. + +"Haskins," he flung out, "you're lying! Are you going to face your +Maker with that lie on your conscience? That stuff's the bunk. You +killed her, and you might as well come through." + +"Wait a minute, sergeant," whispered Wiggly; "ask him whom he saw +coming out of the room. There's a chance that he may be telling us the +truth!" + +Tish hesitated a moment, stirred in his chair, winced with the pain of +the movement, and then accepted the suggestion. + +"There's just one way that you can prove that you are giving us +straight goods, Haskins," he said, "and that's to tell us who came out +of the room." + +Don Haskins closed his eyes again, and a queer, crooked, mirthless +grimace caught up the corners of his mouth, a grimace all the more +horrible because a fresh trickle of crimson seeped across his lips +and trickled down his unshaven chin. Whether he had begun his story +with the intention of ending it at this most unsatisfactory point, or +whether the abrupt termination was a matter of sudden decision, can +never be known. + +"She--she was--no good," he told them in an almost inaudible whisper. +"She--she made a bum outta me when--when she gimme the go-by. She made +that Sarbella kid do a Dutch, and she handed Gilmore--a mean wallop. +She got--what was comin' to her. If I wasn't gonna croak--I'd have +to talk to save--my own self; but I ain't gonna make no trouble--for +nobody--on account--killin' her. That's all you get--from me." + +"He's lying!" gritted Tish. "Sure he's lying. He killed her." + +But Wiggly Price was not so sure. If Haskins, as it seemed, knew he was +dying, why should he lie? There was one possibility why he should; it +might have occurred to him that he still had a chance to cheat death, +and he had cunningly concocted this yarn out of the whole cloth. + +Thoughts and theories leaped through Wiggly's mind. If Haskins' story, +improbable as it sounded, were true, the Greenacres mystery had been +returned to its first status, and suspicion returned even more strongly +to Victor Sarbella. Guilt lay between the artist and Joan Sheridan. +Again the newspaper man thought of the girl's agitation when told +that suspicion had turned away from Sarbella, her relief and yet +bewilderment when she had heard that circumstances pointed to Haskins, +the crook; and he thought, too, of the black hairpin. + +"You're lying, Haskins," Tish said again; "but what gets me is that you +didn't make a break for it after the shooting." + +The wounded man stirred slightly. "I--I tried--to make--my get-away," +he whispered, "but there was two guys comin' up the front stairs, an' I +hadda dodge back--to--the attic." + +"Haskins," burst out Wiggly, "the person you saw coming out of that +room--was it a man or a woman?" + +But Don Haskins shook his head feebly. He made no other response. +A little later, while Tish still plied insistent and exasperated +questions, the man's body twitched and relaxed; then a gush of crimson +poured from his mouth. + +"He's dying!" cried Wiggly and made a leap toward the door to summon +Doctor Bushnell. + +It was too late. Haskins' eyes had opened and were fixed glassily upon +the ceiling. He was dying with his last, stubborn silence unbroken; and +the Gilmore tragedy was yet to be solved. + + + + + CHAPTER XXV + + THE SKEPTICISM OF SERGEANT TISH + + +The doctor had found Constable Griggs' injury worse than he had +anticipated, for Haskins had struck a vicious blow with the doorknob +wickedly concealed within the toe of his sock; there was a bad skull +fracture that threatened fatal results. With Bates to help him, Doctor +Bushnell had placed Ham Griggs upon the discarded couch and had just +completed a painstaking examination, when Wiggly Price came pounding up +the third floor stairs to the storeroom. + +"Quick, doc!" panted the newspaper man. "Haskins is dying; he's got +another hemorrhage--a worse one. I'm afraid he's a goner." + +The doctor motioned to the butler. + +"You stay here with the constable, Bates," he ordered. "I'll be back in +a moment; we've got to get this man to the hospital. He's dangerously +hurt, Price; a bad skull fracture." As he spoke, he was following the +reporter back down the stairs. "I'm not surprised about Haskins. But +there was nothing more than I could do for him, and Griggs needed me, +too." + +"The other doctor, the surgeon, you telephoned for----" + +"Is operating at a hospital in New York this morning; I was unable to +reach him. But, for that matter, I do not believe any human agency +could have saved Haskins. Perhaps, after all, it's better this +way; circumstances are doing what the State would doubtless have +done--exacted his life in payment." + +They had reached the door of the guest room. Sergeant Tish still sat in +his chair beside the bed; he turned slowly, painfully. + +"You're too late," he said. + +Doctor Bushnell stepped forward, was silent for moment; then he +inclined his head. + +"Yes," he agreed. "I'm too late, but it doesn't matter; even an +operation was a forlorn hope. I could not have kept him alive; nothing +could have done that, I think." He stared down at the dead man's +contorted features. "An evil face," he murmured. "An evil end for an +evil life. Did he make a confession, sergeant?" + +"No, confound his stubbornness!" growled Sergeant Tish. "He gave us a +wild kind of yarn that explained his connection with the Gilmore woman, +his hold on her, and how he got into the house, but denied that he did +the shooting. Of course he was lying." + +Doctor Bushnell nodded. "He killed her--certainly," he agreed. "The way +he knocked out Griggs and shot you is proof that he was a cold-blooded +killer. What was the hold that he had over the dead woman?" + +"She was Haskins' wife--his legal wife." + +The physician gasped and, thinking of the beautiful Helen Gilmore, +stared down at the hideous face of the dead criminal, with a look of +amazement that bordered upon incredulity. + +"What--the wife of that man? It seems absurd, absolutely preposterous! +I find it next to impossible to believe it. Then, when she married +Kirklan, she----" + +"Committed bigamy," finished Sergeant Tish with a jerk of his head that +sent another stab of pain through his wounded shoulder. "That's it, +doctor; and that is what gave him a hold on her--why he was able to +have her visit him at Eighth Avenue Annie's day before yesterday, give +him money and agree to give him still more; that was why he fled to her +for protection and was hiding when I stumbled onto him. I guess that +part of it is true, all right. + +"Perhaps not so amazing as it would seem. Haskins was not always the +bum he is now. They used to call him Nifty Don in his palmy days; he's +hit the skids since then. He blames her for slipping; she threw him +over, as I got it. I wish you'd take a look at this shoulder of mine, +doc; the wound is throbbing like a sixty-horse-power engine." + +Doctor Bushnell murmured a hasty apology for neglecting him so long. + +"I'll have a look at that right now, Sergeant Tish. Three emergency +cases all at one time is a big order for a doctor. Price, will you +get my kit from the third floor? I'm hoping there's enough gauze and +bandages to do." + +"The constable come around all right?" asked Tish, as the newspaper man +hurried from the room. + +"A bad skull fracture, sergeant, where Haskins struck him a terrific +blow on the side of the head. I'm taking him to the hospital just as +quickly as I've got you patched up a bit. You, too, if there is need." + +"Don't think it'll be necessary, doc. Lord, what a wild morning it's +been!" He gritted his teeth, as the physician slipped down the coat +sleeve and began ripping away the shirt. "What's happened to Gilmore? +Strange that he didn't show up with all the racket." + +"Probably asleep under the influence of the opiate that I gave him +to relax his strain," answered Doctor Bushnell. "He's one of those +high-strung, emotional fellows, and I couldn't risk too much nervous +tension with him. He was on the verge of a collapse. Poor devil! He's a +good sort; doesn't deserve what that woman has done to him." + +Wiggly returned with the doctor's kit, and Bushnell began to work +swiftly; the wound in the detective's shoulder had bled but little. The +bullet, he found, had struck the collar bone at a deflecting angle, +plowing for a brief distance along the top of the clavicle, where it +was imbedded just beneath the skin. + +"You're a lucky man, Sergeant Tish," grunted the doctor. "If that had +been a little lower there would have been the very devil to pay. The +worst danger is that the bone has been cracked, and I do not think it +has been. This treatment, of course, is only temporary; I'll look after +you again later." + +It was the work of but a few minutes to make a shallow incision which +removed the bullet, cauterize the wound, and apply dressings. + +"I shall take Griggs to the hospital in my car," said Bushnell, as he +finished. "The butler can go along with me. We'll be back within an +hour or so--just as soon as I can manage it. I suppose Sarbella will +have to stay in jail until Griggs recovers consciousness and releases +him." + +Wiggly broke a considerable silence. + +"It's my notion," he said, "that Sarbella had better stay right where +he is until--well, until the case has been cleared up completely." + +The doctor stared in surprise. "What do you mean by that?" he +exclaimed. "Not that there's any doubt but Haskins killed the woman?" + +"Not the slightest doubt that Haskins did it," Tish declared in a +positive tone. "I don't take any stock in his story--that is, the part +of it in which he denied doing the shooting. I suppose the rest of it +is straight enough." + +Doctor Bushnell looked reprovingly at the newspaper man. "I must say," +he said severely, "that you are a most perverse young man. When the +weight of all the evidence was strictly against Sarbella, you were +trying to prove his innocence. Yet now, when the discovery and capture +of this desperate criminal--the legal husband of the dead woman--makes +it practically certain that Haskins was the murderer, you suddenly +change front and----" + +"Perhaps it's because I've got more faith in the truth of Haskins' +story than Sergeant Tish has," broke in Wiggly Price. "In my mind the +case against Sarbella is stronger than ever--circumstantially. But, +with what we've got, I don't think for a minute that a jury would ever +convict him. Haskins' account of things does explain how Sarbella, +or"--he hesitated cautiously--"or some other person might have got +possession of the gun." + +"Or some other person!" exclaimed the doctor impatiently. "Tut, Price, +don't be such an utter ass. I've something more important to do than +listen to a new crop of empty theories. What other person, pray, have +you in mind?" + +Wiggly felt that any mention of Joan Sheridan would arouse the +physician's antagonism; moreover it would serve no purpose. So he chose +the wise course of answering the question only with a shrug of the +shoulders. + +"The constable is a heavy man, and the butler old and rather feeble," +he said, abruptly switching the subject; "perhaps I'd better help you +get him downstairs and into your car." + +"Yes; please," grunted Doctor Bushnell. + +Tish trailed along behind the two and waited on the second floor, +while the physician and Wiggly went to the storeroom to carry down the +unconscious Ham Griggs. + +"He hasn't moved a muscle since you left, Doctor Bushnell," reported +the butler. "Except that I can see him breathing I'd think he was dead." + +The doctor issued brief, terse instructions, and he and Wiggly formed +a human packsaddle by grasping each other's wrists. In this way, their +heavy burden between them, they made their way down from the third +floor, while Bates hurried off to get a supply of pillows for padding +the tonneau of the doctor's car. + +"I was going to suggest that you come along," Bushnell suggested; but +Wiggly shook his head. + +"No, I'd like to stay here," he answered. "Bates will do as well as I +for your trip." + +"Oh, I see," the physician said shortly, "you want to gather some new +theories about the tragedy. You're making a fool of yourself, Price; +the case, thank Heaven, is solved." + +"Hope so, doctor, but that remains to be seen." + +"Certainly it's solved!" exclaimed Bushnell with asperity. "As deputy +coroner I shall convene a jury and hold an inquest as quickly as +possible--this afternoon. I'll bring the district attorney back with me +when I return from the hospital. The verdict will be a mere matter of +formality." + +"Yes," agreed Wiggly, "a mere matter of formality, unless we turn up +something new." + +The butler came hurrying out of the house with the pillows; the +doctor took them from him and arranged them supportingly behind the +unconscious constable's shoulders. + +"Get your hat, Bates," he instructed; "you'll have to go along." + +Three or four minutes later the physician's machine, Bushnell at the +wheel and Bates in the rear seat with the insensible Griggs, rolled +down the white-graveled driveway, and Wiggly returned to the house, +wondering a little what had happened to Tip Gregory, reporter for the +rival paper, _The Transcript_. Probably Tip, rebuffed at Greenacres, +had gone to the village in search of information. + +Sergeant Tish had come down from the second floor and had established +himself in one of the library's roomy chairs, making himself as +comfortable as his twinging shoulder would permit. His roundish +face was still gray with the throbbing pain, but he endured it with +fortitude. + +"Well, young man," he grunted, "you've got a darn good story, and you +ought to be satisfied. Seems to me that it's good enough to suit your +paper without your trying to add anything imaginative." + +"Meaning," replied Wiggly, "that you'd have me quit thinking. Nope, I +stick to my hunch that Haskins' story was what he said it was--strictly +on the level." + +"Bunk!" snorted Tish. + +"Let's talk it over, sergeant," Wiggly urged earnestly as, hands +rammed deep into his pockets, he strode up and down the room, his ears +twitching slightly. "Does it seem reasonable to you that Haskins would +have left the automatic behind him after the shooting?" + +"Humph!" the New York detective grunted non-committally. + +"That gun," went on the newspaper man, "was his one friend, the only +hope that he had if he were cornered. Besides, leaving the gun behind +served no purpose--no purpose whatever. In fact, if he had the brains +to reason it out, he would have known that there was a chance--a +serious chance--of the automatic being identified as your gun. It's the +common thing to trace a gun by its serial number." + +"He might have dropped the gun accidentally and didn't have a chance to +get his hands on it again." + +"Oh, I say, sergeant, that's too thin!" exclaimed Wiggly. "It's taking +too much for granted to presume that the gun accidentally fell in a +position directly beneath the murdered woman's hand. No, that was done +with the deliberate intention of having her death appear suicide." + +"It's a good point, and it's reasonable," admitted Tish, "but it +doesn't prove anything. I got to admit it does seem a little queer that +Haskins would have left the gun behind." + +"And it hooks up with Haskins' story about missing the gun, realizing +that the Gilmore woman had lifted it out of his pocket, and his +determination to risk a trip downstairs again in an effort to get it +back." + +"Humph!" Tish said again. + +"When you identified the gun as yours--the one that Haskins took away +from you when he knocked you out at Eighth Avenue Annie's yesterday--it +did seem impossible that Sarbella, or any one else, could have done the +shooting. But let us suppose that Haskins' dying statement was true. +The Gilmore woman had the gun; maybe she took it because she was afraid +of her legal husband." + +"Whatcha mean--'or any one else?'" growled Tish. "You keep hinting +at something you haven't let me in on. If it wasn't Haskins or +Sarbella----Aw, you talk like a fool!" + +Wiggly hesitated for a moment. "Tish," he said slowly, "I don't know +that I'm exactly holding any aces, but I'm going to lay all my cards on +the table and let you have a look at 'em. We know why Sarbella might +have killed the woman." + +"Motive ain't strong enough," broke in the detective with a shake of +the head. "His kid brother lost his head over her and killed himself; +that's all." + +"Ordinarily I'd agree with you, but when we think of Sarbella's motive +we've got to think of a race that is credited with a passion for +personal vengeance. The Latins are hot-blooded, and their blood does +not cool quickly like ours. They nurse a grudge for years. + +"Let us suppose that Sarbella went to the Gilmore woman's room, not +with the intention of killing her, but to tell her that, unless she +made a full confession to her husband, he would tell Gilmore, himself. +The gun was there--the gun that she had taken away from Haskins--and +the man's hatred for this bronze-haired vampire who caused the suicide +of his brother and the ultimate death of their mother, mastered him." + +"Suppose anything you darn please," grunted Tish. "It's easy enough to +cook up stuff, but making it hold water is something else. Yeah, I'll +say it is." + +"But there's something else," persisted Wiggly. "You've missed the +hidden undercurrent that I've sensed. I tell you, Tish, there's +something beneath the surface of things in this house." + +"Meaning just what?" the detective asked skeptically. + +"Did you notice Gilmore's stepsister--Joan Sheridan her name is--when +she came out into the hall after the cook fainted?" + +Tish eyed the newspaper man half curiously, half disgustedly. + +"I saw her," he answered. + +"Yes, you saw her, but did you see the expressions of her face? Did you +notice how excited she became----" + +"Say, I guess any woman would be excited, after what had happened, to +hear a woman screaming like that cook did, and her face all bloody on +top of it." + +"When the doctor told her that Sarbella had been removed from +suspicion, and that some one else had done the shooting," Wiggly went +on, "well, I saw it, Tish; and I saw, too, what a look of relief +came into her face when Bushnell told her that it was Haskins, the +crook. The human emotions seldom lie, Tish, and, take it from me, that +Sheridan girl knows a lot more about this thing than she is willing to +tell." + +"Rave on!" growled Sergeant Tish. "I'd given you credit for having a +balance wheel, but that's nut stuff you're pulling now." + +"Wait a minute," Wiggly pressed on, not discouraged by the other's +derision. "Maybe you remember that Haskins refused to answer me when I +asked him if it was a man or a woman he saw coming out of the Gilmore +woman's room after he heard the shot." + +"I can answer it, even if Haskins didn't; it was a man come out of the +room, and it was Haskins himself. Whatcha trying to do now--hang it +onto the Sheridan girl? Think it would make a better story for you, +huh? Aw, forget it! Why would she have done it?" The question came in a +triumphant tone. + +"Oh, I've got you an answer for that, Tish," Wiggly replied. "So you +demand a motive; all right, I'll furnish that, too. The strongest and +most unreasoning of motives, the most deadly--jealousy!" + +"Huh?" + +"Joan Sheridan is in love with her stepbrother. I got that from the +constable's daughter this morning." + +"A woman's gossip!" snorted Tish. "I wouldn't go two cents on no kind +of talk like that." + +"And verified it by the butler," Wiggly added doggedly. "The +constable's daughter is a great little gabber, and I wouldn't take +her unsupported word; so I felt out Bates, and he admitted that the +household had rather hoped for a match between Gilmore and Miss +Sheridan. Yes, she's in love with her stepbrother; used to help him +with his work and that sort of thing. The butler told me that it was +a great shock to Miss Sheridan when she returned home from Europe and +found that he had married during her absence. + +"There's another little point; it might not seem so much, but I can +imagine how it must have added to the blow. Miss Sheridan also returned +home to find this strange woman--Gilmore's bride--had taken possession +of her own room, a room that she had occupied for years and had +formed a deep attachment for. I gather that a very strained situation +resulted; even the servants took a dislike to the new Mrs. Gilmore. + +"Man, I tell you there's something under the surface; I tell you that +we've only scratched the surface, so to speak, of the Gilmore mystery. +If Miss Sheridan would talk, we might learn something interesting." He +tossed up his hands in a helpless gesture. "It would be silly to try +and quiz her until we've got something to face her with; that would +only spoil whatever chances we may have of getting to the bottom of it." + +Sergeant Tish frowned and puffed out his plump cheeks; he was thinking +things over now; then he shook his head. + +"Don't take much stock in it," he declared. + +"Jealousy is a primitive passion," argued Wiggly. "I'd consider it a +stronger motive than revenge. Between Sarbella and the girl----" + +"No," Tish corrected himself, "I don't take any stock in it at all. +Haskins did the murder; Haskins is dead, and the case is closed. Don't +bother me with any more of this stuff." + +"There's one more thing that I haven't told you," said the newspaper +man. "You remember the color of the murdered woman's hair?" + +"Sort of a dull gold, isn't it?" grunted Tish, interested in spite of +himself. "What's the color of her hair got to do with it?" + +"Bronze is the right color, Tish; naturally she uses bronze hairpins, +as I verified by a look at her dressing table. And yet on the floor +beside the chaise longue I found a black hairpin, and Miss Sheridan's +hair is dark." + +Sergeant Tish puffed out his cheeks, looking up slowly. For a full +minute he debated this information before he stirred. + +"Women are always dropping hairpins outta their heads; might have +been a servant, or Miss Sheridan, for that matter, paying a perfectly +innocent visit to the room." Yet the detective's tone was deliberate, +thoughtful. + +"Remember the Hitchcock murder--solved by a black mourning pin?" + +Moving cautiously in an effort to keep any painful strain from his +shoulder muscles, Tish stood to his feet. + +"Mind you," he warned, "I don't say that I think you're within a +hundred miles of being right, but it'll do no harm to go upstairs and +have another look around." + +In the light of Tish's previously derisive skepticism, Wiggly felt that +he had achieved something of a victory. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVI + + BITS OF TALLOW + + +Presently Tish and Wiggly Price were once more within the room where +Helen Gilmore had met death, again seeking from the mute furnishings +some vital clew that previous examinations might have overlooked. The +newspaper man was all eagerness, but the interest of the detective had +already cooled. There was the window with Haskins' finger prints; he +had the sort of mind that readily accepts the obvious, and his police +experience had taught him that, nine chances to ten, the obvious is the +true. + +It was a little hard to think of this cheerful bed-chamber as a +place of dark deeds. The north windows looked out upon the wide and +shimmering bosom of the Hudson; a sailboat clipped daintily over the +water, and in its wake the sunlight made the ripples scintillate like +diamonds. Across the Tappan Zee the stern ruggedness of the New Jersey +Palisades was softened with a verdant touch and splash of summer +greenness. + +"The answer to it all is here," said Wiggly. "There must be something +more for us than just a woman's hairpin." + +"Sure," grunted Tish; "my gun and Haskins' finger prints on the glass." +He had returned even more positively to the conviction that he had been +right in the first place. + +"Ah, but what we're after now, Tish, is a clew that will outweigh the +finger prints and the gun. There must be something more than that; +there's got to be." + +"That stuff about there always being a clew is the bunk," said Tish. +"I've seen dozens of cases where there wasn't a thing for us cops to go +on. But this is different. All the evidence points straight at Haskins. +What else have you got? A hairpin and an imagination!" + +Wiggly was not discouraged; beginning at the side of the room, he began +to walk slowly, bent nearly double, his eyes searching, searching, +while Tish watched him in a half-amused, half-contemptuous silence. +Again the reporter came upon the shattered pieces of the broken vase +which lay on the rug near the little mahogany table, but he had +already rejected these fragments as things of no importance; proof, if +anything, that some one, probably the murderer, had struck against the +table, crashing the vase to the floor. Perhaps it was to his discredit +as an investigator that it did not occur to him as strange that the +vase should have been broken into as many pieces. + +Near the table, however, he did find something that he had overlooked +until now; it was a bit of whitish substance which, as he picked it up +from where it had been crushed flat into the rug, was moderately soft +between his fingers. He frowned over it, puzzled. + +"Tallow!" he exclaimed. "The sort of tallow they make candles of." + +"Huh!" grunted Tish. + +"People seldom use tallow candles these days, except for those +decorative candlesticks." His gaze roved swiftly about the room. +"No candlestick in this room, either. This piece is too chunky to be +candle drip; besides, why should any one have been walking around with +a lighted candle last night? If the lights had been out of commission, +some one would surely have mentioned it. Wouldn't you consider this +just a little queer, Tish?" + +"If you're asking me to speak my mind, I'd be more apt to say that +you're a little queer, always jumping at little things that don't +amount to anything. What if it is a piece of tallow? That don't prove +anything--any more than a hairpin does." + +Speculatively Wiggly turned the find over in his hand; it was grained +with black specks. He looked to the floor again and, some three or four +feet away, saw another bit of it. + +"No children in the house," he mused. "Children might explain it; when +I was a kid I used to take a candle and mold it into odd sorts of +shapes--a juvenile attempt at sculpture--human heads, animals, and the +like. Yes, Tish, this is queer--darned queer!" Completely baffled in +his effort to account for the presence of the tallow, he put it into +his pocket along with the black hairpin. + +"Something else to think about, anyhow," he told himself and continued +his literally inch-by-inch survey of the room. It was at the far end of +the chamber that, almost completely hidden in the thick nap of the rug, +he found another piece of the broken vase, this one little more than a +sliver, and still another bit of the tallow. + +"Tish!" he fairly shouted. "Come here! Here's a little mystery all in +itself." + +"What now?" + +Wiggly exhibited the fragment of porcelain and pointed dramatically to +the spot on the rug where he had discovered it. + +"We've been presuming all along, Tish," he said almost breathlessly, +"that the vase was broken when some one bumped into the table. It's a +dozen feet from the table to this spot; it isn't reasonable to think +that one of the pieces could have shattered for such a distance. As a +matter of fact, Tish, there's something that I've been a blockhead not +to think of before. This rug is pretty thick; it's only three feet from +the top of the table to the floor, and yet that vase is broken into a +hundred and one pieces. And here's a bit of it twelve feet away!" + +"Humph!" grunted Tish. + +"What do you make of it anyhow?" + +"Maybe the Gilmore woman threw it at Haskins," suggested the detective, +puffing out his cheeks and frowning; "maybe she saw what was coming, +picked up the vase, and flung it at his head--something like that, huh?" + +"Y-yes," Wiggly admitted hesitatingly; "that might explain it being +broken into so many pieces, but that doesn't explain the tallow. I've +got a feeling that those are the two things that are going to add up to +four." + +"Oh, forget the tallow!" Tish muttered peevishly. "What's a little +tallow got to do with a murder--or a smashed vase, for that matter? You +better stick to digging up news and let this Sherlock business alone." + +Wiggly shook his head stubbornly. + +"It's a puzzle, Tish, but I'm going to stick until these peculiar +little things you scoff at are explained." He again took up his +search, but further results were nil. Tish was growing impatient. + +"I'm going back downstairs," he announced. + +"Wonder where this door leads to?" murmured the reporter, as he reached +for the knob. It did not yield to his touch, but the key was in the +lock; a moment later he was looking within Kirklan Gilmore's sleeping +chamber. + +"Ah!" he mused. "She had the door locked against her husband. Wonder if +that means there was discord in the new love nest?" + +Sergeant Tish snorted derisively. "Next," he said with withering +sarcasm, "you'll be trying to hang it onto the husband--and him +downstairs when the shot was fired." + +"Oh, not at all," Wiggly answered without resentment; "that was just +an aside." He entered the room, gave it a brief survey, and then, +satisfied that it had nothing to offer him, returned, closing the door +and relocking it behind him. "Nothing in there that could interest us, +Tish. The net result so far seems to be one black hairpin and a few +pieces of tallow candle--perhaps a broken vase. I'm not so sure but +that you've given a pretty logical explanation of the vase." He sighed +in discouragement. "Not much to go on, eh? Wish I could figure out the +tallow thing." + +"Forget it," advised Tish. + +"If we could only get Miss Sheridan to talk. Wish I had the authority +to put her through a sprout of questions!" + +Tish tenderly massaged the wrist of his injured arm; the bandages +interfered with his circulation. + +"Well, you haven't got the authority; neither have I. And I wouldn't +waste my time quizzing her, if I had. So far as I'm concerned, the case +is solved. Haskins did the killing. I've messed around here and let you +play at the detective business long enough; me for one of those comfy +chairs down in the library. Guess I'll stick around for the inquest. +Coming down?" + +Wiggly hesitated for a moment and then nodded. "Yes, I suppose I might +as well," he agreed; "I think I've exhausted the possibilities here." + +The two men went downstairs and into the library, Tish to take what +comfort he could in one of the easy-chairs, and the newspaper man +to speculate with discouraging futility on the puzzle of the candle +tallow. He felt as if he had told the New York detective sergeant that +the next move was to question Joan Sheridan. While he had no authority +in the matter, he was several times on the verge of taking this course +into his own hands. + +Doctor Bushnell, he felt very sure, would resent any hint that the +girl had a criminal knowledge of the murder; the physician would be +prejudiced in her favor and wave aside the suggestion indignantly. +It would be his natural inclination to consider Haskins guilty and +brush aside any other theory. A cross-examination of Miss Sheridan, +in the doctor's hands, was liable to be a perfunctory and negligible +proceeding. + +"Well, young un, got it figured out yet?" grunted Tish, breaking a +considerable silence. + +"Not yet," admitted Wiggly, "but I haven't given it up. I'm still +struggling with it." + +Again silence. + +"Where's Gilmore?" asked Tish presently. "I haven't had eyes on the +man since I've been here. Wasn't in his room when you opened that door, +huh?" + +"The doctor put him to bed somewhere here on the ground floor--gave him +a shot of dope, I believe, to quiet him. I saw him last night; he was +pretty well cut up over it, naturally. He'll get another jolt between +the eyes when he's told that the woman wasn't legally married to him. +It's pretty tough on a chap, losing illusions of the woman you're in +love with." + +"Uh-huh," grunted Tish. "A pretty woman sure can stir up a lot of hell +for a man--when she's the wrong sort." + +Wiggly turned in his chair, as there came to his ears the sound of a +step on the stairs outside the archway dividing the library from the +reception hall, the tap of a woman's high-heeled shoes. + +"Perhaps----" he murmured and leaped to his feet; he was thinking it +might be Joan Sheridan, and that he could manufacture some excuse to +get her in conversation. His hopeful guess was right; it was Joan. She +came slowly down the stairs, her face white and drawn. As the newspaper +man, although she had no knowledge of his profession, appeared before +her, she paused. + +"I am looking for Doctor Bushnell," she murmured; "I am anxious to +know----" Her voice trailed off. + +"Doctor Bushnell has taken the constable to the hospital," he +explained, "but, if there is anything I can do, I am at your service." +He stepped aside with a gesture that she was to come into the library +and, turning his head, gave Tish an entreating look. Now that the +opportunity had presented itself he decided to play a colossal game of +bluffing. + +"Miss Sheridan, this is Detective Sergeant Tish of the New York police +department. Sergeant Tish has been wounded--in the shooting on the +third floor, you know." + +"I--I am afraid I don't know exactly what has happened; everything has +been such a terrible, excited jumble." + +"One would hardly think so many things could happen in a quiet country +place like this," said Wiggly. + +Joan shuddered. + +"It's been horrible! The man--the wounded man I saw on the stairs----" +Her eyes were upon Tish; perhaps not so much upon Tish as his bandaged +shoulder, where brown stains had seeped through the bandages. + +"Haskins is dead, ma'am," Tish answered promptly, which was precisely +one of the things Wiggly had not wanted him to say--not just yet. "I +plugged him when he winged me with the constable's gun, up in the +storeroom." + +"Doctor Bushnell told me," Joan went on tremulously, "that it was this +man who--who killed Kirklan's wife." + +Sergeant Tish caught Wiggly's pleading signal, hesitated a moment, and +then temporized. + +"W-well," he answered slowly, "I guess there's what you'd call a +division of opinion on that. Our newspaper friend don't think so." +Wiggly could have choked him. Why did he have to tell her that he was +a reporter! And why couldn't Tish have given him a square show? Under +his breath he cursed the headquarters man's stubbornness. + +"Oh!" exclaimed Joan. "So he's a newspaper reporter. I thought he must +be a detective, too." + +"Give 'im credit," grunted Tish; "he's trying hard enough to be one." +He chuckled at his little joke. + +"This--this man," pressed Joan Sheridan, now ignoring Wiggly entirely, +"what was he doing in the house--in the storeroom? Was he a--a burglar?" + +"As a matter of fact, Miss Sheridan, Haskins was the woman's husband." + +Joan gasped. + +"You don't mean--you can't mean Helen?" + +"That's it, ma'am; seems that she had not taken the trouble to get +herself a divorce before she married Gilmore." Briefly he recounted +Haskins' trouble with the New York police, his criminal record, his +flight from Eighth Avenue Annie's with the automatic, his coming to +Greenacres, and his method of gaining entrance to the house. + +Joan, leaning forward tensely, listened with wide eyes and parted lips. + +"It was the gun--the gun that this criminal took away from you in New +York that killed Helen?" she demanded breathlessly. Tish nodded. + +"Then," she rushed on, her voice sinking to a whisper, "there--there +doesn't seem to be much doubt that the man--Haskins--her--her legal +husband--killed her? Did he say anything before he died?" + +Wiggly Price leaped forward and stood in front of her, lest Tish spoil +whatever chance might be left. + +"Let me ask you something," he snapped out. "What made you so positive, +hours before any one else in the house knew that such a person as +Haskins existed, that Victor Sarbella was innocent of the murder?" + +Joan naturally was startled by this sudden verbal attack; all the blood +had drained from her already pale face, leaving her features ghastly. +Her eyes met his for a moment and then lowered. + +"Why--why, what a strange question!" she exclaimed, but there was +a noticeable nervous catch in her voice. "I--I never doubted Mr. +Sarbella's innocence." + +"I know you didn't, but what I want to know is--why?" + +Joan's head went still lower, but Wiggly could see that her lips were +quivering. + +"I--I just knew it." + +"Intuition, eh?" + +"Call it anything you like." + +"Was it intuition or knowledge?" Wiggly demanded sharply. The girl gave +a suppressed start, which Sergeant Tish missed entirely; in fact, Tish +had not quite recovered from his surprise at the way the newspaper +man had plunged in with these rapid-fire questions of his. Wiggly +had a thrill of elation; his hunch had been right, and the girl knew +something. + +His hand slid into his pocket, and his fingers closed about the bit of +tallow that he had found on the floor of Helen Gilmore's bedroom. + +"Look at this!" he commanded. Joan's head raised at the compelling +tone, but her gaze, as she stared at the misshapen, somewhat soiled +lump of white, was merely blankly inquiring. It was quite clear, even +to the suspicious reporter, that this meant nothing to her. Again his +hand went to his pocket. + +"And look at this!" he ordered again, opening his fingers, revealing +the black hairpin in his palm. "Look at it closely, Miss Sheridan, and +tell if it doesn't belong to you." + +"How--how could I know that?" she stammered. "All hairpins are so much +alike. What--what right have you to ask me all these questions in that +tone?" She turned appealingly to Sergeant Tish. "Has this newspaper +reporter a right to ask me these questions?" + +"I guess that's a reporter's main business, asking questions," grunted +Tish, with a slow grin; quite evidently he wasn't taking Wiggly's +cross-examination with any seriousness. "Might as well answer 'em, Miss +Sheridan; no harm in that." + +"This hairpin," went on Wiggly, "was found on the floor beside Helen +Gilmore's chaise longue. She didn't use black hairpins, and you do. Do +you deny, Miss Sheridan, that you were in the woman's sleeping room +last night?" + +For a moment, the barest instant, Joan hesitated. "Yes," she answered +slowly, "I do deny it." + +"Evidently you do not know," Wiggly went on mercilessly, resorting to +a trick in an effort to force the truth from her, "that just before +Haskins died he made a statement. He told us that Helen managed to get +the automatic out of his pocket before she sent him into hiding on the +third floor. He was in the storeroom when he realized that she had got +the gun away from him. He came back down the stairs with the intention +of forcing her to return it to him. He was in the hall when he heard +the scream and the shot. + +"The door was open, the light was burning inside, and Haskins saw the +person who came out of that room!" This much, of course, was true, +and for his purpose he did not consider it an unfair advantage, this +failure to add that Haskins had refused to tell more. + +Joan Sheridan's hands were frozen tightly about the arms of the chair; +her eyes met Wiggly's with a hunted, terrified look. She realized what +he meant--that he was virtually accusing her of the murder. But she +was a quick-witted girl, Joan Sheridan; she knew that Sergeant Tish's +attitude would not have been so jovially casual if he too had suspected +her of the shooting. She mastered herself wonderfully. + +"Why don't you proceed and say exactly what you mean?" she asked. "What +you mean is that you think I----" + +"Didn't you?" whipped out Wiggly, leaning slightly forward until their +eyes were level. This time her gaze did not falter; it met his without +flinching. + +"No!" she answered firmly. "I deny everything you have said and +intimated. If you have finished with your inquisition----" + +Price, realizing that his strategy had failed, offered no objection, +as she moved to leave the room. But when her steps had receded up the +stairs, he turned angrily upon Tish. + +"A nice mess you made of things!" he exclaimed hotly. "Why did you have +to tell her that I am a newspaper man?" + +"Well, ain't you?" + +"You didn't give me a square shake. You queered any chance that I might +have had to make her talk. You belittled me, and that took all the wind +out of my sails. If you'd backed me up a little, we'd have had her +dead to rights. If we could have made her believe that it was she whom +Haskins saw coming out of the room after the shot was fired----" + +"Aw, forget it," growled Tish; "she didn't croak the woman any more +than you did." + +"Probably not premeditatively, but there's one thing sure in my mind, +and you'll never convince me any different: Either Joan Sheridan did +the shooting, or she knows who did--and she knows it wasn't Haskins. +She was on the edge of a breakdown, but you braced her right up. And +you're called a detective!" + +Sergeant Tish's face flushed. "See here, I'm not going to have any +newspaper scribbler talk that way to me! If I'd have let you have your +way, you'd have made a fool out of me as well as yourself. Hairpins, +tallow! Bah! I guess you think you are a detective--a real detective. +That's the way with you newspaper guys--always hunting for a chance to +make the police wrong, trying to make monkeys of the police department. +You make me sick!" + +Wiggly's ears moved violently. + +"You wait and see!" he retorted. "Sneer at hairpins and tallow, but I +know I'm on the right trail, and I'm going to stick on this job until +I've followed it to the end." + + + + + CHAPTER XXVII + + WIGGLY REMAINS UNCONVINCED + + +For all of his asserted confidence, which bordered upon boasting, +Wiggly Price realized that he had a hard nut to crack. Swinging out +of the library and Sergeant Tish's presence, he went out to the porch +and sat down to indulge himself in logic, speculation, guessing. He +took the piece of tallow from his pocket again, staring at it fixedly; +his belief that it had some vital part in the mystery had become an +obsession; but there was one thing about it that discouraged him--Joan +Sheridan had shown no perturbation when he had produced it before her +eyes. + +Following a simple bit of logical reasoning, if the bit of tallow were +so important as he insistently imagined, and if the girl had done +the shooting, it was extremely strange that she had shown no signs +of agitation when faced with this evidence. He had been favorably +impressed with the girl's face; she seemed to be a sane, well-balanced +young person. Certainly, he argued, it was difficult to believe that +she would have committed the murder after cold premeditation; but +might she not have yielded to a suddenly and insanely jealous impulse, +suddenly overwhelmed by the proximity of the automatic pistol? + +No matter who did the murder, Wiggly reasoned, it had not been a +premeditated crime; the slayer had not gone to Helen Gilmore's room +with a weapon. The weapon was already there. These cogitations, of +course, took it for granted that Haskins' dying statement had been +entirely truthful; the reporter might have agreed with Tish that the +whole yarn was a lie, except that he could not imagine a desperate man +like Haskins deliberately leaving the gun behind. With the death of the +only person who knew of his presence in the house, Haskins had nothing +to gain by cloaking the crime under the guise of suicide. + +That Joan Sheridan knew more than she had told, Wiggly was flatly +certain; he had studied every changing expression of her face and he +had seen the emotions which Tish had missed. Either she had committed +the crime, or else she knew who did. + +Presuming her innocence, whom was she protecting with her silence? +Sarbella? That did not seem logical. Why should she go to such great +lengths to protect Sarbella? Yet, other than Sarbella, Joan, and +Haskins, there had been but one other person above the first floor when +the shot was fired, and that was the other Mrs. Gilmore, Joan's mother. + +"Ah!" thought Wiggly with a tingle of excitement, as his mind canvassed +this possibility. "There is the person that the girl would protect, her +mother. And the mother has kept closely to her room; the doctor had to +look after her. Now what could have been her motive?" + +That was a puzzler, particularly so since he had not so much as put +eyes on the woman. Perhaps--this was guessing merely--the older Mrs. +Gilmore had been mistress of Greenacres so long that she resented the +appearance of an interloper; possibly she had taken the frenzied +notion that she was to be dispossessed from this house which had been +her home. + +Both Bates and Kirklan Gilmore, downstairs in the butler's pantry when +the scream and the shot had sounded through the quiet house, had been +positive that they had got up the stairs before any one would have had +a chance to come down; even Haskins had verified that. Their coming +had been so swift as to cut off his chance of escape. Yes, decided +Wiggly, counting Haskins out of it, there remained just three possible +suspects. Joan, Sarbella, and the elder Mrs. Gilmore. + +But the piece of tallow--he was not getting the answer to that. He was +still considering it when Doctor Bushnell's automobile turned in at the +Greenacres driveway. The doctor was returning from the hospital with +the butler. A moment later the physician's touring car came to a pause +near the porch, and Wiggly got quickly to his feet. + +"How about Constable Griggs?" he asked. + +"He'll make the grade, but it was a close call for him," answered +Doctor Bushnell. "Mighty bad fracture. He'll have to spend a week or +better in the hospital. I've explained the whole situation, and he's +given me the jail keys and his permission to release Sarbella, which I +shall do immediately. Has the district attorney arrived yet?" + +"Haven't seen him," replied Wiggly, eager for an opening that he might +have a frank talk with the deputy coroner. + +"I telephoned him from the hospital and explained the situation in +detail. He agreed with me that there seemed to be no doubt that Haskins +killed the woman; said he'd come right over. I'll drum up enough men +for the coroner's jury when I get to the village and release Sarbella. +Whew! I'll bet it's a load off of his mind; it certainly looked bad for +that fellow--mighty bad." + +Bates had gone on into the house; the doctor had not got out of the +car, his purpose in stopping evidently being merely to let out the +butler. His hand was upon the gear lever, ready to start his car in +motion again, but Wiggly put detaining fingers on his arm. + +"Just a moment, Doctor Bushnell," he urged earnestly. "I know you've +made up your mind that Haskins did the shooting, and that, since +Haskins is dead, the case is virtually closed." + +"Certainly it is," nodded the physician. "I thought about it all the +way on the drive to the hospital and back. The evidence against Haskins +is all that any reasonable man would ask. Practically a matter of legal +formality, the inquest." + +"I'm going to ask that you listen to me, with an open mind," +Wiggly insisted. "I want to talk with you about the case in utmost +seriousness; I feel that you're on the verge of making a grave blunder. +I've found something----" + +"Not more hairpins?" broke in the doctor with a faint smile. + +"Doctor, I'm no novice in contact with crime; and, while I'm not +nursing any notion that I'm a born detective, I've got eyes in my head +and a logical sort of thinking apparatus. Without trying to toot my own +horn, I might add that I've helped my paper solve a puzzle or so, after +the police had fallen down on the job. I'm not saying that to boast; +just want you to take me seriously." + +Doctor Bushnell gave him a quick, sharp glance. "I'll listen, as we +drive to the village," he said. "Hop in." + +Wiggly hopped in, and, as the car got into motion, so did his tongue. +Absolute conviction that he was right enabled him to give a forceful +presentation of his theories, and his short, punchy sentences were +punctuated by frequent twitchings of his ears. + +He began by repeating in substance Haskins' dying statement and +emphasizing the improbability of Haskins leaving the gun behind, the +utter uselessness of Haskins covering up the murder beneath the guise +of suicide. From there he switched to the piece of tallow, saving +any mention of Joan Sheridan until the last. The doctor, listening +patiently, gave him a fair hearing; but it is a difficult job to +convince a man who has already made up his mind to the contrary. + +"Now we come down to the nub of things," Wiggly went on; swiftly he +voiced his suspicions concerning Joan and his reasons for them. He told +of his effort to cross-examine the girl and the results. + +Doctor Bushnell had an uneasy feeling, as he himself recalled Joan's +perturbation of the previous night, but he brushed these thoughts aside. + +"Do you realize," he demanded sternly, "that you are intimating that +Joan Sheridan might have----Oh, it's absurd, preposterous! I refuse +even to consider such a ridiculous notion. Why, I've known Joan all +her life; a sweeter, finer young woman never lived." + +"Did you happen to know that she's in love with Gilmore?" Wiggly +demanded, and at this suggestion of a motive the doctor's eyes snapped +angrily. + +"So that's what you base all this wild talk on, eh? That reduces your +reasoning to further absurdity." + +"I'm not accusing her of the shooting, doctor, but I'm absolutely +certain that she's hiding something; if not to protect herself, then to +protect some one else. Her agitation----" + +"Humph!" broke in Doctor Bushnell. "What sort of a woman wouldn't be +agitated with all that's happened at Greenacres during the past few +hours. Whom would she be protecting? Answer me that!" + +"It would have to be some one who was on the second floor when the +shot was fired. Tell me something--does Gilmore or his stepmother own +Greenacres?" + +"Gilmore does," the doctor answered. "His stepmother's share of the +estate was in cash and other realty, but I'm afraid she managed it +poorly." + +"Ah!" murmured Wiggly. "Then she was virtually dependent upon her +stepson. If things had become so unpleasant for her at Greenacres after +the arrival of the house's new mistress that she could not stay----" + +The physician's indignation became more pronounced. + +"Gad, what a villainous imagination you've got!" he exploded. "You mean +now, I suppose, that Mrs. Gilmore did the shooting, and that Joan is +shielding her? Young man, I've lost all patience with such nonsense. +I refuse to listen to these ravings any longer. Any one, except a +hare-brained idiot, would know that Haskins did the shooting. No more +of this twaddle; I simply won't listen to you!" + +"Then you won't help me with a further investigation?" + +"I shall certainly have no hand in such foolishness," answered Doctor +Bushnell with a tone of absolute finality. "Talk to the district +attorney, if you insist, but I warn you that he'll take no stock in it." + +"Probably not," Wiggly agreed gloomily, "but just the same I know I'm +right." + +They had reached the village, and the doctor's car came to a halt in +front of Borough Hall. + +"I'll release Sarbella and then get busy drumming up my men for the +coroner's jury," said Bushnell. "You've got a sensational enough story +for your paper, as it is; forget that silly rubbish you've been talking +to me." + +Wiggly made no response, but followed the physician from the machine +into the village building and downstairs into the basement, where +Victor Sarbella was a prisoner. At the sound of their approach, +Sarbella came to the door of the narrow cage and peered out between +the rusting steel bars, but he uttered no word of protest, of outraged +innocence; only stared in a stony, narrow-eyed silence. + +"I've the best of news for you, Mr. Sarbella!" Doctor Bushnell +exclaimed heartily. "I've come to let you out." + +The prisoner's head jerked up, his fingers tightened their grip about +the bars of the cell door, his lips parted, and his eyes brightened +with the look of relief that flashed across his face. + +"You mean," he asked slowly, "that I am to be released +unconditionally--that I have been removed from suspicion?" + +The doctor, with the constable's keys, was struggling with the lock +that would unfasten the bolts; the mechanism was badly in need of +oiling, and it was giving him trouble. + +"Yes, unconditionally," he answered. "We find that we have done you +an injustice, although you must admit that we were within our rights, +everything considered. The murderer of the Gilmore woman----Oh, curse +this lock!" + +Sarbella pressed his body closer to the bars. "Yes?" he demanded with +an eager impatience. "The murderer--go on, man!" + +The lock finally yielded, enabling the physician to turn the handle +that slid the bolts, and the door opened. Victor Sarbella was a free +man. + +"Tell me," he commanded again. "Who----" The newspaper reporter sensed +his grave concern, his anxiety--and wondered. + +"Luckily for you," answered Doctor Bushnell, "the slayer was still in +the house--a criminal who, it developed, was the woman's undivorced +husband." + +"Thank Heaven!" breathed Sarbella, and it was apparent that this news +was a great relief to him. + +Briefly the doctor related the facts. + +"What a blessedly fortunate ending!" murmured the artist. "I was +afraid of other things--something more terrible." + +"I'm driving back to Greenacres after I get together a jury for the +inquest," went on the physician. "I'm anxious to get it over with as +quickly as possible, for my private practice has to wait until this +official business is disposed of, and my patients are liable to lose +their patience." He chuckled a little at his own pun. "You may ride +back to Greenacres with me, if you choose." + +"Thanks," nodded Sarbella, "I will." + +The three men made their way out of the basement cell room and to the +street, where the doctor said that they could wait in his car, if they +liked. A moment later he was hurrying along the village thoroughfare in +quest of his jurors, picking up practically the first citizens that he +encountered. Sarbella got into the rear of the touring car, and Wiggly +Price sat beside him. + +"You seem to be well out of a bad situation," said the newspaper man. + +The released suspect nodded soberly. "Yes," he agreed, "a bad +situation--an overwhelming situation. Circumstantial evidence can be a +damning thing. Perhaps I owe something to you; your attitude, when you +came to the cell about the cigarette----" + +"You do not owe your release to me, Sarbella; it was the appearance +of Sergeant Tish, his identification of the gun and the presence of +Haskins in the house." Wiggly paused for a moment with his eyes on the +other's face. "You were greatly relieved when you heard the doctor's +explanation of the tragedy?" + +Victor Sarbella inclined his head. + +"I was!" he exclaimed fervently. "Knowing my own innocence, I am afraid +that I was as much inclined to suspect other people as other people to +suspect me. I am afraid that I even suspected my friend Gilmore." + +"Why Gilmore?" asked Wiggly. "He had a perfect alibi--downstairs when +the shot was fired." + +"Yes, I know," murmured Sarbella, "but the poor chap was so +overwrought, so beside himself, so obsessed with the suspicion that +there had been an--ah--affair between me and--and his wife--but let us +not talk of that." + +"I wonder," pressed Wiggly, but careful to make his tone carelessly +casual, "if you also suspected Miss Sheridan?" + +"Eh?" exclaimed Sarbella, turning quickly, and then he laughed briefly. +"Yes, I think I even suspected her. Her attitude it was--ah--very +strange, it seemed to me. Only excitement, of course, as we know the +facts now; but at the time--well, I hardly knew what to think." + +Wiggly's ears twitched slightly. Further confirmation of his theory! +Yet it convinced no one except himself. + +"I condemn myself for harboring any such suspicions," went on Sarbella +musingly, "but it was strange. She was up, had not retired, and yet she +had not heard the scream or the shot." + +"What!" exclaimed Wiggly; this was something new to him. He had not +known that. "You mean that she was up and dressed?" + +Sarbella shot him a quick, curious glance, saw his eagerness, and was +warned to sudden silence. + +"Let us talk of something else," he said. "Am I to understand that +there are still any doubts in your mind----" + +"Haskins made a dying statement in which he denied the murder," said +Wiggly; "he said, however, that he did see the murderer coming out of +the room after the shot was fired." + +Sarbella gave no guilty start, such as might have been expected, if +Haskins' story was true, and it had been himself that Haskins had seen +coming out of Helen Gilmore's room. + +"What could you expect but lies from the lips of such a man?" the +artist asked. "Thank Heaven that the ending is as it is. This man, +this Haskins, must have been the husband who went to my poor brother +with the story that unbalanced his reason and sent him to his death. +Poor Andrea! The hand of Fate has avenged him! There is a God of +retribution!" + +Wiggly Price made one more effort. His fingers went to his pocket for +that puzzling piece of tallow. + +"Had another look around that room this morning," he said. "On the +floor I found several pieces of this." + +Victor Sarbella turned and glanced at the white, black-flecked, +shapeless lump, but he betrayed no more visible signs of emotion than +had Joan Sheridan. + +"What is it?" he asked, frowning. "What of it?" + +"Nothing!" grunted Wiggly Price, as his arm raised in a disgustedly +impulsive gesture to toss it into the street. Even his own persistent +faith in this as a vital clew was being badly shaken. Yet his fingers +closed about the bit of tallow, and he returned it to his pocket again. +His mouth tightened. + +"Nothing--so far," he added. He was one of those chaps who just +naturally can't quit. + +Sarbella gave him a curious glance, shrugged his shoulders, and +dismissed both the man and the bit of tallow as of no further +importance; then he lapsed into a moody sort of silence. A moment later +Doctor Bushnell returned to the car; it had taken him no time at all to +drum his jury for the inquest. + +"All right," he announced, "we'll be getting back and having things +over with. Shouldn't take much longer than an hour: Presley, our local +garage man, will bring the jurors out in a bus, and they'll be no great +distance behind us." + +He took the wheel, started the motor, and the three men were on their +way back to Greenacres. Wiggly sat stiffly in the seat beside Sarbella, +trying in vain to drive his brain over the hurdles. Time with him was +short, for, as the doctor had just said, in another hour or so it would +be over. The law would have finished with the Gilmore affair and write +the easiest, most obvious ending to the dramatic business of the past +night, charging the whole tragic account to Don Haskins and, through +his death, mark the whole deed as "Paid." + +Once the verdict of the coroner's jury was in, Wiggly knew, it would +be next to the impossible to have the case reopened again. He had just +about sixty minutes longer to prove he was right, and that the rest of +them were wrong. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVIII + + THE BLACK SMUDGE + + +Along the ribbon-smooth road Doctor Bushnell shot the car at a lively +clip; one couldn't blame him, of course, for thinking of his private +practice, and one of his patients had been telephoning for him all +morning. He would have been the last man to hurry the Gilmore case to +a legal finish, if he had thought there was anything to be gained by +prolonging the investigation; but he considered that the affair had +been solved to all reasonable satisfaction. + +In less than five minutes they arrived at Greenacres, and hardly had +the three men stepped from the machine to the porch of the house when +Kirklan Gilmore, evidently having seen them from a window, came rushing +out, both hands stretched out toward the artist. There were tears in +his eyes, and his voice was husky, trembling with emotion. + +"Thank God, Victor!" he cried. "I've just heard the whole inside +of things from a man, the New York detective, that you're cleared, +absolutely cleared! You don't know what a relief it has been to me, +although I never did think, even when things were the blackest, that +you did it." + +"And I appreciate your loyalty, Kirklan," answered Sarbella. The hands +of the two men remained clasped. + +"Forgive me, Victor, for thinking last night that you--that you and +Helen----" + +"That there had been an--ah--affair between your wife and me," finished +Sarbella. "Yes, I was afraid that my silence would put dark thoughts +into your head, but----" + +"Why didn't you tell me?" broke in Gilmore, and a peculiar expression +convulsed his features. "Why didn't you tell me last night, out in the +study, that she was the woman over whom your brother----" + +Sarbella shook his head. + +"No! I could not in honor do that," he protested. "You were my friend, +and the woman was your wife. My lips were sealed. She was your wife; +you loved her." + +Kirklan Gilmore's face was still white, haggardly drawn, but he was +no longer the broken wreck of a man, tottering upon the brink of a +mental collapse, that he had been some hours before. He seemed to +have recovered from the first over-powering shock of horror; Doctor +Bushnell's course in placing him under the influence of a sedative had +apparently been a most wise one. + +At Sarbella's words his lips twitched piteously, but he managed to keep +control of himself. + +"No," he said slowly, huskily, "I was in love with--with the woman +I thought her to be--in love with an ideal, a creation of my own +imagination. The woman I thought her to be did not exist--except in +my own infatuated fancies. And she was not my wife. She----Oh, what a +nightmare it's been--what a nightmare!" + +Doctor Bushnell stepped swiftly to his side and, taking his arm, urged +him toward the house. + +"Keep a grip on yourself, Kirklan," he murmured in a kindly, paternal +tone. "It's been a pretty terrible business, old man, but that thing +we mortals call fate has cut a lot of the strings to the tangle for +you. It is better that things are as they are; it saves a vast number +of troublesome complications. It saves--well, trucking a lot of mire +through the courts." + +Gilmore compressed his lips and lowered his head. "Yes," he agreed +dully, "you're right about that; it saves the courts." + +"Buck up, Kirklan! As you say, the woman you thought her to be did not +exist." + +"Ah," murmured Victor Sarbella, "but losing an ideal is one of the +hardest things in life." + +The novelist, leaning a little on the doctor's friendly arm, made his +way slowly into the house. Sarbella and Wiggly Price followed. + +"Have all the legal details been satisfied?" asked Gilmore, as he +lowered himself into a chair. "There is, of course, no question but +that----" + +"But that Haskins killed her," finished Doctor Bushnell. "Absolutely +none, Kirklan. There remains now only the inquest--a double inquest in +this case. One jury will suffice for both; the verdict, of course, is a +foregone conclusion." + +There fell a brief silence, Gilmore's eyes staring straight in front of +him, with a dull, vacant expression. No doubt he was thinking of the +bronze-haired, beautiful woman who lay upstairs, cold in death--the +woman who might have been. + +"Everything has become quite clear to me," he said slowly, more as if +speaking to himself. "She was making a visit to this Haskins in New +York day before yesterday, when Atchinson saw her on the street. She +must have gone there in answer to a letter that my butler tells me she +received that morning." + +"Atchinson?" Doctor Bushnell asked inquiringly. + +"My publisher," Gilmore replied. "Since she was employed by the +publishing firm before our marriage, Atchinson knew her quite well. He +said it was she, but I thought he must be mistaken. She had told me +that she was going to motor into the country. I wonder how it would +have all come out if the man, Haskins, had not been trapped in the +storeroom?" + +No one responded to that musing question. Withdrawn unobtrusively +into one corner, Wiggly had again taken the lump of tallow from his +pocket and was meditatively rubbing his fingers over it. Suddenly +his attention centered upon those black specks that he had taken for +granted were dirt, caused, perhaps, by a soiled shoe sole pressing down +on it, as it had lain upon the floor of the room upstairs; he saw now +that those dark, almost pin-point discolorations were imbedded into the +substance. This, however, increased rather than solved the puzzle. + +"The district attorney has come, hasn't he?" asked Doctor Bushnell. +"I took it for granted that it was his car I saw at the side of the +driveway, as we came up." + +Kirklan Gilmore nodded absently. "Yes," he said, "a young fellow--the +assistant district attorney, I believe. Lasker, I think his name is. +He's upstairs looking around with that detective fellow, Sergeant Fish." + +"Tish," corrected the physician. "Quite a game sort, Tish; it was he +who shot Haskins." + +Again Gilmore nodded. "So he told me," he said. + +"I think I'll go upstairs," added the physician. "It won't be long +now until the men who are to serve on the jury arrive." He glanced at +Wiggly with a patronizing sort of smile. "Are you coming up with me to +look for more--more hairpins, young man?" + +The newspaper man smiled grimly. + +"I'll go up with you," he said, "but it's not hairpins that I'm mainly +interested in right now; it's this confounded piece of tallow." He +turned his eyes toward the novelist and thought he saw a sudden +tightening of Gilmore's muscles, a suppressed start. He was not so sure +about it. "Tell me, Mr. Gilmore, were candles used frequently in the +house here?" + +Gilmore did not reply for a moment. "Candles?" he murmured. "Why, my +dear sir, what a peculiar question. I don't believe I understand." + +Doctor Bushnell, moving toward the stairway, paused with a brief, +discounting laugh. + +"Our enthusiastic newspaper friend, Kirklan," he explained, "thinks we +haven't begun to get at the bottom of things. He's found a few pieces +of tallow candle on the floor of the room upstairs; he's trying to +attach some importance to it--just because he doesn't hit upon a ready +explanation to it, I suppose. I'm afraid we've humored him a little +too much, in gratitude for the first assistance that he gave us in +identifying your wife." + +Gilmore was frowning slightly. + +"And I'm afraid that I can't help him explain his little mystery, +doctor," he said. "So far as I can recall, there aren't any +candlesticks in Helen's room; nor in my room, which is adjoining. +Still"--he paused for a moment--"it does occur to me, gentlemen, that +the third floor has never been wired for electricity; the storeroom +is so seldom visited. If Haskins had wanted to have a light up there, +a candle would have afforded about the only possible illumination for +him." + +"Ah!" exclaimed the doctor. "See, Price, there's the explanation for +you! The woman must have got Haskins a candle, and he carried it down +with him when he shot her. He probably mashed it underfoot and----" + +"No, that will hardly do," Wiggly interrupted with a quick negative +jerk of his head. "In the first place, I can't believe that Haskins +would have been fool enough to have taken a light with him to the +storeroom; too much chance of the illuminated window attracting +attention. Secondly, this tallow was broken into a good many small +pieces; the trodding of a foot on a candle wouldn't do that; it would +only have mashed it, and it wouldn't have scattered it several places +about the room." + +Doctor Bushnell shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, what matter!" he exclaimed +impatiently. "Whatever explanation there is would probably be absurdly +simple." + +Before the physician could gain the stairs, Sergeant Tish and the +assistant district attorney were coming down. The latter was a +youngish, blond fellow, with rimless spectacles glistening in front of +pale-blue eyes; one could see that he appreciated the gravity of the +situation and the importance of his own official position, and that, +beneath his outward pretense of grim poise, he was a rather nervous and +inexperienced young man. + +One look at young Lasker told Wiggly how futile it would be to approach +him with any theory calculated to upset the accepted situation; the +lawyer's words confirmed this impression. + +"Ah, Doctor Bushnell!" he exclaimed, frowning his best official frown +and clearing his throat several times. "I have just been over the +ground with Sergeant Tish, who has been kind enough to lay all of the +facts before me--in quite a comprehensive manner. I have canvassed +the evidence thoroughly. I quite agree with you, doctor, that but +one sensible hypothesis can be drawn. I would even call it more than +an hypothesis. The evidence is quite clear-cut and incontrovertible. +Sergeant Tish's markmanship has--fortunately for him, however--cheated +the electric chair of its grim function. There can be no question of +Haskins' guilt; absolutely no question." + +"In spite of hairpins, tallow, and such stuff," grunted Tish, with a +grin at Wiggly, evidently taking a keen delight in belittling him. The +young assistant district attorney glanced at the newspaper man and +lifted his hands in a gesture of depreciation. + +"So this is the journalist you were telling me about. If positive +evidence were lacking, my dear sir, it might be very well to bear +these things in mind, but in a clear-cut case of this kind such minor +trifles become entirely irrelevant and immaterial. Any other theory +than that of Haskins' guilt is absolutely untenable. I am willing, +Doctor Bushnell, that the inquest shall proceed with the evidence in +hand." + +"I think I hear Presley's bus coming along the road now," nodded the +doctor. "He's bringing the men from the village." + +From outside there came the sound of the lumbering, noisy conveyance, +bearing the coroner's jury. All attention at the moment was focused in +this direction, and Wiggly, without a word to any one--he was playing +an absolutely lone hand now--made for the stairs. No one registered any +objection to his taking another visit to the second floor, but halfway +up he turned and saw Kirklan Gilmore's eyes fixed upon him in a sort of +set, expressionless stare. Was it expressionless? Wiggly had a feeling +that the blank look might be concealing a degree of--well, perhaps of +wary apprehension. + +"Humph!" Wiggly said under his breath. "Gilmore was downstairs when +his wife was killed; he couldn't have had a hand in it, and yet, dash +it all, I did get a reflex from him when it came to mentioning the +tallow. And he was pretty prompt in trying to find an explanation for +the stuff being in the room. I wonder----" But what he wondered was too +vague even for his thoughts. Passing on up the steps to the head of the +stairs, he let himself into the murdered woman's bed-chamber. + +"I don't know what I can expect to find more than I have," he told +himself discouragingly, "but the old line in the copy book used to tell +me: 'If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.' Here goes for +another try. Gilmore was startled when I mentioned tallow candles. Why?" + +Obviously that question could never be answered until he found out for +himself what part the tallow had played in the tragedy, until he had +explained its mysterious presence in the room. He walked about the room +slowly several times and then dropped to hands and knees, crawling back +and forth, his eyes close to the rug, picking up all of the tallow that +he could find. Presently he had quite a little accumulation of the +stuff, gathered from a surprisingly wide radius. + +The palm of his hand was pricked by a sharp surface hidden from view +in the nap of the rug--another fragment of the broken vase. The vase +hadn't impressed him greatly; for that was one thing that could be +explained. As Tish had suggested, if it hadn't been tipped from the +table, Helen Gilmore might have flung it at the murderer in a desperate +effort at self-defense. + +Yet, as he was about to toss aside the fragment of porcelain, his jaw +sagged, and a startled exclamation came from his parted lips, for there +clung to what had once been the inside of the vase, a small particle of +tallow! + +"Gosh!" breathed Wiggly, his ears twitching violently. "The tallow was +inside of the vase when it was broken! The two go together; I'd never +thought of that. By George, I've been missing something!" + +The shattered porcelain vase had, in light of this discovery, taken +on a real importance within Wiggly's mind. Hastily he began crawling +on hands and knees about the room, retrieving every piece of it that +he could find. When he had got together all of it he could find, he +placed all the pieces on the table, with the tallow in a separate +pile and, drawing up a chair, sat down and began to study it. Still +no inspirational solution flashed through his mind; he began at +nowhere and ended at the same place. Times without number he handled +the pieces, absently sorting and resorting them, and at last, with a +hopeless sigh of defeat, he realized that an explanation was beyond his +powers of either deduction or imagination; he was simply beating his +head against a stone wall. + +"Its no use!" he muttered under his breath. "Possibly I'm wrong after +all! Possibly----" + +Outside the closed door in the hall he heard voices. Bates had come +upstairs to call Joan Sheridan and her mother to attend the proceedings +down in the library. Wiggly wondered if they would ask him to testify; +probably not. Doctor Bushnell and the assistant district attorney would +not want him upsetting things and confusing the accepted explanation by +flinging his unproven theories at the jury. + +For a moment or so the newspaper man debated. + +"I know I've no authority to do it, and I will probably get thrown out +on my ear, if I'm caught at it; but I've got a notion to have one more +try." + +Leaving the piece of broken vase and the lumps of tallow on the table +where he had been studying them with so little result, he turned +toward the door, slipping quietly into the hall. The sound of voices +came up the open stairway; Doctor Bushnell, in his capacity as deputy +coroner, was swearing in the jury. + +Wiggly made for the wing of the house where he knew Joan Sheridan's +room to be. He had never rid himself of the notion that she knew +something about the murder that she would never tell unless it was +forced from her unwilling lips; and the only force to which she would +respond would be evidence. + +Her room was unlocked. He let himself in with the unconscious +stealthiness that overtakes a man who finds himself entering unbidden +places. Closing the door gently behind him, the reporter straightway +went about the business in hand, which was to determine whether or +not the room might not reveal something that would incriminate Joan +Sheridan. + +First, he went to the girl's dressing table; the top of it, except for +some silver-backed toilet articles, was barren; but in the right-hand +drawer he did find hairpins. Quickly he compared them with the one in +his pocket; they were of the same size, color, and pattern. As alike as +the proverbial two peas in a pod; yet that in itself was slim proof, +for, as Joan herself had said, all hairpins are so much alike. He had +to have more than that--a great deal more than that. + +Wiggly was closing the drawer when he noted for the first time the +black smudge on his finger--a smallish streak which flecked free from +the skin, as he rubbed at it with the ball of his thumb. + +"Hello!" he exclaimed under his breath. "What's that? Where did I get +it?" With a curious and puzzled frown he stared at the dark spot on his +finger, as he continued to fleck off the black, grainy particles. He +lifted his hand to his nose and sniffed, and, as he caught the faint, +but unmistakable, odor, his ears fairly did a dance at the sides of his +head. + +"Great guns," he whispered. "It's powder--burned gunpowder! Where did +I get that?" His bulging eyes swept the dressing table and the only +articles that he had touched since coming into Helen Gilmore's room. +And then he thought of the candle tallow and the black specks that had +mocked him with their enigma. Slowly, through a fog of bewilderment and +incredulity, there pierced a dawning light of understanding. He had +solved the murder! + + + + + CHAPTER XXIX + + "LET THE GUILTY MAN SPEAK!" + + +The young assistant district attorney and Doctor Bushnell had indeed +reduced the double inquest to a cut-and-dried formality, and the +proceeding was heading swiftly toward its anticipated conclusion. Extra +chairs had been brought into the library, and it was here that the +hearing was in progress. + +In his capacity as deputy coroner, Bushnell presided at a small table, +and near him, at his right, was the young attorney, blinking with +official severity from behind his rimless glasses; at the doctor's left +was the witness chair which faced the jury. The latter were an assorted +lot of village types--Mr. Judson, the ordinarily genial grocer, with +his fat, stubby fingers locked tightly in front of his ample middle; +Henry Blackburn, a local fire-insurance agent, who was tall, lean and +hatchet faced; Jim Striker, local manager of the telephone company; and +so on down the list. + +There had been no move to bar any one from hearing the testimony of +the other witnesses. Behind the jury chairs Joan Sheridan murmured +soothingly in an effort to calm her mother's muffled, hysterical +sobbing; a little apart sat Kirklan Gilmore, slumped deep into a chair, +chin on his chest and his eyes half closed; but he was listening +carefully; not a syllable was escaping him. Victor Sarbella was seated +nearest the door; his dark eyes were roving restlessly about the room. + +Sergeant Tish had been the first witness, identifying the gun which +had killed Helen Gilmore and recounting, for the benefit of the jury, +how it had got to Greenacres. Doctor Bushnell previously had given an +outline of the facts, as he had found them. + +Bates, the butler, followed Tish and did not forget to color his +account of the happenings with a none-too-modest tribute to his own +shrewd deductions that it had been murder and not suicide. He was proud +of that little achievement. He told how he had been fast asleep when +the ringing of the doorbell had awakened him, and he had got up to +admit Gilmore, who had been out at the studio and had forgotten his +keys; he described how he had been in the butler's pantry; that he had +just finished making Gilmore a toddy, which the latter was drinking, +when both of them had heard the scream, closely followed by the shot. + +Joan Sheridan suppressed a shiver, but no one noticed that. + +"After that, Bates?" urged Doctor Bushnell. + +"Mr. Gilmore and I hurried upstairs. When we was about halfway up we +heard a door slam shut--Haskins when he scooted back up to the attic, +I guess. The door to the younger Mrs. Gilmore's room was open, and the +light was burning. I went in first, and there she was--all covered with +blood, the gun on the floor beside the couch. It looked like suicide, +but I knew it wasn't, because she wouldn't have screamed before +shooting herself. She might have screamed after she did it, but the +shot was fired after she screamed. More than that; the door was open, +and, like I said, people don't shoot themselves with the door open." + +"A very good deduction, Bates," nodded the doctor. + +"Yes, sir; I rather thought so myself," agreed Bates. + +Other questions and answers followed, and the entire ground was covered +swiftly, but thoroughly. The jurors were then asked if they wished to +interrogate the witness. None of them did, and Bates was excused. + +"Miss Sheridan, merely as a matter of formality, will you please take +the witness chair?" murmured Doctor Bushnell, and Joan, her face +becoming a shade more pale with the ordeal, got slowly to her feet and +walked to the front of the room. Kirklan Gilmore's body tensed, and his +hand clenched, but he did not lift his eyes. + +"I want you to understand," the doctor told her gently, after taking +her oath as a witness, "that this is a mere formality. You will please +tell us, in your own words, just what you know about the tragedy." + +Joan Sheridan was plainly nervous; her fingers, resting in her lap, +were twisting about each other, and for a moment she did not answer. + +"There is nothing--nothing that I can tell," she answered in a +strained, muffled voice. + +"As I understand--in fact, from what you told me--you did not hear the +fatal shot." + +Joan's voice became a little clearer, as she answered: "No, I did not +hear the fatal shot." + +"I might explain to the jury," added the doctor, "that Miss Sheridan's +room is in another part of the house." + +From outside the library came the sound of hurrying feet, as Wiggly +Price came down the stairs, two steps at a time. Just outside the +library he paused, screened behind the portières. Across his arm was a +woman's silk dressing gown, and in his hand was a handkerchief, caught +up at the corners and sagging with the weight of the broken vase and +the particles of candle tallow. + +"Just the psychological moment!" he said under his breath. "It's made +to order." + +"And there is nothing more that you can add, Miss Sheridan?" asked +Doctor Bushnell. + +"There is nothing more that I can say," she answered. + +"That will be all," murmured the doctor. + +Wiggly Price entered the room, billowing aside the portières, as he +swept past them, and his ears were wiggling for all they were worth. +The silk dressing gown across his arm added to the dramatic effect of +his entrance. + +"Just a moment, Miss Sheridan!" he exclaimed. "What you really mean is +that there is nothing more you want to say. But I am very much afraid +that you will have to say something, whether you want to or not." + +Doctor Bushnell leaped angrily to his feet, his eyes snapping. + +"What do you mean by this, Price?" he shouted. "I forbid----" + +"I demand," broke in Wiggly, "that Miss Sheridan be forced to explain +several things, including why she tried to clean spots from the sleeve +of this dressing gown that she was wearing last night." Joan had +started to her feet, but sank limply back in her chair, a moan upon her +lips. + +"Look at her face!" cried Wiggly. "Isn't that proof enough for you? +Don't look at me--look at her!" + +Joan's face was chalk white, and she swayed in her chair and would +have fallen, had not the assistant district attorney leaped forward to +support her. + +"Look at this dressing gown!" went on Wiggly in a rush of words. "Look +at the sleeve, here. I just took it out of her closet a minute ago; the +odor of a cleaning fluid, chloroform, can still be detected. And it +didn't take out the spots. She didn't know that cold water was the best +thing to remove bloodstains." He swung upon Joan. "Do you deny, Miss +Sheridan, that these are bloodstains? Do you deny that you attempted to +remove them after the murder?" + +Joan's mother screamed shrilly. "It's a lie!" she moaned. "It's a lie. +He's trying to make it appear that my little girl----" A merciful +unconsciousness gathered her in. + +Doctor Bushnell, dazed to a point of speechlessness, stared from the +accusing newspaper man to Joan. There could be no denying the wild +terror that gripped her. + +"If she does deny it," went on Wiggly, "a chemical analysis will +establish that it is blood--human blood." + +Doctor Bushnell at last found voice. "Joan," he cried, "do you +understand what this means? This man is virtually accusing you of +murder. In Heaven's name, say something!" + +But Joan Sheridan, her lips twitching, shook her head. "I--I +didn't--do it!" she whispered. "I didn't do it, but I have nothing to +say--absolutely nothing to say." + +"But, you've got to say something!" the doctor urged desperately. +"Silence like this----" + +Again she shook her head. "I've nothing to say," she repeated. + +In the excitement that had accompanied this sudden and amazing turn of +things, all attention had been centered upon the quivering, ashen-faced +girl in the witness chair, and no one--unless, perhaps, it was Wiggly +Price from the corner of his eye--had observed Kirklan Gilmore. The +novelist had leaped to his feet and clutched at the back of his chair +with palsied fingers. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. + +"Great God!" he whispered. "That she would make a sacrifice like that!" +His voice raised. "Tell them!" he commanded hoarsely. "Tell them, +Joan--the truth!" + +Joan sobbed wildly, uncontrollably. "Oh, Kirk!" she moaned. +"Kirk--don't! In Heaven's name--don't!" + +"Since Joan will not talk," said Kirklan Gilmore, "I will." + +Wiggly Price dropped his handkerchief to the table, and the loosened +corners fell back, revealing the little pile of broken porcelain and +the bits of tallow. + +"Let the guilty man speak!" he said. "If he does not--the evidence is +here." + + + + + CHAPTER XXX + + WIGGLY MAKES A WAGER + + +The room was tensely silent, as Kirklan Gilmore made his way slowly to +the front of the room and, with a shaking hand, took the glass of water +that rested upon the coroner's table. He gulped a drink nervously. He +put the glass down clumsily. + +"It's impossible--utterly impossible!" Doctor Bushnell muttered +helplessly. "Gilmore was downstairs--Bates was with him--when the shot +was fired on the second floor. I can't understand----" + +Kirklan Gilmore did not sit down, but stood there, leaning heavily +against the table, facing the coroner's jury. + +"The truth," he said huskily, "would have been best in the first place; +the truth is always best. I suppose any chance that I may have had +is gone now. Yes, I--I killed her--with that gun." He pointed to the +broken bits on Wiggly's handkerchief. "The evidence is there. I felt +that it was coming when--when this reporter started talking--about the +tallow." + +"Suffering cats!" This interruption came from Sergeant Tish, who gave +Wiggly Price an uncanny look of reluctant admiration. + +"It began," went on Gilmore in a heavy, toneless voice, "on Monday, +when Helen went to New York to meet Haskins, her--her husband." He +winced, as he said that. "That night she wanted money to pay the +blackmail of the man's silence. She lied to me, and I knew that she +lied, but she would not tell me the truth. + +"The next day Sarbella came, and I saw--we all saw--that there was +something--something that terrified her. I got Sarbella out to the +studio, tried to force him to tell. I suspected a--a love affair. I was +mad with jealousy. He gave me his word that he had never so much as +seen her before, but I thought that was a gentleman's lie. It was true. + +"That night--last night only, but it seems an eternity--I stayed for +a long time out at the studio, tortured by those black thoughts. It +was after eleven o'clock when I came back to the house. Everybody had +retired. I went upstairs to my room. It was next to Helen's. I was +trying to compose myself before I went in to her to demand the truth. I +had no weapon; there was no thought of violence. + +"The connecting door between our rooms was locked--from her side, but +through the panel I thought I heard hushed voices. I thought--what +could I think other than that Sarbella might be in there with her? +Somehow I hesitated, and it must have been while I debated, trying to +think, that she got Haskins out and to the third floor. + +"And then I went in to her. She was sitting in a chair, facing the +door. I didn't see the gun; it was on the floor at her feet. My mind +was in such a daze that I hardly think I can make it clear just how it +happened. I think I told her that there had been a man in her room, +that I had heard them talking. + +"I know that I was wild looking, disheveled, haggard. I had not slept +at all the night before. Perhaps she thought I meant to kill her. +Anyhow, she leaned over and picked up the gun swiftly. That was the +first time I had noticed it. + +"'Go away,' she told me. But I did not go away; I had come for the +truth, the truth from her own lips. I told her to put down the gun, and +when she did not, I did a very foolish thing; I attempted to take it +from her by force. I couldn't control myself. + +"That was when it happened--in the struggle for the gun. It was her own +hand that pulled the trigger. I swear before Heaven that is true." He +paused a moment, breathing heavily. + +"The muzzle must have been pressed close to her body," he went on; +"that was why there was scarcely any explosion; her body muffled the +shot. She collapsed, and I put her on the couch. She did not move or +speak. That is how it happened." + +The young assistant district attorney gulped, as if he were choking, +and Doctor Bushnell stared in dazed bewilderment. + +"But there--there was a shot!" he gasped. "A shot--and her scream. I +can't understand----" + +"He hasn't finished his story, doctor," said Wiggly Price. "He hasn't +told you how he worked the clever scheme of covering up the shooting, +trying to make it appear suicide." He pointed to the bits of porcelain +and the tallow. "There's the answer to that. He took the black +porcelain vase as his alibi, put gunpowder into it and tamped it in +with candle tallow, made a sort of firecracker. The wick of the candle, +from which he stripped the tallow, was his fuse. He lighted it and went +out of the house again, pretending that he'd forgotten his keys and +had been locked out; that was an excuse to get the butler up and to +have a witness to his alibi. Bates could truthfully swear that he was +downstairs when the explosion sounded. + +"Those black specks in the tallow that have been worrying me all +morning, were burned gunpowder. Don't think I'd have obtained the +answer to it, though, if I hadn't handled the pieces of the vase, and a +black smudge--burned powder again--came free on my fingers. + +"After that it was clear; the murderer was some one who wasn't on the +second floor; that could mean only one person--Gilmore himself." + +Lasker, the assistant district attorney, leaped to his feet. + +"But in that case," he demanded, "what about the scream and Joan +Sheridan's silk dressing gown and the bloodstains?" + +"I fancy," answered Wiggly, "that it was Miss Sheridan who screamed." + +Bates, the butler, gave a violent start. + +"It was!" he exclaimed. "I said at the time it sounded just like the +time she had screamed when Mr. Kirklan was thrown by his horse." + +Gilmore spoke again. "Yes," he said, "the shot that awakened the house +was not a shot, but the explosion of the powder in the vase. When I +thought Helen was dead, I was suddenly afraid. + +"Who would believe that was the way it had happened? They would arrest +me, send me to prison, and I was suddenly a coward. I--I don't know how +I happened to think of what I did; it just came to me suddenly, every +detail of it. + +"In my own room, in a closet, was a box of shotgun shells that I had +used for duck hunting last fall. It was a simple matter to remove the +wads and take out the powder from two shells and pour it into the vase. +I had to go downstairs for the candle. That is all; it would take ten +minutes or so for the candle wick to burn down to the powder. I went +out of the house, but returned almost immediately and rang the bell. +Bates let me in; I--I had to detain him downstairs until the explosion. + +"When the scream came, I was even more startled than Bates. I could not +understand that. And then when we got to the top of the stairs a door +slammed, and the door to her room was open. I had left it closed; also +I had turned off the lights, and they were burning. + +"You can imagine the torture I was in. I tried to make myself speak, +but I was a coward. I was afraid of the consequences. I would +have spoken, if the net had tightened about Sarbella; I want that +understood, that I should not have let an innocent man suffer. + +"Then Haskins in the house--dead--it seemed to make me safe, to solve +the whole terrible situation. And it was not murder. Believe me or not, +I have told the truth." + +Joan Sheridan lifted her head. "Yes," she said, "he has told the truth. +I had it from--from her own lips." + +"What!" cried Gilmore. "You can't mean that she--she was still alive. +Merciful Heaven, I let her die!" + +"I was unable to sleep," Joan went on slowly. "I had started downstairs +for a book. As I passed the door of her room I heard her moaning. I +opened the door and went in. I switched on the lights, bent over her; +that must have been when the hairpin fell from my hair, and I got the +blood on my sleeve. She was dying. She gasped out that Kirklan had shot +her by accident. And that was when I screamed. The vase exploded an +instant later." Her head lifted. "I realize that I am under oath; Helen +told me with her own lips that it was an accident." + +Wiggly Price wondered if this were true, or a superb falsehood to save +the man she loved. + +"If it was an accident, why didn't you talk?" Wiggly countered. + +"The vase, his effort to hide by a porcelain mask what had really +happened," she answered. + +"And that was why you were so sure that Sarbella was innocent?" + +Joan nodded. + +"But you stated on your oath," pressed Wiggly, "that you did not hear +the shot." + +"That was the technical truth," answered Joan. "It was not a shot." + +There fell silence; Doctor Bushnell fussed nervously with some papers +on the table, notes he had been taking of the testimony. The jurors, +although still dazed by it all, looked toward him expectantly. + +"Gentlemen," he said slowly, "you have heard the evidence and +the--er--confession. You have heard Miss Sheridan's statement of +the dying words from the Gilmore woman's lips. I might add, as the +examining physician, that the nature of the wound makes it plausible +that it could have been inflicted in such a struggle for possession +of the pistol as Mr. Gilmore has described. Mind you, gentlemen, I am +not trying to sway your verdict; I merely state that the nature of the +wound makes it plausible. Are there any questions that you wish to ask +of any witness?" There were no questions; perhaps the jury was still +too aghast to think of any. "Very well, the witnesses will retire, +while the coroner's jury considers the case." + +When Wiggly Price stepped out to the porch he found himself beside +Sergeant Tish. + +"Well, Tish," he said. "I told you that I was going to do it, and I +did." + +Sergeant Tish grinned feebly. "I gotta hand it to you, you did," he +admitted. "And to think it was Gilmore that did the croak! You didn't +have _that_ doped out. Ain't it funny now that he didn't watch his +chance and make away with the evidence? Guess he thought it was so +clever nobody would get wise. I wonder if the girl was lying about the +Gilmore woman telling her it was an accident." + +Wiggly pursed his lips and toyed with something in his hand, the black +hairpin. + +"I wonder, too," he murmured. "But, whether she was or not, Gilmore's +story was straight, dead straight. It was an accident, but he got panic +and tried to cover it up by--what did Miss Sheridan call it?--the +porcelain mask." + +"Aw, g'wan!" grunted Tish derisively. + +"Tish, I'll lay you three wagers: First, that the coroner's jury brings +in a verdict of death by accident; second, that the district attorney's +office will never go behind that verdict and bring Gilmore to trial; +third, that Gilmore and Joan Sheridan are married within a year." + +Tish snorted, but did not accept; had he done so, Wiggly would have won +the first two and lost the third. It was almost two years before the +last prophecy was fulfilled. + + + THE END. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77022 *** diff --git a/77022-h/77022-h.htm b/77022-h/77022-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..89b7a43 --- /dev/null +++ b/77022-h/77022-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9896 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + The Porcelain Mask | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } +hr.full {width: 95%; margin-left: 2.5%; margin-right: 2.5%;} +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +x-ebookmaker-drop {display: none;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap { font-variant:small-caps; } + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +table.autotable { border-collapse: collapse; } +table.autotable td, +table.autotable th { padding: 4px; } + +.tdl {text-align: left;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} +.tdc {text-align: center;} + +div.titlepage { + text-align: center; + page-break-before: always; + page-break-after: always; +} + +div.titlepage p { + text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + font-weight: bold; + line-height: 1.5; + margin-top: 3em; +} + +.ph1 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; } +.ph1 { font-size: x-large; margin: .83em auto; } + +.ph2 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; } +.ph2 { font-size: medium; margin: .83em auto; } + +/* Poetry */ +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3em;} + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77022 ***</div> + +<div class="titlepage"> + +<h1>The Porcelain Mask</h1> + +<p><i>A Detective Story</i></p> + +<p class="ph1">BY JOHN JAY CHICHESTER</p> + +<p>CHELSEA HOUSE<br> +79 Seventh Avenue<br> +New York City</p> + +<p>Copyright, 1924<br> +By CHELSEA HOUSE</p> + +<p>The Porcelain Mask</p> + +<p>(Printed in the United States of America)</p> + +<p>All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign<br> +languages, including the Scandinavian.</p> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<p>To my Aunts,</p> + +<p>ELLA and ANNA</p> + +<p>who once told a very small boy that<br> +he would some day grow up and write<br> +a book.</p> + + +</div> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table> +<tr><td class="tdr">I.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_I"><span class="smcap">Joan Sheridan Returns</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">II.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_II"><span class="smcap">The Squalid House</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">III.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_III"><span class="smcap">Helen Answers Her Letter</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">IV.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">"<span class="smcap">What Does It Mean?</span>"</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">V.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_V"><span class="smcap">Victor Sarbella</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">VI.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI"><span class="smcap">In The Studio</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">VII.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII"><span class="smcap">The Get-away</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">VIII.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"><span class="smcap">Caught in the Web</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">IX.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX"><span class="smcap">The Open Door</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">X.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_X"><span class="smcap">Common Sense</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XI.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI"><span class="smcap">Bushnell Calls the Police</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XII.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII"><span class="smcap">"Wiggly" Price</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XIII.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII"><span class="smcap">What Did Joan Know?</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XIV.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV"><span class="smcap">The Girl in the Sarbella Case</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XV.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV"><span class="smcap">Sarbella Speaks</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XVI.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI"><span class="smcap">The Four Clews</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XVII.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII"><span class="smcap">Kirklan Protests</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XVIII.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII"><span class="smcap">Two Brands of Cigarettes</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XIX.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX"><span class="smcap">Enter Sergeant Tish</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XX.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX"><span class="smcap">A Queer Jumble</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XXI.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI"><span class="smcap">A Cry of Terror</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XXII.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII"><span class="smcap">What the Cook Saw</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XXIII.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII"><span class="smcap">The Trapped Rat</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XXIV.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV"><span class="smcap">Haskins Keeps His Secret</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XXV.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV"><span class="smcap">The Skepticism of Sergeant Tish</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XXVI.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI"><span class="smcap">Bits of Tallow</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XXVII.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII"><span class="smcap">Wiggly Remains Unconvinced</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XXVIII.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII"><span class="smcap">The Black Smudge</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XXIX.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">"<span class="smcap">Let the Guilty Man Speak!</span>"</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdr">XXX.</td> <td class="tdl"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXX"><span class="smcap">Wiggly Makes a Wager</span></a></td></tr> +</table> + + +<hr class="chap"> + +<h2>THE PORCELAIN MASK</h2> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</h2> +</div> + +<h3>JOAN SHERIDAN RETURNS</h3> + + +<p>One of the village taxis, a sorry, disreputable affair, with noisily +clattering fenders, dashed bumpily along the rural highway and turned +with precarious suddenness into the driveway, lined on either side by +great walnut trees that formed a leafy tunnel to the big house at the +far end. It was, despite considerable age, a magnificent house, and it +had been modernized with green-striped awnings and sun rooms. The taxi +was heavily loaded with luggage. There was one passenger, a girl of +twenty-one or two, with an attractive face and expressive dark eyes, +now shining with a light of eagerness, as she leaned toward the door of +the jouncing vehicle. One slim, gloved hand rested upon the catch.</p> + +<p>The little car came to a skidding halt beneath the old-fashioned +portico, as the driver jammed the brakes with a suddenness that pitched +his fare violently forward, knocking her hat awry. But even this failed +to dim her happy, expectant smile; she did not so much as bother to +straighten the hat. She had the door open and was out before the driver +could double as footman.</p> + +<p>"Hope I didn't jar you up, lady, but y' said hurry, an' I fed 'er the +gas," he said with a wide grin that revealed two prominently missing +teeth. "She's a great li'le car, ain't she, fer goin' on the fifth +season?"</p> + +<p>The girl nodded and gave him a dollar bill.</p> + +<p>"Don't bother about the bags," she told him. "Just leave them anywhere, +and I'll have Bates carry them in."</p> + +<p>She ran briskly up the brief rise of steps from the driveway to the +wide porch that semicircled the house on two sides. The entrance was +around the turn; she paused suddenly at sight of the strange young +woman who reclined in the couch hammock, asleep. For a moment she +stared in surprise, wondering who she was. Women visitors were unusual +at Greenacres.</p> + +<p>"How beautiful she is!" murmured the girl, letting her eyes linger on +the soft, oval face of the sleeper, crowned with bronze hair. "I wonder +who she can be?" She softened her step and continued across the porch +to the entrance.</p> + +<p>Hardly had she entered the reception hall when Bates spied her and came +rushing toward her, with that peculiar, shambling gait of his, a broad +smile crinkling his thin, leathery face.</p> + +<p>"Heaven bless us, it's Miss Joan!" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"Oh, 'Daddy' Bates!" she cried. "It's so wonderful to get home again! +The finest thing about going away is coming back. Only bit over a +month, and it's seemed a year!"</p> + +<p>Bates was the Gilmore butler, but he had been in the family since the +time Joan was a child, and, in this moment of home-coming exuberance, +it was only natural that she should use the old affectionate address. +Bates, his hands clasped in front of his chest, continued to smile +fondly and proudly.</p> + +<p>"Well! Well!" he chuckled. "Won't Mrs. Gilmore be happy to see you +again, Miss Joan! Surprised, too; she wasn't expecting you until +to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"The boat docked a day ahead of time," she explained, "and I didn't +telegraph. Where is mother?"</p> + +<p>"She went upstairs less than half an hour since. Your bags, Miss Joan?"</p> + +<p>"Outside, Bates; I told the taxi man to dump them out any old place. +Take them right up, if you please, Bates; there are some little things +I bought on the other side, and I didn't forget you, either."</p> + +<p>Bates sobered.</p> + +<p>"Your room——" he began, but broke off suddenly, looking decidedly +uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>Joan, in her excitement, did not notice. "Why, of course, my room!" she +cried gayly, making for the stairs and taking the steps, two at a time. +Bates stared after her, wagging his head sadly, and his thin shoulders +moved with a lugubrious sigh.</p> + +<p>"Poor Miss Joan!" he murmured. "It's going to be an awful shock to her; +I didn't have the heart to tell her. And her room, too!" He shambled +out to the porch for the luggage.</p> + +<p>Reaching the upper hall, Joan went swiftly to the left wing of the +house, where her mother had her private sitting room, bedroom, and +bath. With a quick gesture she flung open the door and, arms reaching +out eagerly, fairly leaped at the little gray-haired woman who sat by +the window, reading.</p> + +<p>"Mumsey!"</p> + +<p>Before Mrs. Gilmore could get to her feet, the girl had swooped down +on her in a cyclone of joy, smothering her with kisses and leaving her +almost breathless with hugs.</p> + +<p>"I—I didn't expect you until to-morrow, dear," gasped Mrs. Gilmore. +"Why didn't you wire and let us meet you at the station? Goodness, +child, give me air!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's so much nicer to surprise people," laughed Joan. "How are +you?"</p> + +<p>"We've all been well."</p> + +<p>Joan sat on the arm of the chair and cuddled her mother close.</p> + +<p>"It's so wonderful to be home again," she murmured happily. "It was +a wonderful trip, my first sea voyage, and the Sharps were perfectly +wonderful to me—all through southern France by motor—but there's no +place in all the world like Greenacres. How is Kirk getting along with +the new novel? Has he missed his severest critic?"</p> + +<p>An anxious, half-frightened look came into Mrs. Gilmore's face. +"Kirklan," she answered slowly, an ominous note creeping into her +voice, "hasn't been writing much during—during the past three weeks. +He couldn't really be expected to, since——"</p> + +<p>Joan's fingers tightened about her mother's hand.</p> + +<p>"Mother! Something—something has happened to Kirk! Is he ill?"</p> + +<p>"No, dear, Kirklan is perfectly well, but he——" Again Mrs. Gilmore's +voice came to a halting stop.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you tell me? The tone of your voice frightens me. What has +happened to Kirk?"</p> + +<p>"An author can't be expected to do much writing, Joan, when—when he is +on his honeymoon," Mrs. Gilmore finished faintly. She felt the girl's +fingers, still resting across her own, tremble and become cold.</p> + +<p>Joan's face had turned ghastly pale and there was a stunned dullness in +her dark eyes. "His—his honeymoon?" she whispered. "You mean——Oh, +you can't mean that Kirk has married?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Gilmore nodded.</p> + +<p>"Yes, he married—about ten days after you sailed. It was a surprise—a +shock—to all of us. The first we knew of it was when he brought her +home with him."</p> + +<p>Joan was making an ineffectual attempt to keep her emotions in check, +to conceal the evidence that the news had been a terrible blow to her.</p> + +<p>"Why—why, I had no idea that Kirk was even interested in any one."</p> + +<p>"Neither did any of us. It seems that he fell madly in love with her +almost at first sight; they were married, I believe, a week after their +first meeting. I can't understand how a man would rush headlong into +marriage like that, although she is pretty."</p> + +<p>Joan's mind reverted to the beautiful woman she had seen asleep in the +porch hammock.</p> + +<p>"She—she is here now? Then that—that woman I saw downstairs is Kirk's +wife? Kirk's wife?" She laughed unsteadily. "It's so hard for me to +believe—coming so suddenly like this. Yes, she is pretty; not only +pretty—beautiful."</p> + +<p>She walked slowly to the window and stood there, her back to the room, +trying to keep her face from her mother's eyes. But Mrs. Gilmore was +not deceived; she had known for a long time and had feared that the +situation would bring only unhappiness.</p> + +<p>Although Joan was Mrs. Gilmore's daughter, she still bore her father's +name of Sheridan. Her mother, left a widow, had married Peyton Gilmore, +a childhood sweetheart, who had himself been previously married. Peyton +Gilmore had been a well-known New York lawyer. Those with long memories +may remember that he had dropped dead in a crowded courtroom, during a +famous murder trial, while pleading for the life of his client. There +was a son, Kirklan Gilmore, only twelve years old at the time of his +father's death, and Kirklan's rearing had fallen to his stepmother. The +two families, merged into one, had long occupied the picturesque, rural +New York estate of Greenacres, without friction or discord.</p> + +<p>Joan and Kirklan had always hit it off well together, and when, after a +try at law, Kirklan had turned to writing, it was Joan who sympathized +the most over his failures and rejoiced the most over his successes. +Realizing that Joan's deft touches had helped the tremendous success of +his novel, "Rogue's Paradise," Kirklan had given his stepsister a trip +abroad.</p> + +<p>The silence became so long, so painful that Mrs. Gilmore felt that +something had to be said.</p> + +<p>"Her name," she murmured, "is Helen—Helen Banton before she married +Kirklan."</p> + +<p>"Does—does he seem to be—very much in love with her, mother?"</p> + +<p>"Very much in love with her," Mrs. Gilmore answered, and Joan winced.</p> + +<p>"I—I hope he will be very happy," the latter said with a muffled voice.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Gilmore shook her head slowly. "I'm afraid that he won't be, my +dear. A pretty face is not sufficient to make a man happy. 'Marry in +haste, repent at leisure.' It's an old saying, but it's true—as most +of the old sayings are. Kirklan has made a mistake, a terrible mistake."</p> + +<p>"I don't believe you like her, mother."</p> + +<p>"My likes or dislikes have nothing to do with it. They have few tastes +in common; already she is sick and tired of Greenacres, and you know +how Kirklan loves it out here. She has no interest in his work, and you +know how much he needs sympathy, encouragement. He's not the kind that +can forge on alone; the kind of wife he should have——"</p> + +<p>"Mother, don't! Who was she—how did he happen to meet her?"</p> + +<p>"She was employed in some minor capacity by Kirklan's publishers," Mrs. +Gilmore replied. "As to who she is—I wonder. Yes, I wonder. I don't +think even Kirklan knows anything about her. I don't consider it a good +sign when a girl is reticent about her family. Kirklan says, 'I've +married a girl I love, not a family tree.'"</p> + +<p>Joan winced again, for that was a line she had written into Kirklan's +successful novel.</p> + +<p>"If—if they're in love with each other, mother, I suppose that's all +that matters."</p> + +<p>"He's in love with her, but they're not in love with each other, and +those one-sided romances always end in disaster. I can't help but feel +that she is going to smash his life."</p> + +<p>"She—she'd better not!" whispered Joan, her hands clenched. "We won't +talk about it any more—please. I'm going to my room and unpack. +I'll—I'll come back in a little while, mother." Her tone was weary, +lifeless.</p> + +<p>Mrs Gilmore gave her daughter another quick glance, as she prepared to +deliver the second blow.</p> + +<p>"I—I guess you'll miss your old room, Joan; you've always loved it so, +with its view of the river."</p> + +<p>Startled, bewildered, the girl turned away from the window. "Miss my +old room? Why, mother, what—what do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Kirklan had your things moved to the east wing, dear. He tried to make +her understand, but——"</p> + +<p>"The things moved—from my room!" cried Joan. "Kirklan did that? He—he +tried to make her understand? You mean that woman——"</p> + +<p>"It wasn't Kirklan's fault, Joan; he tried hard enough to reason with +her, but his wife is so headstrong. It is the best room in the house, +of course, and I suppose she felt that she had a right, as the new +mistress of Greenacres, to it. The place is Kirklan's property."</p> + +<p>"That—that woman—in my room!" There was a catching sob in Joan's +voice. "Oh, how dare she? And Kirk let her do it."</p> + +<p>"You don't understand how headstrong she is," Mrs. Gilmore explained +hastily. "She's the sort who demands, who takes what she wants. Kirklan +tried to avert it, but I suppose it's hard for a man to deny his bride +anything. Kirklan has the adjoining room, a separate sleeping chamber. +It's the modern thing, I believe, these days. She's had a doorway cut +through; the carpenters finished their work yesterday. I knew you would +resent giving up your room."</p> + +<p>"Of course I resent it!" flared Joan. "She has no right——" She paused +and then added bitterly, "No, I suppose I'm wrong; the house is Kirk's, +and she did have a right—to everything. I'm going to unpack now, there +are some little souvenirs I brought back with me——"</p> + +<p>This was but an excuse to get away, to be alone. Leaving the sentence +unfinished, she fled. A moment later she was in the east wing, where +her personal belongings had been banished by the usurper. Some +one—Kirk, no doubt—had tried to hang her pictures in the same +position they had occupied in the beloved room that had been hers for +so long. An effort had been made to make things appear the same, but +they were not the same; they would never be the same. Here she felt a +stranger, almost like a guest in a transient hotel. Nothing would ever +be the same—now.</p> + +<p>Bates had already brought up her bags, and they were stacked in an +orderly pile on the floor, but Joan made no move to unpack. That had +been but an excuse. She stumbled toward her bed and flung herself +across it, giving way to a torrent of tears.</p> + +<p>"I love him so!" she sobbed. "It never would have happened—if I hadn't +gone away. I know it wouldn't have happened. No other woman has a right +to him when I love him so much."</p> + +<p>Presently she got herself in check and went listlessly to the window +and, lifting back the curtains, looked out. From here she had not so +much as a glimpse of the Tappan Zee, where the Hudson broadens a good +three miles wide. In her old room, curled up in the window seat, with +soft pillows at her back, she had been able to look out across the +water to the rugged rise of the Palisades looming up picturesquely from +the New Jersey shore—and dream.</p> + +<p>And now in that other room—her room—would be Kirklan's wife! Perhaps +the other woman and Kirklan would sit in her beloved window seat, his +arm about her; the thought of it made the blood pound in Joan's brain, +made a red mist swim before her eyes.</p> + +<p>Below her a figure moved across the lawn, a graceful figure in a white +sport skirt. Even from that distance the woman's bronze hair glinted in +the strong sunlight. Joan stared down, her hands clenching until the +nails bit deep into her palms.</p> + +<p>"She has taken two of the things I have loved best!" she whispered +fiercely. "I hate her! I can't help it, I hate her!"</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</h2> +</div> + +<h3>THE SQUALID HOUSE</h3> + + +<p>Relic of the horse-and-carriage days was the Gilmore stable, with +living quarters for the now obsolete coachman and footman. Kirklan +Gilmore, that he might have more detachment and quiet than the house +afforded, had remodeled the stable into a studio, and here it was +that he did his writing. Success in anything means hard work, and +authorship is no exception. Being a successful novelist, he was a hard +worker, but for weeks now, except for a mildly curious visit by Helen, +who had been frankly disappointed in the unpretentiousness of her +husband's workshop, the place had been locked. The manuscript of the +new novel, for which his publishers waited fretfully, lay untouched and +uncompleted.</p> + +<p>It was two days after Joan's home-coming. As had been customary since +her arrival at Greenacres as a bride, the new Mrs. Gilmore was having a +breakfast tray in her room, and she sat at a small table by the window +which commanded Joan Sheridan's beloved view of the Tappan Zee.</p> + +<p>Frilly, lacy things were becoming to the new mistress of Greenacres, +and she was an alluring picture, with the loose, flowing sleeves of +her morning gown falling back from shapely arms, as she lifted her +coffee cup. Morning is the severest test of a woman's beauty, and, only +twenty minutes out of bed, although it was half an hour past nine, +Helen Gilmore was undeniably a beautiful woman. Her age might have been +twenty-three; it may have been even twenty-seven, for she was of the +type that clings long to youth. Just now, however, there was in her +blue eyes a look of brooding discontent that does not become a bride of +three brief, honeymooning weeks.</p> + +<p>At the hallway door there sounded the rap of knuckles against wood, and +in answer to the petulant, "Yes, come," Bates, the butler, crossed the +threshold with his shambling gait.</p> + +<p>"Mail for you, madam," said Bates, holding a silver tray toward her. +The topmost envelope was patently an advertising circular, which +completely concealed the one beneath, and Helen with a contemptuous +glance waved the tray aside.</p> + +<p>"You should know better than bothering me with things like that," she +said shortly; "take it away."</p> + +<p>"There is also a letter—a personal letter," Bates answered stiffly, as +he moved aside the offending advertisement, and revealed a small, cheap +envelope, rather smudgy and addressed with a lead pencil in a ragged, +scrawling script, as if the hand that wrote it was not far advanced +beyond illiteracy. The postmark was New York City.</p> + +<p>Rather a strange, disreputable-looking missive, one might have thought, +to be received by the mistress of Greenacres. Bates stared sharply, as +he saw the startling effect that the sight of the letter had on Mrs. +Gilmore. Her coffee cup, poised for a moment in mid-air, clattered down +to the saucer, and her fingers, reaching swiftly for the envelope, +trembled noticeably. Her face had gone white, and into her eyes there +came a look that was unquestionably apprehension, perhaps fear. With +an effort she controlled herself.</p> + +<p>"Probably from my little nephew," she said, evidently thinking to +explain the smudgy appearance, the crudity of the handwriting. But +Bates, moving toward the door with the perfunctory murmur, was not +misled.</p> + +<p>"Huh, little nephew!" he grunted, as he went down the hall. "That +was a man's handwritin'. Poor Mr. Kirklan! I'm afraid he's been +fooled—fooled bad."</p> + +<p>When the butler had gone, Helen Gilmore relaxed self-restraint, and +there returned to her face that haunted look of fear. Several times she +turned the envelope over in her unsteady hands, delaying the opening of +it.</p> + +<p>"He's traced me here!" she whispered. "He knows."</p> + +<p>After another moment of hesitation she opened the envelope and drew +forth a sheet of paper. Quickly her eyes went over the scrawl. It +began with the address, "Dear Mrs. Gilmore," and the last two words of +that were underscored, as if there was a concealed gibe in the "Mrs. +Gilmore."</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>I want to talk with you on some business. If you don't want me to come +there, you better come to see me. Phone Joe's place & he'll tell you +where I am.</p> +</div> + +<p>It was unsigned, but no signature was needed for her to know the +identity of the sender; she knew that all too well. Her hands clenched, +crushing the paper between her fingers.</p> + +<p>"Oh, what a fool I've been to take this chance!" she exclaimed +bitterly. "He'll hound me, as he hounded me before. I—I thought I'd +got away from him for good. I thought he was——"</p> + +<p>A step sounded down the hall, a quick step that she had learned to know +during the past three weeks. Hastily she thrust the crumpled letter +and its envelope into the bodice of her morning gown and, as the door +opened, forced a smile to her lips.</p> + +<p>"Good morning, my dear," she greeted her husband. "Your indolent wife +is just finishing her breakfast. You look as if you had been up for +hours, and you must be going somewhere!"</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore, clad in a gray business suit, instead of white +flannels, blazer coat, and canvas Oxfords that he wore for his mornings +at home, crossed the room eagerly and bent to kiss the lips raised +dutifully to him.</p> + +<p>Gilmore was dark, while his wife was fair. He was slender, and his +eyes had something of a poet's dreaminess in them—black eyes, with +an intense light when he felt any strong emotion, either personally +or through the characters that he put down on paper and breathed the +breath of life into. He sat down beside the narrow table and touched +his fingers in a gentle caress to the back of his wife's hand, as his +eyes devoured her fondly.</p> + +<p>"You don't know how wonderful you are, Helen! If I could only put you +into a book—as you are. But I'm afraid it would turn out to be a +volume of poetry, and poetry doesn't make a best seller. You—you are +the most beautiful thing that ever lived!"</p> + +<p>Despite an agitation that she could hardly keep from being observed, +Helen flushed, and her eyes lighted with pleasure. She liked being +told she was beautiful. It was the one story that never grew old to her.</p> + +<p>"Thanks, Kirklan; it's nice of you to say that—especially in the +morning. Why the street clothes? Are you going somewhere?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I am, worse luck. That slave-driving publisher of mine has called +a halt to our honeymoon. A wire came from him this morning, commanding +me to come in town and see him. I know what that means; he's going to +pep me and send me back to my knitting. Well, we can't blame Atchinson +for that; I've promised him the new book for winter publication. Thank +Heaven, it's two thirds finished. I thought we might run into New York +together; make the trip in the car, you know. There'll be lunch with +Atchinson."</p> + +<p>Helen managed to look languid and bored. "Lunch with that old pill, +Atchinson? It doesn't appeal to me; but don't you think we might go +away while you are finishing the book? It will take you weeks upon +weeks, and that means I've got to stick around this poky hole, mooning +around by myself, while you're locked in that old stable for endless +hours. I'd like to go away, Kirklan."</p> + +<p>Kirklan patted his wife's hand.</p> + +<p>"I'd like to, Helen, but I'm used to things out here, and a change +usually upsets my work very badly. I've got to dig in now for all I'm +worth. Poky old hole? I thought you liked Greenacres."</p> + +<p>"I don't; I hate it. Oh, don't start harping about 'the scenery;' the +scenery's all right for a change, but I'm fed up on it. Outside of +gawking around the country, there's nothing to do but get up, eat, and +then go to bed again. I don't know why we couldn't go down to—well, +Atlantic City, while you're finishing the book."</p> + +<p>"Oh, tut!" Gilmore reproved mildly. "You've just got out on the wrong +side of the bed this morning. It's quite impossible for us to go away. +It won't be lonesome for you now that Joan is back. She's no end of +good fun, Joan. Greatest little pal in the world. And that reminds me +that I must ask her to help me straighten out the sixteenth chapter. +There's a little something it lacks, and I can always depend on Joan to +supply just the right touch."</p> + +<p>Helen laughed, but not pleasantly. "Yes," she said with an edge of +sarcasm, "that stepsister of yours and I would make great pals—not! +It's all that she can do to be civil. Sometimes I feel that she +actually hates me!"</p> + +<p>"That's nonsense, Helen. Joan hate you? How ridiculous! Joan never +hated any one in her life."</p> + +<p>"It's not ridiculous!" flared Helen; she was one of those persons who +always flared when contradicted. She could not brook opposition, even +verbal opposition. "I tell you, Miss Sheridan dislikes me intensely."</p> + +<p>"She might be a little hurt—temporarily," admitted Gilmore. "I'm sorry +we didn't leave the room alone until she got back. Perhaps it doesn't +seem quite right, moving her out while she was away."</p> + +<p>"Every one in the house looks upon me as—as an interloper," Helen +rushed on. "Even the servants—I can feel their antagonism toward me. I +don't know why I should be asked to—to tolerate such treatment."</p> + +<p>"Try and look at things more calmly," soothed Gilmore. "Naturally, +everything seems strange to you at first. Both my stepmother and Joan +are wonderful, Helen—real mother and sister to me. You'll learn to +love them very much; please, Helen, for my sake, you'll try."</p> + +<p>"And you expect to let them make their home with us permanently?" she +demanded bitterly.</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore looked uncomfortable, unhappy; this was the first rift +in the lute. He was discovering that his wife, after all, was not quite +the perfect woman. It is a painful realization for a new husband.</p> + +<p>"W-well," he said slowly, "I hadn't thought of that. This has been my +stepmother's home for almost twenty years, and, while it belongs to me +legally, I wouldn't think for a moment of pitching her out." He paused +for a moment, and his tone had a touch of wistfulness in it. "It's +always been my home, too, Helen. To me there is no place quite like +Greenacres; I—I wish you'd really try to be happy here."</p> + +<p>Helen did not respond with that sympathetic understanding he had +hoped for, and Kirklan, of course, could not know that the receipt of +the letter only a few minutes before had filled her with a desperate +anxiety to flee from the thing that threatened her.</p> + +<p>"You—you won't—take me away?" she persisted.</p> + +<p>"Helen, you don't know how hard it is for me to deny you any wish. +Heaven knows I want to make you happy, but can't you understand that +we've got to be practical? My studio is here; my library is here; and +it's here that I've always done my best work. At least wait until the +book is finished, and then, if you still do not like Greenacres, we—we +will see what we can do." There was, despite his conciliatory tone, +a note of firmness, and Helen, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders, +dismissed the subject temporarily.</p> + +<p>"You won't go into town with me?" asked Gilmore. "It will be a change, +and I think you'll find it a pleasant trip in the car."</p> + +<p>Helen thought swiftly and came to a decision. She did want to go to New +York, but certainly not with her husband; she must forestall any effort +of the unsigned sender of that letter to see her at Greenacres. The +sooner the better.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you use the train, Kirklan, and let me have the car?" she +suggested. "I'd like to take the ferry across the river to Nyack and +drive out toward Tuxedo."</p> + +<p>Gilmore agreed promptly. "Suppose you take Joan along," he suggested. +"You can't help liking her after the first strangeness wears off; +really you've no idea what a perfect little brick she is."</p> + +<p>Helen shook her head. "No," she refused, "I'd rather be alone to-day." +And that much was true.</p> + +<p>Gilmore looked at his watch and moved toward his wife for a parting +embrace; it was the first time he had left her, even for a trip to +New York, and, madly in love with Helen as he was, the prospect was +depressing.</p> + +<p>"You'll be careful about driving," he warned. "Stay on the country +roads and out of the traffic; you're still a bit new at it, you know. +I've just time to get the ten-thirty train."</p> + +<p>There was no thought in Helen's mind, despite her decision to make a +secret trip into the city, of risking the heavy and perilous traffic of +New York. Her plan was to run the car across country to White Plains, +and there board the Boston & Westchester interurban electric. In this +way, she reasoned, she would avoid the Grand Central Station and the +possibility of getting back on the same train with her husband.</p> + +<p>How the most cunning of plans go astray!</p> + +<p>After a reluctant leave-taking—reluctant on Kirklan's part—he went +downstairs with the idea of getting Joan to drive him down to the +station and bring the car home, but Joan was nowhere in evidence, so +he had to call on Billings, who looked after the grounds and who could +drive in an emergency. Billings was a silent, taciturn sort of fellow, +and this silence suited Gilmore's mood exactly.</p> + +<p>Helen's attitude worried him; her discontent alarmed him. Suddenly it +occurred to him that in the two days since Joan's return he had seen +his stepsister only at dinner and a few minutes afterward. Thinking it +over, he wondered if Joan had been quite her usual, jolly self; if she +had purposely avoided him.</p> + +<p>Gilmore felt guilty about taking Joan's room, but it is hard to deny +a wife of a few days, and Helen had actually demanded it. It never +entered his mind that there might be some other reason, a deeper, more +vital reason for Joan's attitude—that she feared, until the first +shock of it had passed, she might unwittingly let him see into her +heart. He made up his mind that on his return he would have a talk +with Joan and let her know how sorry he was about the room.</p> + +<p>A few minutes after Billings let him off at the station, the train +rushed in from the north, and Gilmore got aboard. During the +forty-five-minute run to New York he remained depressingly thoughtful.</p> + +<p>"I guess, at that, it's a bit dull for Helen at Greenacres—and will be +even more dull when I've got to lock myself in with my work. I ought to +have some company down, I suppose, to liven things up for her a bit. +I'll see who I can drum up for the next week-end."</p> + +<p>This decision gave him a feeling of relief, as it automatically solved +the problem of his wife's discontent with rural life.</p> + +<p>Arriving at Grand Central Station, Gilmore took a taxi to the office +of his publishers and, less than half an hour later, was in conference +with Atchinson regarding the unfinished novel. The latter was a dynamic +sort of fellow, a voluble enthusiast, and their talk lengthened until +it was past one o'clock. He had read the carbon copy of what had been +written and felt that it promised to have a greater success than +"Rogue's Paradise."</p> + +<p>"We've decided to try illustrations with this book of yours," Atchinson +was explaining. "I've selected Victor Sarbella to do the job. Sarbella +draws splendid pictures—faces with life and character in them. He's +one of those intense fellows. Half Italian, you know, although his +mother was an American. You've met him, of course?"</p> + +<p>Gilmore nodded. "Yes, I know Sarbella; interesting chap; and, say, that +gives me an idea. I had been thinking of having some people down to +Greenacres. Helen is finding it a bit lonesome. Wouldn't it be a good +idea to have Sarbella come out?"</p> + +<p>Atchinson beamed. "That's fine! He can pick out some of the dramatic +situations with you and get the spirit of your characters. He's +devilish slow in turning out work, and I don't want to run any chances +of spoiling the drawings by rushing him. Suppose we call him up right +now and get that part of it settled."</p> + +<p>Word became action, as the publisher reached for the telephone and +asked the firm's private switchboard operator in the outer office to +get Victor Sarbella's apartment for him. A few minutes later the matter +was arranged, and Atchinson glanced at his watch.</p> + +<p>"Phew!" he whistled. "Half past one, old man; we'd better hurry out and +have a bite of lunch. Speaking of Italians, what do you say to one of +those Italian feeds? I'm always digging up new places to eat and I've +run across a splendid little restaurant, where the food's uncommonly +good even if the location is poor—in the upper Forties."</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore agreed indifferently. "Most anything will suit me," he +said.</p> + +<p>The two left the publishing-house building, and, Atchinson talking +almost incessantly and not always to the point, they started out.</p> + +<p>"Suppose we leg it," suggested Gilmore; "it may give me a little zest +for lunch."</p> + +<p>"I'm for that," Atchinson said heartily; "it's only a dozen blocks." +How many things hinge on trifles! As they neared Eighth Avenue, passing +along this cheap and squalid street, which one found it hard to +believe was so near to pretentious Broadway. Atchinson's emphatic voice +jarred to an abrupt stop, his hand caught at the novelist's arm.</p> + +<p>"Hello!" he exclaimed. "Isn't that Mrs. Gilmore yonder?"</p> + +<p>"You mean my wife? Oh, that's impossible. Where?"</p> + +<p>But his eyes had looked too late. The woman Atchinson had seen was +gone, disappeared swiftly into one of those grimy, ugly entrances +before he could so much as glimpse her.</p> + +<p>"I'd take my oath that was Mrs. Gilmore," muttered the publisher, +giving a puzzled stare at the sign across the way which announced, +"Furnished Rooms. Rates $3 Weekly and Up." Since Helen had worked in +the publishing office for two months, he felt certain he had not been +mistaken.</p> + +<p>"That's ridiculous!" snorted the author. "She took the car and motored +out to Tuxedo. Besides, what would Helen be doing in a neighborhood +like this?"</p> + +<p>Atchinson, feeling very uncomfortable, was wondering precisely the same +thing. "Humph!" he grunted. "I must have been mistaken; yes, no doubt I +was. Some one who looked like her."</p> + +<p>But this was friendly diplomacy; he had got a square look, and he knew +quite positively that he had not been mistaken. The woman who had +hurried, almost furtively, into the cheap, unclean lodging house was +Kirklan Gilmore's wife!</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</h2> +</div> + +<h3>HELEN ANSWERS HER LETTER</h3> + + +<p>Entirely unaware that she had been observed, Helen Gilmore slipped +furtively into the dark, musty vestibule of the ugly house. There were +those unpleasant odors which accumulate in a decaying house, the smell +that suggests neglect.</p> + +<p>The opening of the second door automatically set a bell ringing, an +unpleasant jangling that caused the woman to start and compress her +lips, shutting back the nervous gasp which rose in her throat. When she +closed the door the ringing stopped.</p> + +<p>After a wait of a moment there came down the raggedly carpeted stairs a +slovenly and haglike female, with straggling hair of dirty gray and the +shoulders of a professional wrestler in their muscular broadness. The +face of the slattern was, until she reached the bottom of the stairs, +in the shadows. At the sight of it Helen instinctively retreated a +step; she had never seen such a terrible face, she thought. A pair +of narrow red eyes looked her up and down with appraising, impudent +curiosity.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps—perhaps I've made a mistake," Helen stammered. "I thought +this was the right number; I—I wanted to see Don Haskins."</p> + +<p>"You ain't made no mistake," came the response in a hoarse guttural. +"He's upstairs. He told me he was lookin' fer comp'ny. Guess you're the +swell sister he was tellin' me about."</p> + +<p>"Y-yes," Helen answered faintly.</p> + +<p>"Go right on up, deary; it's the thoid floor—the door at the end of +the hall, the door with a busted panel, where the cops broke in. They +thought, it bein' locked, Terry Mooney was there, but he wasn't." Her +voice broke into a peal of cackling mirth. "No, he wasn't there; he +was—somewheres else."</p> + +<p>Starting toward the stairs, Helen turned, one hand resting upon the +ancient rail.</p> + +<p>"Then Don is wanted by—by the cops?"</p> + +<p>"Ask him," grunted the woman with the gargoyle face; "ask him. I'll say +he is, deary."</p> + +<p>Helen went tremulously up the stairs, stumbled about the dark hallway +until she found the second flight, which was narrow and, if possible, +dirtier than the first. Here the boards were loose and clattered +noisily beneath her step. Reaching the third floor, a bit of sun +struggled feebly through the dust-filmed skylight and fell slantwise +across the door with the broken panel, now patched with some unpainted +strips torn from a chance packing box.</p> + +<p>The occupant of the room had heard her approach—only a deaf man +could have failed to be notified by the clatter of the loose stairway +boards—for the door opened cautiously, and a haggard unshaven face +looked out through a widening crack. A pair of thin lips twisted back +into an unpleasant and gloating triumphant grin.</p> + +<p>"So—so you've come, have you?" the man rasped and laughed harshly. "I +thought you would. I give you credit for havin' that much sense. Real +prompt, ain't you? Only mailed the letter yesterday." He moved back, +making room for her to enter. His eyes, hard and glittering, followed +her with a look of venomous hate that was at the same time one of +admiration, as if her beauty stirred him.</p> + +<p>The room was small, dark, and unventilated, and there was the vile odor +of soured liquor that mingled nauseatingly with the stench of stale +tobacco smoke. There was a narrow, tousled bed, with the white paint +long since peeled from the metal framework, a broken-backed chair upon +which rested a bottle of homemade whisky, that the old hag downstairs +sold for ten dollars the quart.</p> + +<p>"Why did you send for me, Don?" demanded Helen. She was plainly +frightened. Looking at him she found it hard to believe that this +haggard man was the same person she had first known as "Nifty Don." Don +had been handsome—once.</p> + +<p>Don Haskins placed the bottle on the floor and with a sarcastic +courtesy waved her to the chair.</p> + +<p>"Be seated, Mrs. Haskins," he sneered, and himself occupied the edge of +the bed. Helen shivered, her fingers working nervously. For a moment he +sat there staring.</p> + +<p>"You still got the looks," he muttered thickly. "I—I guess I ain't +ever goin' to get over bein' crazy about you, Helen—even—even when +I'm hatin' you. His grimy hand reached out to her; his touch might have +been tender, but at her shuddering recoil his eyes blazed again, and +his fingers crushed about her white wrist until she gave a cry of pain.</p> + +<p>"You always did think you was too good for your own kind," he snarled. +"Now that I've got you where I can put on the screws, I ought to get +you sent up; that's what I ought to do with you. After what you done to +me——"</p> + +<p>"I've done nothing to you, Don. Why did you send for me? You told that +woman downstairs that I am——"</p> + +<p>"Yeah, it was a good stall, tellin' 'Eighth Avenue Annie' that I gotta +rich sister that would put up for me. See? Thirty bucks a week I gotta +give the grafter for hidin' me away in this room, and ten dollars +a bottle for this rat poison she calls whisky. I owe her a hundred +now, and she won't let me skip until I pay up. If I don't pay—well, +Annie fixes that by givin' the bulls a tip where I can be located. +See? That's why I sent for you—to take me outta hock." He grinned +sardonically. "When a guy's in trouble, ain't it the most natural thing +in the world that he turns to—to his wife."</p> + +<p>Helen shivered. "I'm not your wife!" she cried. "You know I'm not. I've +never been your wife!"</p> + +<p>"The law says different," retorted Don Haskins. "You married me, didn't +you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," Helen admitted bitterly, "I married you. I liked you, and when +you got into that trouble I—I thought I loved you. It was only pity. +You rushed me into it so that I wouldn't have to testify against you—a +wife can't be made to testify against her husband. I knew, before you +got out of the Tombs, that I'd made a mistake."</p> + +<p>This revival of old and bitter memories convulsed Don Haskins' face +with anger.</p> + +<p>"You lie!" he gritted. "When y' say I married you just to keep outta +stir, you lie. I married you because I was crazy about you. You liked +me, too, until—until you run into that other bird and fell for him. +But when I got outta the Tombs I stopped that, all right."</p> + +<p>"Yes, you stopped it," choked Helen. "I loved him—with every beat of +my heart. You—you robbed me of my one chance to be happy. You—oh, why +do you drag all these ghosts before me? Those are things I'm always +trying to forget. I saved you from doing a twenty-year stretch, and +you've been hounding me—hounding me ever since. That—that's your idea +of gratitude!"</p> + +<p>"Aw, cut out that stuff. I'm desperate. The cops is lookin' for me; I +gotta make a get-away and I gotta have money."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I see, you want money," nodded Helen, fumbling at her purse. "You +said a hundred dollars——"</p> + +<p>Don Haskins gave a contemptuous sneer.</p> + +<p>"I said that's what I owe Annie, but I want more'n that—a lot more. +Aw, I know you're well fixed. I know you married a guy that's got it. I +got all the dope on you, see."</p> + +<p>"How——"</p> + +<p>"You thought you were pretty foxy, didn'tcha? It wasn't much trouble +gettin' a line on you. When I went out West with Keegan and got nabbed +pullin' the job we went out there to do in Chi, you thought I was in +for a long stretch, and that you'd lose me. You changed your name, did +the workin'-girl stunt, and hooked a live one—married a fellow that +writes, Kirklan Gilmore.</p> + +<p>"But the State's attorney out there made a little deal with me; I +handed him some information he wanted, and he got me paroled. See? I +come back, lookin' for you. Madge knew all about it, and I made her +tell. Never trust a friend, girlie; that's my motto."</p> + +<p>"So Madge told you?"</p> + +<p>"She hadda tell; I'd have choked the life outta her if she hadn't."</p> + +<p>"I—I suppose the past is one thing that never dies," Helen whispered. +"I was a fool to think I could get away with it. I—I was a fool to +take the chance."</p> + +<p>"I ain't gonna stop you from gettin' away with it," grunted Don; "at +least I ain't—providin'——"</p> + +<p>"Don't beat around the bush, Don; get to the point. Providing—what?"</p> + +<p>"I'll get to the point fast enough. I gotta be practical, I oughtta +make you squirm, but I'm in a bad fix. What I need is a thousand bucks, +and I need it quick."</p> + +<p>Helen stared at him fixedly.</p> + +<p>"I haven't got a thousand dollars, Don, but if two hundred will help +any——" Her fingers were at the clasp of her hand bag.</p> + +<p>"If you ain't got a thousand, then get it—from that rich husband +you've swung onto."</p> + +<p>"But he's not rich. You don't understand. He owns a house, an +automobile, and lives well, but he's not rich. I doubt if he's got much +money outside the royalties from his book. I—I don't see how I could +ask him for a thousand dollars, without giving him some sort of an +explanation, and I don't know what I could tell him."</p> + +<p>"He ain't rich?" Don broke in skeptically. "Say, whatcha tryin' to hand +me? If he ain't rich, whatcha marry him for—and risk doin' a trip for +bigamy? Stuck on the guy, huh?"</p> + +<p>Helen shook her head.</p> + +<p>"N-no," she faltered. "I'm not 'stuck' on him. I wish to Heaven that I +hadn't married him—now." Her lips twitched. "I—I suppose it looked +like a chance to be respectable. I heard that you were in trouble +out in Chicago, that you'd been put away for a long time. I took up +typewriting after Tilliston's cabaret closed; I changed my name and got +a job with a publishing house."</p> + +<p>"Yeah, I got all that from Madge."</p> + +<p>"Oh, what's the use going into the rest of it? I don't like to work; +I never did. I met Gilmore. He was wild about me—still is. It seemed +like such a wonderful chance, the wife of a famous novelist. I wonder +what he'll do if he ever learns the truth? Perhaps—perhaps—he'll kill +me!"</p> + +<p>"Aw, can that stuff," growled Don Haskins. "Conversation don't help me +any; what I want is that thousand bucks—quick. I'm due for a long trip +up the river—or worse—if I don't jump town before the bulls nail me.</p> + +<p>"I was in on a loft job. It was a water haul—not a ten-dollar bit +between the three of us that was in on it. One of the birds got nabbed, +and I know he's got a yellow streak in 'im as wide as Fifth Avenue. +The cops won't have to more'n bounce a nightstick over his head when +he'll come through with a squeal. I gotta get outta town, put distance +behind me, because"—his voice sank to a low, hoarse whisper—"because +the watchman got croaked, see! It—it's a chance of the chair, if 'Dago +Mike' squeals on the other two of us.</p> + +<p>"A guy ain't got no chance doin' a slide outta town these days unless +he's well heeled. I'm flat broke. Do I get that thousand from you, +or——"</p> + +<p>"Say it, Don."</p> + +<p>The man's eyes were narrowed.</p> + +<p>"Or do I drop a note to Gilmore, tellin' him that his wife's got two +husbands, that if he'll taxi over to Borough Hall in Brooklyn and +look over the marriage-license records for October tenth, nineteen +sixteen——"</p> + +<p>"You—you wouldn't do that to me, Don?" Helen's face was deathly white. +"You ungrateful rat——"</p> + +<p>"If I'm a rat, then it was you made me a rat!" gritted the man. "When I +got outta the Tombs that time and found you'd throwed me over, and was +trailin' around with that swell with the Eyetalian name, it made a bum +outta me. If I could have got my hands on you that first night——" His +hands darted toward her, extended fingers twitching convulsively, as +they neared her throat. With a stifled scream Helen protected herself +with her arms.</p> + +<p>"Don't! Don't! Don't look at me like that. I'll try to get the thousand +dollars, but I don't know what—what I will tell him."</p> + +<p>"It's up to you what kind of a song and dance you give 'im," he +growled. "The big thing is—get it. It's that, or else——Now pass over +that two hundred you was talkin' about; that'll help a little."</p> + +<p>Helen's fingers trembled as she reached into her hand bag for the roll +of bills. "Even if I give you the thousand dollars, I suppose I'll +always be at your mercy—that you'll always be coming back for more, +that you'll hound me, blackmail me——"</p> + +<p>Haskins made no promises as to that; he grabbed the money avidly from +her hand and counted it eagerly. Ten dollars lacking two hundred.</p> + +<p>"When do I get the rest of it?" he demanded. "I can't wait long; it +won't be safe—stayin' here with Eighth Avenue Annie."</p> + +<p>Helen considered swiftly. "This—this is Monday," she said. "I may be +able to get it by Wednesday. If I can get it at all I suppose I can get +it by then. You—you'll give me until Wednesday?"</p> + +<p>"Ain't got no jewelry that you can put in soak to raise the jack?" Don +wanted to know.</p> + +<p>"He—he would miss that, what little there is. I'd better try to get +the money from him—if I can."</p> + +<p>Haskins' lips twisted unpleasantly. "You better," he grunted +threateningly. "Aw right, I'm givin' you until Wednesday, but if you +ain't come across with it by then, I'll saunter out to that swell place +I hear you're livin' in—and collect."</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</h2> +</div> + +<h3>"WHAT DOES IT MEAN?"</h3> + + +<p>Returning from New York on the five o'clock train, Kirklan Gilmore +stood for a minute or so on the station platform, looking along the +assembled line of cars in which thoughtful wives were meeting their +city-working husbands. He felt disappointed and hurt that Helen had not +come for him, especially as this was his first absence.</p> + +<p>Then it occurred to him that she might not have returned from her drive +across the river; the country roads might have lured her farther than +her announced destination of Tuxedo. A worried frown appeared over his +eyes, as his imagination led him to take the unpleasant possibility +that, since Helen was new at the steering wheel, there might have been +an accident. A horrifying picture of a collision, his beautiful wife +maimed, cut, bleeding, arose before him, but he brushed it aside with a +shudder.</p> + +<p>"I suppose all doting husbands do a lot of unnecessary worrying," he +told himself. "I couldn't stand losing her."</p> + +<p>Gilmore did not for a moment believe that it had been Helen whom +Atchinson had seen on the street in New York; he considered it a bit of +a joke on the publisher and intended having a good laugh by teasing his +wife about her "double."</p> + +<p>The village of Ardleigh is small, and, since it is surrounded with +people owning their country homes and their own cars, there is small +demand for taxicab service. There were just three of the ramshackle +vehicles, but Gilmore delayed so long that the last one was occupied +and started in motion, as he crossed the platform toward it.</p> + +<p>Except that it might delay him getting to Helen, he felt no annoyance +over this incident; it was only two miles from the village to +Greenacres, and he often made the trip on foot by choice. It was a +splendid, picturesque walk, which to him had never lost its charm.</p> + +<p>Carrying his manuscript case of black leather, he swung off briskly, +choosing the dirt road rather than the paved highway; this not only +afforded the more scenic view, but also saved him nearly a quarter of a +mile. He was in a hurry for, try as he would, he could not help being +rather anxious about Helen and her safe return.</p> + +<p>The road ran along the backbone of a ridge, so that, while still some +distance from the house, he was able to get a glimpse of the driveway +through an opening in the trees, and he gave a breath of relief as he +saw the car. His anxiety had been quite unfounded; his wife was home.</p> + +<p>Approaching the house itself, he saw Joan on the lawn teaching tricks +to the new collie pup, and she was so engrossed with the task that she +failed to hear the crunch of his shoes on the gravel.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Joan!" he called cheerily.</p> + +<p>The girl, on her knees in the grass, dropped the puppy's paws and +turned half toward him, the drooping brim of her hat shielding +whatever expression may have been in her dark eyes.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Kirk," she answered, getting to her feet.</p> + +<p>"I see Helen's got home. I was just a little worried about her—she +being new about driving the car."</p> + +<p>"Yes, she's home," nodded Joan. "She drove in about five minutes ago; +I think you'll find her dressing for dinner." She essayed a brief and +fairly successful laugh. "I won't keep you, Kirk; I know you'll be +anxious to see her after being away from her all these hours."</p> + +<p>Gilmore hesitated for a moment. "See here, Joan," he protested, "I +believe you're trying to get away from me. Somehow I've got the feeling +that you've been trying to avoid me ever since you got back from your +trip. You haven't told me a thing about it."</p> + +<p>"I—I didn't think you'd want to be bothered; all your time belongs to +Helen. I've thanked you for the glorious treat, haven't I? I know I +intended to."</p> + +<p>"There are no thanks due, Joan; you earned it—and more. Atchinson was +speaking of some passages in 'Rogue's Paradise' only to-day, and, bless +your life, most of them were yours!"</p> + +<p>"It's nice of you to say that, Kirk," she murmured lifelessly; he would +never know—must never know—what a labor of love it had been. There +was an uncomfortable pause, during which Gilmore fumbled at his watch +chain, and Joan bent over to pull gently at the puppy's ears.</p> + +<p>"I guess there's something else I ought to say," he floundered. "I feel +mighty guilty about Helen taking your room. I don't blame you for +being hurt about it. I did my best to make her understand, but——"</p> + +<p>"We'll not talk about that, Kirk. The house belongs to you; it was +quite within your right. I'll get accustomed to my new quarters, and it +will be all right, Kirk—quite all right."</p> + +<p>It was strange that Gilmore, whose books were considered to contain +keen analysis of the human emotions, should have missed the catch in +her voice, the touch of pathos, as she tried to mask her true feelings +with a careless, matter-of-fact tone. But miss them he did, and he felt +relieved that she was being such a good sport about it.</p> + +<p>"It's like you, Joan," he said warmly, "to take it like that, and I +wish you'd try and make things as pleasant as you can for Helen. She +still feels strange, and, I suppose, is overly sensitive. This is just +between you and me, understand, but she has a notion that there is a +feeling of antagonism, even among the servants, toward her. Of course +that's ridiculous; no one could help loving Helen. She is wonderful, +isn't she?"</p> + +<p>Joan could not force the polite falsehood to her lips, but Gilmore +rushed on, taking no cognizance of her silence.</p> + +<p>"I've been honeymooning for the past three weeks, Joan, but I've got +to get back into harness again—a very good simile, since my studio is +a renovated stable—and rush the book to a finish. I've got to lock +myself in and work.</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm afraid Helen is going to get pretty lonesome unless some one +looks after entertaining her a bit. Atchinson has arranged with Victor +Sarbella—you remember meeting Sarbella in town, of course—to draw the +illustrations for my coming book, and he'll be out to-morrow for a stay +of several days. He'll have time for loafing, while I'm working, and +I wish you'd see to it that things are made as jolly as possible for +Helen.</p> + +<p>"It's partly selfishness that I don't want country life to pall on +Helen; I've got to make her contented with Greenacres, or she'll be +pulling me away from the old place and into town."</p> + +<p>Joan's lips tightened. Kirk did not know, of course, how much he was +asking of her. "You'd better be getting in to Helen," she said.</p> + +<p>And when Gilmore had gone, striding swiftly to the house, Joan Sheridan +dropped to her knees in the grass, hugging the collie pup close, the +one living thing she would have permitted to see the tears now flooding +her dark eyes.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Laddie, boy," she whispered into one of the inquiringly cocked +ears, "it's so hard to pretend—so hard! Oh, how I hate that woman—how +I hate her! I didn't know there was so much hate in me."</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore entered the house and went directly upstairs. A moment +later he was rapping at the door of his wife's room and, after her +muffled response from the other side of the panel, he went in.</p> + +<p>Helen was not, as he expected, dressing for dinner. She sat by the +window in a listless, preoccupied attitude, and she had not so much as +removed her hat. Her greeting was not that spontaneous explosion of +welcoming joy that he would have liked after their first parting, even +of the brief hours.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Kirklan," she said listlessly. "How's everything in New York? +Hot, wasn't it?"</p> + +<p>Gilmore kissed her eagerly, but found her even more than usually +unresponsive.</p> + +<p>"Not so hot," he answered, "but the humidity was stifling. What's +wrong, Helen? You look all out of sorts."</p> + +<p>"Just tired, I suppose," she said. "Driving a car is a strain on the +nerves."</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is for a beginner; you shouldn't attempt such long trips until +you're more accustomed to the wheel. Have any trouble?"</p> + +<p>"I stalled the motor on a hill, but I just put on the emergency brake +and worked the starter. That's what you told me to do in a case like +that."</p> + +<p>"Good headwork, Helen. The truth is, I'd worried about you a good deal. +If anything had happened to you, my darling——" His voice choked, +husky with emotion, and he put his fingers softly to a strand of bronze +hair that had broken prison from under the edge of her hat.</p> + +<p>When a man is in a soft mood, that is the best time for a wife to ask +what she wants. Helen realized this and decided not to delay the matter +of the needed thousand dollars. So she reached up and let her hand +close about his.</p> + +<p>"Kirklan," she said, "I—I am worried about something. I am ashamed to +come to you with it, but——"</p> + +<p>A look of alarm came into Gilmore's face, as he waited for her to +continue.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Kirklan, I—I am so—so ashamed. It's money."</p> + +<p>He gave a quick, relieved laugh. "And it hurts your pride to ask your +husband for a little shopping money. Since you feel that way about it, +I suppose we'd better decide on a regular allowance. No doubt you'd +like to have your own little bank account. I'll be as generous with +you as I can, dear, but, as I told you before we were married, I'm no +bloated capitalist. The royalties from the last book are coming in +pretty regularly now, although we hope they'll be even larger. The +sales seem to be growing. Did you have your mind set on any particular +amount? Don't be timid about it, honey; if it's more than I can stand +I'll have to tell you so."</p> + +<p>"There—there are so many things I need, Kirklan; sometimes a man +doesn't understand about a woman's wardrobe. I've been afraid you would +think I am extravagant, and I don't want to be a burden on you." It had +been in her mind to manufacture some past debt, but his suggestion of +an allowance seemed to make it easier.</p> + +<p>"How much do you want, Helen? You fix the amount, and, if I've got it, +it's yours." Then, as she still seemed to hesitate, he suggested a +figure that to his mind was generous. "Suppose I deposit five hundred +in the village bank to start with? By the time you've checked against +that, I'll have some more money coming in."</p> + +<p>"I—I'd like to have a thousand dollars, Kirklan. Does that seem a +great deal? Of course I won't have to ask you for any more for—oh, for +quite a long time."</p> + +<p>Gilmore was not displeased with her, but he was chagrined, for the +reason that his own bank balance was three hundred dollars less than +the thousand.</p> + +<p>"Store accounts, of course!" he said. "I've charge accounts at several +of the stores in New York, and you can buy what you want and charge it +to me. The truth is, dear, that I haven't got a thousand in cash. We +writer fellows aren't very good financiers and I've been living pretty +close to the last dollar. But my credit is good."</p> + +<p>Helen bit her lip. "I'd rather not charge things, Kirklan. If it would +be just as convenient to let me have the cash——"</p> + +<p>"I'll let you have it Friday," he agreed; "I'll drop a note to +Atchinson and ask him to make me an advance. The publishing house makes +out its checks on Thursday."</p> + +<p>"Kirklan," she murmured, forced to try a new line, "I'll have to tell +you the truth. I'll have to have some money by Wednesday. Oh, I know +it's terrible, asking you to pay my old debts, but I'm so afraid of—of +being sued that I——"</p> + +<p>Gilmore patted her shoulder reassuringly. Had he stopped to think about +it, he might have considered it strange that a girl in the humble +position in which he had found her should have got into debt to the +extent of a thousand dollars, but it was Helen, not he, who recognized +this possible inconsistency, and she hastened to add with that glibness +which even a poor liar may achieve in a moment of desperation: "It—it +was money that I borrowed for my sister's illness. I had to sign some +notes, and——"</p> + +<p>"You shall have the money, Helen, but the truth is always the best in +the first place, dear. I want us always to be frank with each other. I +want you to feel that you can come to me with everything. After all, +a falsehood is the most futile thing in the world. You should have +told me the exact truth about the matter from the beginning. I'll get +in touch with Atchinson on the phone to-morrow and arrange it. You +shall have the money to-morrow night, but you must never lie to me, +dear—under any conditions. A lie is one of the things I find it hard +to forgive."</p> + +<p>His tone was so gentle, his agreement to the request so prompt, and his +faith in her so unquestioning that Helen was touched. It made her think +that she might almost learn to love him; impulsively she brushed her +lips to the back of his hand.</p> + +<p>"That's good of you, Kirklan; you—you'll never know what a weight +you've taken from my mind. You—you do love me a very great deal."</p> + +<p>"Better than all else in the world, Helen!" he answered huskily.</p> + +<p>There was a silence, to Gilmore an enraptured silence in which he felt +closer to his wife than ever before. It seemed that suddenly there was +a new bond between them.</p> + +<p>"What does Atchinson think of the new book?" she asked him presently. +"Does he think it will have the success of the last one?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, even more. He's enthusiastic—even for Atchinson." His lips +parted into a smile. "Speaking of Atchinson, that reminds me. +He was trying to convince me that he saw you in New York this +afternoon—going into some cheap dump just around the corner from +Eighth Avenue."</p> + +<p>With a startled gasp, Helen's hand jerked away from the fondling caress +of his fingers and, clenched, went to her mouth. Her eyes became wide +with something that was more than either surprise or bewilderment. Her +gaze was fixed upon his face with a fascinated stare, and the smile +that she attempted was only a sickly grimace.</p> + +<p>"Why, Kirklan! In—in New York? How silly! You know very well that I +drove the car to Tuxedo."</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore's blood was suddenly ice; his eyes were no longer +smiling.</p> + +<p>"Great Lord!" he whispered. "It's true. Atchinson was right. Helen, +you've lied to me; you——"</p> + +<p>"No!" she cried in a desperate frenzy of denial. "I swear to you——"</p> + +<p>"I see guilt in your face. I know now; I know that you were the woman +Atchinson saw in New York this afternoon. What does it mean, Helen? +These lies, this deceit—what does it mean?"</p> + +<p>Helen laughed hysterically.</p> + +<p>"Don't—don't be so tragic—over nothing. I wasn't in New York; you +just startled me, that's all. Please don't be so silly. Atchinson was +mistaken; some one who looked like me, perhaps."</p> + +<p>But, as much as he wanted to believe her, Kirklan Gilmore could not +convince himself; her face had betrayed her. The blood was pounding +in his brain, and he felt that the mystery of it, the doubts, the +suspicions would certainly drive him mad.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</h2> +</div> + +<h3>VICTOR SARBELLA</h3> + + +<p>The next morning, after a sleepless night, found Gilmore haggard and +hollow-eyed. There were moments when his wife's persistent denials +almost convinced him that it was all a horrible mistake; for a +beautiful woman in tears can be most plausible at dissimulation; and +then, when trying hardest to believe her, there would come before him, +with photographic clearness, the memory of her startled face, the +sudden guilty terror in her eyes, and credulity would crumble.</p> + +<p>He was up hours before the rest of the household, although the cook was +stirring and brewed him a cup of coffee, which he gulped mechanically +and then fled to the solitude of his studio, thinking that he might +relieve the tension by forgetting himself in his work.</p> + +<p>That, of course was ridiculous; there was no possibility of mental +detachment with his brain in such a riotous tumult. Sheet after sheet +of paper he drew before him to receive his thoughts, but, instead +of smooth sentences flowing from his pen, he found himself tracing +meaningless lines. He gave up any attempt at creation and tried +correcting, ironing out rough spots in the manuscript, where he had +left off three weeks previous, but in his present frame of mind all +spots were rough, just jumbled words. He tossed down his pen with a +violent force that crumpled the gold point and sent a spray of ink +spattering across the desk top. Then he leaped to his feet and began to +pace the floor like a caged beast.</p> + +<p>"I've got to know the truth!" he groaned. "I think I could make myself +forgive her anything, but the deceit of it is driving me mad! What +could have taken her to that place—what is she hiding from me? Her +reason for wanting the thousand dollars—perhaps, that too, was a lie."</p> + +<p>It suddenly dawned upon him how little he knew of Helen's life; nothing +more than she had been pleased to tell him, and that had not been +much. She had seldom spoken of her family, and then only in a hazy, +unenlightening sort of way. He had rather got the impression that her +parents had died when she was a child, and that a shadowy, indefinite +aunt had reared her.</p> + +<p>Gilmore's love for his wife had been so blindly intense, so headlong +that it had never occurred to him to weigh these things. He had loved +her for herself, and that had been sufficient.</p> + +<p>Until long past noon he remained locked within the studio, and no one +came to disturb him. At last he could no longer endure the oppression +of four walls; the day was hot, and he had neglected to open the +windows; the air was stifling. So he flung himself out of the renovated +stable and plunged, with hardly any sense of direction, across the open +country—trying to think, trying to think!</p> + +<p>Thus he missed the arrival of Victor Sarbella, his artist guest; in +fact he had forgotten that Sarbella was coming. It was a quarter past +four when one of the village taxis turned in at Greenacres, nosed +along the driveway and, coming to a stop beneath the portico, deposited +Victor Sarbella and his bags beside the long, cool porch.</p> + +<p>One did not need to hear the name to be certain of Sarbella's Italian +blood, for from his Florentine father he had got the intense black eyes +and the tinting of skin which belong to that warm-blooded race. He was +a handsome, powerfully built man, nearing forty. His hands, as he paid +the driver, were revealed as long-fingered, tapering, such hands as +properly belong to the artist.</p> + +<p>With a honk of the horn the taxi moved off, and Victor Sarbella looked +about him, his black eyes snapping with an appreciative light. The +artist in him was delighted with the charm of Greenacres.</p> + +<p>"My friend," he mused, "has a most beautiful home; a beautiful wife, +too, I am told."</p> + +<p>Attracted by the taxi's arrival, Bates, the butler, shambled out across +the porch, followed by Joan Sheridan. Joan had met him at a literary +affair in New York the previous winter, and of course she remembered +him; Victor Sarbella was not the kind of man that one found it possible +to forget. She met him with an outstretched hand.</p> + +<p>"Welcome to Greenacres, Mr. Sarbella. Kirk told me last night that you +were coming. I haven't seen Kirk all morning, but I suppose he's at the +studio. Have you seen him, Bates?"</p> + +<p>"Not all day, Miss Joan; as you say, perhaps the studio."</p> + +<p>Joan nodded. "I'll find him, Bates, while you take in Mr. Sarbella's +bags. He loses all track of time when he really gets to work, and he's +got to make up for three lost weeks."</p> + +<p>"Naturally my poor friend takes up hees pen like, as they say, a slave +scourged to hees dungeon," he laughed. While he had spent a good many +years in America with his mother who, following the death of his +Italian father, had taken up residence in New York, there was a touch +of foreign accent in the pronunciation of certain words. His education +had been in Florence, and each winter he returned there for two or +three months. "Tell me, Mees Sheridan, is hees new wife so beautiful as +I have been told?"</p> + +<p>Joan nodded. "Yes, she is beautiful, a very beautiful woman. Now I'll +run and find Kirk. He'll feel much humiliated that he wasn't here to +greet you. You're to make the illustrations for the new book. That's +wonderful. I've always admired your drawings; there's such intensity in +your pictures."</p> + +<p>Sarbella, bowing, murmured an acknowledgment of the compliment and +turned to follow the butler into the house and up the stairs to the +second floor. A few minutes later he was unpacking his bags, as Bates +drew a tub of water for him.</p> + +<p>"What time is dinner, Bates?"</p> + +<p>"A quarter past six, Mr. Sarbella."</p> + +<p>"It is now nearly half past four," said the artist, glancing at his +watch. "Every one dresses for dinner, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"Oh, certainly, sir."</p> + +<p>"Then I wish you would press my dinner coat, Bates; it's badly +wrinkled. I was never good at packing. You may tell Meester Gilmore +that I will not come down until six. There's no sense in dressing +twice."</p> + +<p>"Quite so," nodded Bates and, accepting the dinner coat, shuffled out +of the room.</p> + +<p>Sarbella took a brief plunge in the tub of tepid water, finished it off +with an invigorating cold shower, and, slipping into a light bath robe, +pulled a chair to the window and began to smoke. His thoughts evidently +took an unpleasant turn, for his eyes glowed hotly, and his muscles +tensed until his fingers crushed the burning cigarette, and the fiery +end of it smoldered odorously in the nap of the rug at his feet.</p> + +<p>"To-day is the ninth," he smiled, half aloud; "day after to-morrow +would have been hees twenty-third birthday—Andrea's twenty-third +birthday! If I could but find her, that woman, I would kill her with my +own hands! Heaven curse her! She——"</p> + +<p>The tense soliloquy of hate was interrupted by a rap at the door; +Sarbella turned with a start and called, "Yes, come."</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore, face still haggard, his eyes bloodshot, entered the +room with tumbling words of apology.</p> + +<p>"Can you forgive my discourtesy, Victor?" he exclaimed. "I should have +been here to receive you. A fine host you must think me when——"</p> + +<p>"Poof! That for your discourtesy, my good friend!" broke in Sarbella +with a laugh and a snap of the fingers. "We are artists, you and I; +you are an artist of the pen, and I an artist of the brush. So we +understand each other. I think nothing of it. But, my friend, what has +happened to you? Your face is that of a man who is ill."</p> + +<p>Gilmore gave a jerky laugh. "It's nothing, Victor—nothing. Poor +night's sleep, that's all." While their friendship was a warm one, it +had never reached the point of intimacy; and to no friend on earth +would Kirklan Gilmore have confided the truth. "We'll have a cocktail +or so before dinner, and that will put new life back into me again."</p> + +<p>Sarbella felt certain that this was an evasion and a very thin one; +through Gilmore's eyes he saw a soul in torment. But he pretended to +accept the explanation.</p> + +<p>"The beautiful new wife, she must not see you so. It will make her +unhappy."</p> + +<p>Gilmore's lips tightened, and he hastily changed the subject. +"To-morrow, Victor, we'll dig in and talk over the illustrations you +are to make. I have an idea or so, but I'll have to chase along now and +dress for dinner. Did Bates tell you? A quarter past six? When you've +dressed go on downstairs; we'll have the cocktails on the veranda. I'll +be down ahead of you, perhaps; I'm a regular fireman for throwing on my +clothes."</p> + +<p>And he bolted abruptly from the room. Victor Sarbella stared after the +closed door and shook his head slowly.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" he murmured. "A poor night's sleep, he says. I fear it is nothing +so simply remedied as that. It was tragedy I saw in his face—tragedy. +We all have our tragedies; I, too, have had mine. Poor Andrea; he was +so young to die. And our mother——" He blinked back the moisture +which flooded his eyes and tossed off the bath robe of silk crape, +starting to get into his clothes. Before he had finished, the butler +returned with the freshly pressed dinner coat, uttered a few polite +banalities, and departed.</p> + +<p>Sarbella smoked another cigarette and then went downstairs to the +veranda, where he found that Gilmore had preceded him, looking a little +less pale than some minutes before. But the color in the author's +cheeks was plainly artificial, induced no doubt by a nip or so from the +bottle of liquor with which he was engaged in mixing the cocktails. +The man was making a supreme effort to conceal the true state of his +feelings, and being only moderately successful at it.</p> + +<p>"The ladies will be down in a moment," said Gilmore, moving the +cocktail shaker back and forth. "Joan tells me that she saw you when +you arrived. Great admirer of your work, Joan; she's tickled to death +that you're going to do the drawings for the book. She'll probably help +you pick out some of the dramatic high spots; she knows the manuscript +forward and backward. Here's my mother now; I hear her coming through +the hall."</p> + +<p>Victor Sarbella turned to greet Mrs. Gilmore, Kirklan's stepmother, +whom he had not met before.</p> + +<p>"Mother, this is Mr. Sarbella. Further introductions are unnecessary, +Victor, because she's heard all about you."</p> + +<p>As Sarbella bowed over her hand, Joan joined them.</p> + +<p>"I think you can fill the glasses, Kirk," she said with a glance at the +tray. "Helen was directly behind me, as I came down the stairs. You +know, Mr. Sarbella, we're terribly punctual about dinner. The way the +servants do discipline us these days!"</p> + +<p>The screen door onto the porch opened again, and Helen Gilmore came out +quietly, almost listlessly.</p> + +<p>Kirklan was filling the last glass. "Victor, I want you to meet my +wife; Helen, this is Mr. Sarbella—the artist, you know," he said. +"Perhaps I neglected to tell you that he was expected."</p> + +<p>There was a pause.</p> + +<p>The polite, formal smile on the artist's lips was washed away by a +tidal wave of emotion—surprise, incredulity, horror—which left his +face white and rigid; into his eyes there blazed a scorching fire of +hatred that, since his back was toward the others, was seen only by +Helen.</p> + +<p>At mention of his name Helen had stopped, her own features ghastly; +but she quickly checked the startled gasp which rose in her white +throat and, by the most tremendous effort, managed to control herself. +However, her agitation escaped neither her husband nor Joan; both of +them sensed what a dramatic shock the meeting had been to her.</p> + +<p>Sarbella mastered his emotions wonderfully, and he came of a race that +is essentially emotional. And while he could not hide the pallor of his +face, he did mask that first flash of hatred which had blazed in his +eyes. Yet he dared not trust his tongue. Silently he bowed.</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore's unsteady hand splashed the last cocktail all over the +tray.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps—perhaps you've—met before?" he suggested, alarmed by what +was obviously an attempt to conceal a mutual recognition.</p> + +<p>"No," answered Victor Sarbella, his voice husky despite himself, "Mrs. +Gilmore and I have never met until this moment. It is a circumstance +that I very much regret."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Sarbella," said Helen, an almost hysterical catch in her voice, +"is a total stranger. The name startled me. It is such an unusual name, +and I once had a—a friend who——"</p> + +<p>"Dinner is served!" announced Bates. He said it quietly enough, but it +was like a thunderclap, this interruption.</p> + +<p>"Here's how!" cried Joan, picking up her cocktail glass. "You'll go a +long way before you find anything like this, Mr. Sarbella; it's some of +the old stock that Kirk's father had in the cellar—oh, years and years +ago." It served to break the tension. "Here's to the new book—may it +be a tremendous success!"</p> + +<p>"Great gods!" Sarbella said under his breath, as he mechanically lifted +his glass. "It is she—the woman! I find her here, the wife of—of my +friend. Merciful Heaven, his wife!"</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</h2> +</div> + +<h3>IN THE STUDIO</h3> + + +<p>There can be nothing so dismal as pretended gayety, nothing so +mirthless as hollow, empty laughter. After that startling encounter +between Victor Sarbella and Helen Gilmore, both of them fighting for +self-control, all five on the porch drank the toast that Joan had +offered in an attempt to save the situation. Joan, of course, could not +know what it was all about, but she sensed the ominous trend of things. +She had seen the look of frozen terror in Helen's face, had seen the +muscles bulge and rise beneath the shoulders of Sarbella's perfectly +fitting dinner coat, and, while she had not glimpsed his face, it was +easy to know that he, too, had experienced a distinct shock.</p> + +<p>"I have not tasted a better cocktail since my last trip abroad," +exclaimed the artist, forcing a smile to his face. As a matter of fact, +he had swallowed the drink mechanically, hardly tasting it.</p> + +<p>"Now for dinner!" cried Joan, taking full command of things. Putting +her fingers on Sarbella's arm, she led the way into the house and +toward the big, old-fashioned dining room.</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore jerked himself together with visible effort; his +impulse was to dash forward, face his wife and his friend squarely, +demanding sternly, "What does this mean? Answer me! What does this +mean?" But good breeding demanded restraint; his obligations as a host +required a simulated appearance of naturalness. With a queer mental +offshoot he wondered how he would have made one of the characters in +his books behave under a similar circumstance.</p> + +<p>A moment or so later the five were at the dinner table. Even Mrs. +Gilmore, whom nature had endowed with no large store of astuteness, +realized the strain, realized that something was tremendously amiss, +and she, poor and well-meaning soul, made matters all the worse by the +uneasy, inquiring glances that she cast about the table in nervous +bewilderment.</p> + +<p>Victor Sarbella managed to carry things off with fairly commendable +grace, but not so with Helen Gilmore, who made clumsy mistakes with +the table silver and not once lifted her eyes either to her husband or +the others. The rouge on her cheeks made the paleness nothing short of +ghastly.</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore's eyes, slightly narrowed and brighter than they should +have been, shot quick, queer glances from his wife to his guest. +Perhaps it was but natural that his mind swept to one conclusion—a +previous affair between these two. His friend and his wife! The salad +fork trembled in his hand. Time after time he suppressed the impulse to +leap to his feet, voicing the demand that kept shrieking through his +mind: "What is there between you two?"</p> + +<p>Only Joan's persevering diplomacy kept them at fairly even keel; she +rattled on with scarcely a halt. But the dinner was a thoroughly +miserable affair, and by the time it came to an end the nerves of the +five were raw.</p> + +<p>Joan's heart ached for the suffering she saw in Kirklan's face, and +there swept through her an intensified hate for the woman who had won +the man she loved.</p> + +<p>"She's going to wreck his life!" she said under her breath. "I know +it—I know it! She's killing him—killing his soul! If she does that, +I'll——" The thought that came into her mind frightened her, for she +had not known that there was so much of primitive passion in herself.</p> + +<p>The moment the unhappy dinner came to an end, Helen Gilmore murmured an +almost incoherent something about a headache and fled upstairs to her +room. The other Mrs. Gilmore, too, faded out of sight, still wondering +what it might be all about. Joan was inclined to remain, but Kirklan +showed very plainly that she wasn't wanted.</p> + +<p>"Run along, Joan, if you don't mind," he said in a jerky, strained +voice. "Sarbella and I"—it was to be noted that he had dropped the +more cordial and customary name of Victor—"are going to—to talk +things over. Come out to the studio with me, Sarbella; the manuscript +of the book is out there."</p> + +<p>Victor Sarbella was not deceived into any notion that Gilmore had in +mind a discussion of the new novel, and, while he shrank from what he +felt sure was going to be a cross-examination, he did not see how he +could very well refuse.</p> + +<p>"All right," he agreed with a nod, reaching for his cigarette case. +Silently the two men left the house and cut across the lawn through the +gathering dusk toward the studio. No word was spoken as they entered +the building and mounted the stairs to the writer's workroom above. +Kirklan Gilmore switched on the lights, and the two faced each other at +the desk strewn with pages of the manuscript. Sarbella remained calm, +but the other let himself go, and his whole body shook like a man in +the grip of a chill.</p> + +<p>"Well, let's have it—the truth!" he rasped, almost a sobbing catch in +his voice.</p> + +<p>Victor Sarbella finished off his cigarette with a long puff that slid +the burning edge of the tobacco tube close to his lips; at the same +time he reached for a fresh smoke, tapped it on the back of his hand, +and then lighted it with the stub of the old. A thin trickle of smoke +swam slowly through his parted lips.</p> + +<p>"Just what do you mean?" he parried.</p> + +<p>"Don't you fence with me, Sarbella!" Gilmore shouted hoarsely. "I've +got to the breaking point. My nerves are stretched tight as piano +wires; if something snaps——"</p> + +<p>"That's the trouble, Kirklan," Sarbella broke in soothingly. "You're +nervous and upset over something; that's the size of it. You were upset +when I first saw you, and I——"</p> + +<p>"That's got nothing to do with it, Sarbella. You know very well what I +mean. I saw Helen—my wife—saw her face when I introduced you two on +the porch. Introduced you!" His voice rose shrilly. "I guess you know +her better than I do; I saw——"</p> + +<p>"Kirklan," again interrupted Sarbella, "that is where you are +absolutely wrong. I give you my solemn word of honor, my oath as a +gentleman, that until this evening I never saw Mees Gilmore."</p> + +<p>"Oath of a gentleman!" derided Gilmore. "You're the sort who would lie +like a gentleman. Man, I tell you that I saw—her face! Helen, my wife, +was afraid of you. Why was she afraid of you? Why did her face turn so +pale? Why did she look as if she were fainting?"</p> + +<p>"She said," Sarbella replied smoothly, "that it was the name—that she +had once known some one named Sarbella. Why couldn't that be true!"</p> + +<p>"It could be, but it isn't. Sarbella, you're hiding something from me, +and I've got to have the truth." His hands were clenched, and his eyes +blazed with jealousy. "Isn't it a fact that you were once in love with +her?"</p> + +<p>A harsh, humorless laugh, the sort of a laugh that it is not pleasant +to hear, burst through Sarbella's lips.</p> + +<p>"In love with her? Great Lord, no—a thousand times no! I——" He +broke off, on the verge of saying too much, of betraying the truth in +one exclamation of passionate, hot-blooded hatred. "I tell you again, +Kirklan, that your wife and I never met until this very evening. That +is quite all I have to say; you must take that or leave it."</p> + +<p>Sarbella paused as if he would choke on one more word.</p> + +<p>Chest heaving, lips twitching, Kirklan Gilmore leaned heavily across +the table, staring into the eyes of this other man whom he had +considered his friend. Suddenly he straightened and leaped toward the +door, turning the key in the lock; swiftly he turned and faced Victor +Sarbella.</p> + +<p>"Take it or leave it, eh?" he panted. "Suppose I won't leave it; +suppose I tell you that you're not to leave this room until you tell +me what I want to know? What you are hiding from me?" His voice broke. +"I—I can't stand these lies, these evasions, this deceit any longer. +You have given me your word that you have told the truth, that you +never saw Helen before to-day. I don't know whether to believe that or +not. But, if it is the truth, you know something—something about her. +In Heaven's name, man, tell me! Who is she? I ask you—what is she?"</p> + +<p>Victor Sarbella shook his head slowly. "She is your wife," he answered, +as if that might explain why he must keep sealed lips, but Gilmore +would not have it rest that way.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he groaned, "she is my wife, but who was she, what was she +before—before she became my wife? I think you know." His shoulders +shook with a dry sob. "Sarbella, can't you see what this is doing to +me—that it is driving me mad?"</p> + +<p>Again Sarbella's head described a sadly negative gesture. "I am sorry, +Kirklan," he said; "believe me, Kirklan, I am your friend, and I am +sorry, but there is nothing I can tell you. Set at rest any fears you +may have had about"—his lips twitched into a bitter smile—"about any +romantic attachment between us. Anything but that!"</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore took a step forward; the next instant he had flung +himself on Sarbella, and, although he was the less powerful man, the +latter was taken off his guard and staggered back into a chair.</p> + +<p>"You tell me what you know, and tell me now, or I'm going to kill +you!" he gritted. "Tell me before I have to choke the life out of you." +His fingers squeezed about the artist's throat, and Sarbella had to +fight him off to break the grip. With a tremendous heave of the muscles +he flung Gilmore back, and the novelist, reeling, lost his balance and +plunged heavily to the floor.</p> + +<p>He lay absolutely still.</p> + +<p>Victor Sarbella stood over him, staring down at him pityingly. "I +am sorry for you, Kirklan," he said huskily: "yes, I am sorry—very +sorry." He went to the door, unlocked it with the key, and turned, +just as Gilmore was struggling up. "I cannot very well remain your +guest now, Kirklan. Oh, I don't mean just this." His fingers touched +his torn collar, the rumpled bosom of his dress shirt. "But I'll stay +until to-morrow. We can't forget that we are under obligations to the +publishers. Yes, I will wait until to-morrow; see if you can't pull +yourself together long enough to talk things over."</p> + +<p>Gilmore gave no sign that he had heard, and Victor Sarbella passed on +out of the studio and down the old wooden steps of the stable. When +the door closed, Kirklan Gilmore slowly dragged himself to his feet +and moved toward the chair by the desk. Like a rheumatic old man with +protesting bone joints, he lowered himself into the chair, his body +sagging limply forward until he lay across the desk, his face pillowed +in his arms. He lay like that, his senses numbed, almost as if he were +dead, for a long time.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</h2> +</div> + +<h3>THE GET-AWAY</h3> + + +<p>Not for a moment did Don Haskins doubt that Helen Gilmore—legally +Helen Haskins, by grace of an unsundered legal tie previously +knotted—would "come through" with the thousand dollars that he had +demanded as the price of his silence. She wouldn't dare refuse; bigamy +is a sternly met crime in New York State.</p> + +<p>With a thousand dollars to the good he felt that his get-away was +safely assured, for a thousand dollars would enable him to put a long +distance behind him. And so, sitting in the squalid, shabby little +third-floor room in Eighth Avenue Annie's disreputable haven for those +hunted men who can raise the price of her protection, he was laying +his plans. Several points of the compass beckoned to him; California +intrigued him, but he was also inclined toward Cuba, and, even at a +lesser distance, Florida waved its picturesque palms beckoningly before +his mental vision. He had thought, too, of South America, but was wise +enough to know that this trip would have to contemplate the dangers of +getting a passport. A passport is not readily secured by a man of Don +Haskins' unsavory standing as a citizen; so he scratched South America +off his list.</p> + +<p>It had been Monday afternoon when Helen had called at Eighth Avenue +Annie's, leaving a payment of one hundred and ninety dollars on +account; it was now just gathering dark of Tuesday, and so certain was +Don that the dawning of the following day would bring the remainder of +the thousand that he was making his very definite plans for sliding out +of town—quickly.</p> + +<p>He had allowed his beard to grow; that would help some. Perhaps it +wouldn't fool the eyes of a dick who knew him well—and many of them +did—but it added materially to his chances. The cops, since he had +no successful job to his credit, wouldn't expect him to be in funds. +The thing to do, he reasoned, was the thing he wouldn't be expected +to do; therefore with fifty of the one hundred and ninety dollars he +had got from Helen—previously diminished by an even hundred that he +owed his old hag protector—he had sent Annie out among the secondhand +shops of Eighth Avenue to gather a wardrobe, a gentleman's wardrobe, at +reasonable prices.</p> + +<p>"Nuttin' flashy," he had warned; "respectable-lookin', but none of the +race-track stuff, see."</p> + +<p>And so Eighth Avenue Annie went forth among the clothing shops where +stained, ancient garments are sponged, pressed, and advertised "Just +Like New." True enough, Annie took her own reward for this service; +to the suit of blue serge for which she paid twelve dollars and +ninety-five cents, she affixed a price tag which read twenty-four +dollars and ninety-five cents, and, as you might expect, put the +difference into her own capacious and ever-hungry pocket.</p> + +<p>There seems to be some persistent destiny that has the habit of +sending policemen past a certain spot at a certain moment. It is +always happening, as an almost daily glance at your morning newspaper +will bear affirmative witness. As Eighth Avenue Annie was engaged in +purchasing Don Haskins' get-away outfit, Detective Sergeant John Henry +Tish passed the door of Abramson's dark, gloomy and somewhat odorous +"Clothes Bought and Sold" establishment and chanced to glance within.</p> + +<p>Detective Sergeant Tish was not perhaps nearly so good a detective as +he thought himself to be, but he had a good record for arrests and +convictions; when he made a "pinch" something usually came of it. He +had been recently assigned to this district, on the fringe of the old +Tenderloin, and he wasn't so well acquainted as he might have been. +But he knew Eighth Avenue Annie; he had seen her in Jefferson Market +Court not a great many months before, and Annie's gargoyle face, with +the narrow, red eyes, her bulging, muscular shoulders, were not easily +forgotten.</p> + +<p>"Humph!" grunted Sergeant Tish. "The old hag is buyin' somebody some +new rags—that is some rags that was new—one time. Looks as if there +might be something in it."</p> + +<p>So, instead of pursuing his way down Eighth Avenue, he loitered outside +Mr. Abramson's cluttered establishment, to all intents and purposes +interested in a suit of plaid which occupied the central space in the +window. "Can't Tell it from New," read a card. "A Bargain at $22.69." +Mr. Abramson, you see, was a great believer in the psychology of the +odd cent.</p> + +<p>Eighth Avenue Annie striding forth with that swaggering, Bowery walk of +hers, a bundle under her arm, did not glance behind her. Had she done +so, she would have seen Sergeant Tish, a short, well-fed-looking man, +who didn't look much like the usual run of fly cops, lose interest in +the plaid and follow her at a discreet and disarming distance.</p> + +<p>However, when Annie turned in at her place of abode and harbored +evil-doers just around the corner of the second block, Sergeant Tish +quickened his pace and was directly behind her, as she stepped into +the vestibule. It might have been the ringing of the automatic bell +that dimmed her ears to the pad of the detective's shoes, for, as she +turned, there was Tish, grinning at her wisely, his foot thrust forward +to prevent the door being suddenly slammed in his face. He had no +intention of finding himself on the outside looking in.</p> + +<p>"Say!" growled Annie. "What's the game?" Sharp as were her red, +narrow eyes, she failed to see the brand of headquarters in the +plain-clothes man's round, fat face.</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish continued grinning, but it wasn't a grin to arouse any +contagious mirth or even good humor.</p> + +<p>"Who'd you buy the new rags for?" he demanded. "I wanna know a thing or +two about that. Get me?"</p> + +<p>Eighth Avenue Annie got him; there was the tone of authority in the +man's voice.</p> + +<p>"What's it to you?" she demanded with pretended indignation. "Ain't a +lady gotta right——"</p> + +<p>"Cheese it!" broke in Detective Tish. "I know you, an' I gotcher +number. When a bird sends you out to buy 'im clothes, he's either +a cripple or a crook—an' if he was that bad a cripple I guess he +wouldn't need any clothes." He chuckled in appreciation of his own wit. +"So don't try no bluff with me. Take your hand off that door."</p> + +<p>Annie had often defied the law, but her defiance was never flaunted +openly. When a cop said open the door, she opened it quickly.</p> + +<p>"I ain't done nothin' wrong," she protested with a ludicrous pretense +at innocence. "There ain't nothin' wrong, is there, in doin' a favor +fer a gent roomer. Is there, now? He said fer me to go out an' buy +'em——"</p> + +<p>"Where is this guy?" broke in Sergeant Tish. "I guess I'll give him the +once-over. Chances are he's some bird that's wanted, tryin' to do a +swift one outta town. Yeah?"</p> + +<p>"I dunno," muttered Annie; "I dunno nothin' about 'im. I rents 'im +a room; he pays his rent. I'm a poor lady tryin' to make an honest +livin', I am."</p> + +<p>"That's a double lie," snorted Sergeant Tish. "You ain't no lady, an' +you never glommed an honest jitney in your life. Lead on, you; I'm +gonna give this guy the once-over an' a free ride most likely."</p> + +<p>The woman hesitated, for she was at a ticklish disadvantage. The +surprise of the detective's visit was too complete to give her any +opportunity to warn Don Haskins who waited in the vile little room on +the third floor for his new wardrobe.</p> + +<p>On the stairs leading to the top story there was concealed a very +cunning little device that in six years of hiding hunted men for pay +had not once been detected by the police. Two of the steps, by a simple +mechanical operation, could be jerked upward into an opening large +enough to admit a man's body. Below this was space large enough to +accommodate several persons, the steps then dropped back into place, +looking thoroughly innocent. But Haskins had not been given the secret +of the third-floor stairs, and now there would be no opportunity to +favor him with this belated knowledge.</p> + +<p>"I'll run right up an' tell Mr. Smith to come down," said the old hag.</p> + +<p>"Say," sneered Sergeant Tish, "do I look that easy? On the level, do +you think I'd fall for that stuff?" It angered him that she should +have so little regard for his intelligence. "What floor did you say?" +He unbuttoned his coat which fitted somewhat tightly across his ample +stomach, giving him freer access to his police automatic strapped +beneath his arm.</p> + +<p>Eighth Avenue Annie had not lived in the underworld for nothing; she +knew the ways of the cops. She knew, for example, that the first overt +move she made to protect her well-paying lodger would land her in jail +on a charge of aiding and abetting a criminal. She wanted to help +Haskins, not from any motive of sentiment, but because she expected to +garner further money from Don's "swell sister," as she supposed Helen +Gilmore to be.</p> + +<p>"I didn't say what floor, off'cer," she muttered, "but I'm sayin' now. +He's on the thoid. I ain't protectin' nobody that ain't right." She +tried to affect a virtuous attitude. "I dunno nothin' except he spiels +it to me his moniker is—um—Smith."</p> + +<p>"Lead the way," ordered Sergeant Tish. "Not a word outta you either. +Get me? No tip-off goes with me; try that, and it's the station for +yours. If you think I won't, try it." Evidently Tish had not been +deceived in the slightest by her attitude of innocence. "You go on up +them stairs just like you was bringin' back his new duds. You say, +'Here's your clothes, mister.' I guess we won't use the Smith racket, +either. His name ain't Smith, and you know it ain't."</p> + +<p>"Yes, off'cer," agreed Eighth Avenue Annie.</p> + +<p>"Not so loud with that officer talk," warned Tish. "Ease down on the +lung power, you. Now, let's go."</p> + +<p>He motioned to the bundle she had just brought in from Abramson's, +and she obediently picked it up, starting up the dank, musty stairs. +The detective followed, walking with surprising lightness of step for +so corpulent a man. They reached the second-floor landing and passed +around a bend in the hall to the next flight. There was no hope for Don +Haskins now.</p> + +<p>As they reached the top, lighted murkily by the dirty skylight, +Sergeant Tish crouched low so that his head and shoulders would be +shielded by the bulking form of Eighth Avenue Annie and her packages. +The woman's shoes clattered noisily, and Haskins came to the door with +the broken, patched panel, his unshaven face peering out.</p> + +<p>"You got the stuff, huh?" he grunted. "I'll bet it's a tin suit."</p> + +<p>Eighth Avenue Annie made no effort to warn him; that might mean +shooting, and she wanted no shooting in her house.</p> + +<p>"It's a good suit," she muttered in a hoarse guttural. "It cost——"</p> + +<p>"Stick 'em up," roared Sergeant Tish, flipping out his gun, and rising +to his full height, leveling the weapon at the now wide-open door. "Get +'em up, or I'll drill you."</p> + +<p>Don Haskins' hands went up; he would have been a fool otherwise. His +lips twisted, as they emitted a vicious snarl.</p> + +<p>"Double crossed me," he said. "Took my good jack an' called in the +cops. Curse you, I'll——"</p> + +<p>"Shut your mouth!" Annie whispered hoarsely, her own face livid.</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish grinned delightedly; he was beginning to realize that it +had been a fortunate circumstance looking so casually into the doorway +of Abramson's secondhand clothing store. He had felt all along, of +course, that the woman was lying, that she was keeping a man in hiding. +And men do not hide unless they are wanted. It might be a big haul. +He took another step forward and peered closely into the face of his +quarry.</p> + +<p>"I can't name him offhand, but I guess the Bertillon boys'll rap to +'im fast enough." He backed Haskins into the stuffy, dirty little room +at the point of the gun and reached into the pocket of his coat for an +ever-ready pair of nippers.</p> + +<p>"Stick out them fins," he ordered. "I'll get these darbies on you, an' +then we'll talk things over."</p> + +<p>Knowing that the gun was beaded for his vitals, and that any fool can +shoot straight with an automatic, Don Haskins stuck out his hands; the +handcuffs snapped about his wrists.</p> + +<p>"What's the pinch for?" he demanded with an effort at bluster. "You +ain't got nothin' on me; I ain't done nothin'."</p> + +<p>"Well, anyhow, I guess you've done time," Sergeant Tish said shrewdly. +"What's your name down at central office?"</p> + +<p>Don Haskins remained sullenly silent, his eyes glowing hotly, as +they stared at Eighth Avenue Annie. The hag had let the bundle from +Abramson's slide to the floor, and with both hands she pushed back the +dirty gray hair that straggled down across her soiled face.</p> + +<p>"Want to hold out on me, eh?" grunted Sergeant Tish, with a shrug of +his flesh-padded shoulders, as he thrust the gun back into its holster. +His chubby face wore a smile, for he was well pleased with himself; a +single-handed capture is a thing that a cop delights in. And, if it +turned out to be an important arrest—well, Tish had a hunch that it +was just that, an important arrest. "Suit yourself, John Doe; you'll +get the rap fast enough when I get you downtown."</p> + +<p>Don Haskins knew how hopeless it was now. Ten minutes ago he had been +daydreaming pleasantly of Florida, perhaps Cuba, and now—Sing Sing +via the Tombs. It all depended on whether or not "Dago Mike," his +confederate in the loft job, net profit ten dollars split three ways, +had squealed. And he was sure Dago Mike had squealed. The warehouse +watchman had been croaked, and that meant that not only the actual +slayer, but Don Haskins, as a participant in the crime, was liable to +the death sentence.</p> + +<p>Haskins thought swiftly, desperately. The chair! The sickening vision +of it swam before his eyes and drove his brain to cunning that was +somewhat beyond his normal mental processes. He staggered back to the +unkempt cot.</p> + +<p>"Gimme a cigarette," he muttered thickly, his nerve apparently +deserting him. "I'll talk—tell you who I am. I—I gotta have a fag +first."</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish had seen that kind before. "Sure," he agreed readily +enough and produced a package of his own. Don lifted his manacled arms +and took a cigarette. It trembled between his fingers, wabbled between +his twitching lips. The detective lighted a match and held the flaming +stick toward him.</p> + +<p>Haskins inhaled deeply and seemed to grow calmer; his eyes raised, +taking his captor's measure. He noted with satisfaction that he was +almost a head taller than Tish. Even then he found the time to wonder +how he had managed to get on the force.</p> + +<p>Tish did not rush his man. "Take your time," he encouraged. "No hurry; +spill it when you're ready."</p> + +<p>Eighth Avenue Annie edged to the door from the hall, peering inside +with a horrible leer, as she considered that this man whom she had +befriended—for pay, of course—was going to be a yellow skunk and +"cough up." He would probably squeal on her, too; tangle her up in +his own net of trouble. That was the way with some of these rats; +they couldn't stand the gaff and wouldn't protect their friends. She +muttered something that sounded like "scum."</p> + +<p>Little did Annie know what was going on in Don Haskins' mind. Don had +never been a swift thinker, and hard drinking of bootleg whisky hadn't +added to his nimbleness of wit, but his brain was traveling in high +now. He knew that it wouldn't do him any good to conceal his identity; +lie as he would, there would be plenty of cops down at headquarters to +remember him. More than that, his picture was in the rogues' gallery, +his finger prints on file. But he didn't propose to make that trip down +to headquarters. Desperation made him resourceful.</p> + +<p>"My name is Haskins," he muttered. "They used to call me Nifty Don in +the old days, but you ain't got nothin' on me. On the level, you ain't +got nothin' on me."</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish frowned for a moment and then a look of delight spread +over his round, fat face. "Guess again, Haskins. There's a general +order out for you. You're wanted for a croak out in the Bronx; I forget +the details, but you're wanted all right. Yeah, I'll say you are."</p> + +<p>Don groaned. He had been right in his fears; Dago Mike had squealed. +The handcuffed man got to his feet; his shoulders heaved, as he inhaled +deeply on the now half-consumed cigarette. He filled his lungs to every +cubic inch of their capacity. He took a step toward the detective and, +opening his mouth, expelled a cloud of smoke directly into Tish's face.</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish, half blinded, was taken totally by surprise; he +staggered back and made a motion toward his gun, but he was not quick +enough. The prisoner's manacled arms flashed upward and downward, the +metal wristlets catching the detective a stunning blow on the side of +the head. The latter's knees sagged, but he continued to fumble for his +gun, when Haskins struck again, and this time the plain-clothes man +crumpled up on the floor, blood gushing from the edge of his scalp.</p> + +<p>"My Gawd!" whispered Eighth Avenue Annie.</p> + +<p>For the moment Haskins ignored her, as he knelt beside the form of his +captor and took the police regulation automatic; then he began frisking +the man for the handcuff keys.</p> + +<p>"Here," he said harshly to the old hag, "get these cursed things off of +me. Hurry!"</p> + +<p>"You'se ain't croaked 'im?" gulped Annie, her eyes bulging.</p> + +<p>"Naw," grunted Don. "Use that key, or I'll give you a dose of the same. +I ought to, anyhow, you dirty double crosser. Tipped the cops off, +didn'tcha?"</p> + +<p>"He seen me buyin' the clothes; he follered me. See? I didn't have no +chance to give you warnin'. Nice fix you got me into, brainin' a dick +in my place. They'll send me away for this." She worked the key in the +lock, and the handcuffs came free.</p> + +<p>"I hope you get ten years," Haskins said viciously. "Gimme them +clothes." A moment later he was changing in trembling haste, shedding +the disreputable suit for the more respectable garments that Annie had +purchased at Abramson's. His fingers were shaking, and he steadied his +nerves with a drink from the bottle which rested beside the bed.</p> + +<p>Eighth Avenue Annie was twisting her grimy old hands in an anguish +of terror. She knew the aftermath of this, and the revenge of the +outwitted detective was not a pleasant thing to consider. Had she +dared she would have tried to square herself by preventing Haskins' +escape, by sending out an alarm, but Haskins was armed and at her first +move would perhaps kill her. She flattened against the wall, sobbing +hoarsely in self-pity, cursing the man who had sent Haskins to her for +protection.</p> + +<p>In his haste Haskins forgot something very important; he forgot that +beneath the dirty mattress was the forty dollars that remained of +the one hundred and ninety dollars Helen Gilmore had given him the +previous afternoon. He didn't think of it until he had dashed down +the two flights of stairs and had reached the street. As he realized +this amazing oversight and turned back, he saw Annie sneaking out of +the vestibule, running. He knew. She was calling the cops, trying to +square herself. He didn't dare go back for the money. He wheeled in the +opposite direction, walking swiftly.</p> + +<p>Flight without a dollar in pocket is a problem, but desperation has +cut many a Gordian knot. Eighth Avenue is not a well-lighted street, +and darkness had settled down over the city. A taxi nosed through the +gloom, and after but a moment of hesitation Haskins hailed it; the +question of fare did not bother him—not with that automatic in his +pocket. The taxi drew up alongside the curb; it was a nice new taxi, +with a shining, spotless coat of blue paint.</p> + +<p>"I wanna get to Yonkers in a hurry," said Don briskly. "Gotta +important date out there. How quick can y'make it?" Yonkers was the +river-bordered town which joined the New York city limits on the north.</p> + +<p>"Hour and a quarter," answered the driver, giving Haskins a sizing-up +look.</p> + +<p>"O. K.," grunted Haskins. "Let's travel; go down Riverside Drive all +the way." He climbed inside, and they were off.</p> + +<p>Don had a particular reason for choosing the Riverside Drive route. +Past One Hundred and Eightieth Street the Drive winds between the river +and high-towering bluffs, with no houses on either side. He desired a +quiet place for settling the matter of the fare. They had reached the +spot which is called Inspiration Point, when the fleeing passenger +rapped on the glass which separated him from the chauffeur's seat.</p> + +<p>"Stop 'er!" he shouted.</p> + +<p>The car ground to a halt, and Haskins leaped out, cursing volubly.</p> + +<p>"Lost ring—diamond ring—slipped right off my finger. That rock cost +me eight hundred bucks," was the excuse he gave.</p> + +<p>The driver stared suspiciously, for his fare did not look like a man +who would own an eight-hundred-dollar diamond ring.</p> + +<p>"Aw, watcha handin' me?" he growled skeptically.</p> + +<p>Haskins looked up and down the Drive. The nearest car was some distance +away. His hand slipped to his pocket for the automatic he had taken +from Sergeant Tish. At the same instant he sprang forward. He did not +shoot, but brought the butt of the weapon down in a vicious swing on +the fellow's head. With a grunting, choking groan the latter collapsed +into black unconsciousness, still sitting at the wheel.</p> + +<p>The approaching car swept past; another followed; and neither paused +their swift progress. There was no reason why they should have noticed +anything. Don Haskins lifted out the limp form and carried it well +back to the side of the road, where he quickly rifled the senseless +man's pockets, taking nineteen dollars and thirty-five cents in cash, +a good watch, and the driving license. Then he donned the chauffeur's +cap and climbed into the taxi; an instant later he was speeding on +northward—alone. He was headed for the one place where he was sure +that he would find money and protection—Greenacres.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</h2> +</div> + +<h3>CAUGHT IN THE WEB</h3> + + +<p>The wife of Kirklan Gilmore was not literary, had not even any +tendencies in that direction; no literary qualifications had been +required for her employment as a typist in Atchinson's publishing +house. Her reading had been superficial, shallow, but she had an +adaptable mind and was constantly picking up surface things, chance +clever little quips and quotations, which, if she were not put to a +severe test, might pass for an acquaintance with the classics.</p> + +<p>When, overwhelmed by the appearance of Victor Sarbella as her husband's +guest, she had fled to her room, it was with the realization that still +another specter of the past had appeared to haunt and undo her. And +there flashed through her mind a fragment of an old quotation:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh, what a tangled web we weave,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When first we practice to deceive.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Yes, what a tangled web she had woven—inextricably enmeshed in the +snarled skeins of her ambitious folly. How circumstances had conspired +against her.</p> + +<p>"What a fool I was to think I could get by with it!" she whispered +bitterly. "How will it end? It was bad enough without Sarbella. +Him—him! It was like a ghost from the grave. He will tell my husband; +of course he will tell him—he could want no better revenge than that. +That look in his eyes—how he hates me!"</p> + +<p>She began to think of flight, even made a half-hearted, indecisive +move to gather up some of her things, but there was no train now until +morning, and the thought of driving the car, novice at the wheel that +she was, through the dark night terrified her. Besides which the car +was probably in the garage, locked; and she did not have the key. There +seemed nothing to do but wait.</p> + +<p>Helen would have been a very blind person indeed had she not realized +that Kirklan had sensed something amiss in the amazing meeting between +her and Sarbella; and, as time dragged on—eight o'clock, nine, and +then ten—she wondered why her husband had not come raging upstairs to +fling the past accusingly into her face, to order her out of the house, +perhaps to kill her!</p> + +<p>"Surely he would come if he knew," she told herself. "Hasn't +Sarbella told him? Why, he—he must have told him!" It was past her +understanding.</p> + +<p>Wearily she went to her dressing table, removed the dress she had +worn at dinner, slipped into a flowing-sleeved dressing gown that was +charmingly open at the throat, and began to let down her glorious +bronze hair which cascaded over her shoulders.</p> + +<p>Detached as Greenacres was, the house was very still, so still that +the many sounds which always fill a country night, floated through the +window, magnified by her taut, tortured nerves to crescendo volume.</p> + +<p>"Something has got to happen. Why can't it happen now and be over +with!" she moaned. "The suspense, this awful suspense! I can't stand +it—I can't!"</p> + +<p>Nervously she went to the window, and, pushing aside the curtains, +leaned out, staring into the night. The future, her future, was like +that—black, impenetrable, void, and she felt that there could never be +any dawn—not for her.</p> + +<p>"My life's been nothing but tragedy," she told herself bitterly. "I +thought I might be happy and respectable. There's a curse on me; that's +what it is, a curse. I'd be better off dead, but—I don't want to die."</p> + +<p>Helen, staring off into black space, did not see the skulking form that +moved stealthily through the shrubbery, circling uneasily, furtively +about the house. The slinking man stared upward at the lighted window, +stopped, as she leaned out across the sill, framed in the open space by +the light which burned within the room behind her.</p> + +<p>"It's her!" he grunted, but, as he crept forward, intending to call +softly, she disappeared.</p> + +<p>Don Haskins had deserted the stolen taxicab two miles down the road; by +cautious questioning he had learned the location of Greenacres and had +walked the rest of the way, and here he was. It had been a troubling +problem as to how he would get in touch with Helen. He had thought of +going into the village and calling her on the telephone, but there were +objections to this plan. In the first place he did not want to risk +an appearance in the village; added to that, it might be bad business +calling her to the phone so late at night. It had been his tentative +idea to find a hiding place on the spacious estate until he could get +in touch with her. Already he had considered the stable as a likely +place for his purpose.</p> + +<p>"That's her room," he told himself, still looking up at the lighted +window. "Now, if she was alone——" He crept closer to the house the +better to study the situation, and he found it very much to his liking. +The window of Helen's room opened out on the roof of the veranda which +semicircled the house on two sides.</p> + +<p>It might be risky business, but a desperate man, the prospect of the +death chair looking him in the face, does not stop to weigh such minor +risks as this. He reached an almost instant decision. He sat down in +the grass and removed his shoes; tying the laces together, he swung +them about his neck.</p> + +<p>"I never done no porch climbin'," he muttered, "but it don't look so +hard."</p> + +<p>But it was hard, much harder than he had anticipated; the porch post +was large of circumference, making it difficult to hug his arms about +it with a freezing grip. Several times he slid pantingly down just as +his straining fingers were within a few inches of the raised awning. +The perspiration poured from his body and moistened the palms of his +hands, so that he had to keep wiping them dry.</p> + +<p>In one last desperate effort he got hold of the awning's edge and +began to pull himself upward to the cornice. The triumph, however, was +far from noiseless; awning hooks snapped loose from the wood, and the +awning itself tore with a ripping sound under the strain.</p> + +<p>Panting, breathless, exhausted, Haskins lay flat on the roof, waiting +to see if the sounds would arouse the house. He marked the time by +counting, one to sixty, one to sixty, until four minutes had dragged +past. Not even Helen, within the room of the open window directly +above, seemed to have heard.</p> + +<p>Haskins began edging himself, a few inches at a time, across the +shingles toward the patch of light that streamed out across the roof. +Presently he had reached the sill and, drawing himself up, peered +within.</p> + +<p>Helen was again at the dressing table, mechanically applying bedtime +cosmetics. Otherwise the room was empty; Don made sure of that before +he pulled himself still further forward.</p> + +<p>"Sh!" he hissed. "It's me—Don. Douse the glim!"</p> + +<p>Helen Gilmore did not turn; there was no need. Through the +dressing-table mirror she could see his unshaven face at the corner of +the window sill. Her hand clapped to her mouth to stem the scream which +rose in her throat. Her body rocked in the low-backed chair, but she +did not faint.</p> + +<p>"Douse the light!" Haskins commanded again in a piercing whisper. +"Somebody might see me sneakin' in."</p> + +<p>Helen stumbled unsteadily to her feet and snapped out the lights. In +the darkness she heard him floundering through the window and into the +room, heard the curtains rip, when he caught at them, evidently to keep +his balance, as he lunged forward. She even heard his panting breath, +as it wheezed through his mouth.</p> + +<p>Don turned, lowered the sash, and drew down the blind. "Lock the door +an' then flash on the lights again," he ordered tensely.</p> + +<p>"The door is already locked," answered Helen, as she fumbled for the +light switch. The next instant they were blinking at each other; she +leaning limply against the wall, he standing in the center of the +floor. "My God, Don, what made you come here—to-night of all nights? I +can't stand any more; I can't. You gave me until to-morrow——"</p> + +<p>"Blame the damn cops," he grunted. "It was them did it—them an' Eighth +Avenue Annie. She sicked 'em onto me." He still believed that the old +hag had double crossed him.</p> + +<p>"You mean——"</p> + +<p>"Yeah, they're after me. I'm in for it right. They had the darbies on +me, but I beaned the dick that nabbed me, got 'em off, took his gat, +swiped a taxi, an' here I am. My hunch was right. Dago Mike squealed on +the loft-job croak."</p> + +<p>"How did you—find me—this room?" gasped Helen.</p> + +<p>Despite the desperation of the situation, Don Haskins grinned a little.</p> + +<p>"Seen you when you poked your head outta the window; shinned up the +porch, an' here I am."</p> + +<p>"I—I haven't got the money, Don; I haven't got it—yet."</p> + +<p>"But you're gonna get it to-morrow? I betcha y'are." His tone was +menacing. "You gotta hide me somewheres until——Mebbe you can drive me +somewheres in a car. Boston, huh?"</p> + +<p>Helen lifted her hands in a weary gesture. "Everything seems to be +happening at once," she whispered. "I—I don't know if I am going to +be able to get the money or not—now."</p> + +<p>The man glowered menacingly. "Don'tcha try to pull no stall on me; that +stuff don't go. Understand?"</p> + +<p>"Don, listen. My husband was on the same street yesterday when—when I +went to that place to see you. His publisher saw me—the man I used to +work for."</p> + +<p>"Aw, say; you don't expect me to swallow no guff like that?"</p> + +<p>"Sh! Not so loud, Don. It's true. Atchinson saw me. Kirklan didn't +believe it at first, but now he feels sure it's true. At first he'd +promised me the money. I told him that I wanted to pay an old bill, but +I don't know what he is going to do now. Then"—a shudder went through +her—"to make it all worse, a man came to the house to-night, a Mr. +Sarbella. He——"</p> + +<p>Haskins lifted his hand to his unshaven chin and stared at her +dubiously. "Sarbella? I guess you're bats, ain'tcha? Why, that guy's +dead!"</p> + +<p>"Not—not Andrea," choked Helen. "Victor Sarbella. At first I +thought—they look so much alike. He recognized me. Oh, the awful look +of hatred that he gave me!"</p> + +<p>"You mean that Sarbella spilled to Gilmore?"</p> + +<p>"I—I don't know. I haven't seen any one since dinner. I—I suppose he +did. He hates me, and he wants revenge. The newspapers said——"</p> + +<p>"That he was gonna get you," finished Don. "Yeah, I remember readin' +that. The papers made quite a piece about it—Eyetalian revenge an' +that sort of spiel. I guess you're some scared that the Sarbella guy's +gonna croak you, huh? Right here in the house, is he?"</p> + +<p>Helen nodded. "Yes, right here in the house," she answered.</p> + +<p>Don whistled softly. "Well, if that ain't the cat's eyebrows!" he +murmured, as he stared at her suspiciously. If what she told him was +true, he probably had lost the club he had been holding over her head +to extort money from her. But he doubted if it were true; Helen, he +told himself, was clever. Perhaps she hadn't found it easy to get the +thousand dollars blackmail money from her husband, and she had made up +this story as a pure bluff.</p> + +<p>"Where's the Gilmore guy?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>"I don't know. I told you that I hadn't seen any one since dinner. I +can't understand why Kirklan hasn't come to me, if Sarbella has told +him."</p> + +<p>Haskins pursed his lips thoughtfully and wrinkled his shallow forehead; +after a moment he nodded. "I gotcha; if Gilmore had the low-down on you +he'd have come stormin' in here to have it out with you. Sure he would. +No, I guess Sarbella ain't spilled to him. I guess that ain't his way +of gettin' even with you. Stiletto! That's the way them Eyetalians do +it."</p> + +<p>Helen gasped; she hadn't thought of that possibility. She was inclined +to treat the suggestion lightly, but there came back to her the memory +of Victor Sarbella's black eyes flaming into her face, hot with a +stored-up hatred, and she shivered.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I—I don't think he would kill me!" she gasped.</p> + +<p>"Then you don't know them Eyetalians," Don grunted sagely. "They sure +is strong on the revenge stuff. If I was you I'd keep right here in +this room, while he was on the premises. But that's your trouble, and I +got troubles of my own. When do I get that thousand bucks you was gonna +hand over?"</p> + +<p>"But if Sarbella has told Kirklan who I am, what I was before——"</p> + +<p>"Then you figger to pass me up, huh? Guess again. Even if Sarbella +does, Gilmore won't squeal to the cops; a guy like him don't want +no family scandal, see! Mebbe he'll show you the gate, but he ain't +gonna send you up the river—not if he's crazy about you like you said +yesterday. But me, that's different. You done me dirty; you throwed me +over, made a bum outta me." His face contorted unpleasantly. "I owe you +one, I do, an' I'm handin' you this on the level; if I get nabbed this +trip I'm goin' to spill. I'm gonna send for the district attorney an' +tell him——"</p> + +<p>"I'll try to get the money for you, Don; I'll try my best," broke in +Helen with a quick promise.</p> + +<p>Don glared at her triumphantly, as he reached into his pocket for one +of the cigarettes that he had taken from the unconscious taxi driver, +lighted it, and, puffing slowly, began rocking to and fro on his +feet. A silly smile spread over his face, as glancing down, he saw a +bare toe protruding from one sock, where a hole had been rubbed by +friction against the porch post in his climb of a few minutes before. +He remembered that his shoes still swung from around his neck. With a +chagrined exclamation he untied the laces and put the shoes on. Helen +did not smile.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said again, "I'll try to get the money for you to-morrow." +Her hands went out in a nervous gesture, and Don caught the sparkle of +a diamond on her finger. She had not worn it on her visit to Eighth +Avenue Annie's—for good reasons. Haskins stared at the ring and put a +hasty appraisal of four or five hundred dollars on it.</p> + +<p>"I'll take that for security," he said, pointing. She drew back against +the wall in a move of refusal, and Don, eyes narrowed, darted toward +her.</p> + +<p>"Aw, I guess you will," he growled.</p> + +<p>But, when his fingers touched the smooth, white skin of her arm and +seized her in an effort to force the diamond from her, a change came +over him. A fierce return of his old love for her swept through him. +All his hate melted, like ice returned to its first form of water. His +arm tightened about her, drawing closer; his unshaven, stubbly chin +buried against her throat.</p> + +<p>"The law says you're mine!" he panted. "You're my wife. I—I guess I +ain't stopped bein' crazy about you even—even when I was wantin' to +kill you—wantin' to choke the life outta you like—like this."</p> + +<p>The fingers of one hand raised before her face, writhing, twisting, +like tentacles; they neared her soft throat, toyed against the skin. +Helen dared not scream, but she struggled in silent terror. Her arms +flailed against his sides, and her hand struck against the bulky +automatic in his coat. Her fingers slipped swiftly into his pocket and +seized the butt of the gun.</p> + +<p>"You ain't this guy's wife," he went on hoarsely. "You're my wife; +the law says so, and you're goin' with me." He was so beside himself +that he did not feel the tug of the pistol, as it came free from his +pocket. And then there crashed through the stillness of the house the +slam of a closing door. Don's arms dropped limp.</p> + +<p>"What was that?" he whispered, returning to the realization that he was +a hunted man, fleeing for his life.</p> + +<p>"I think it's Kirklan," she whispered. "His room adjoins this one. Sh! +He'll hear you."</p> + +<p>Haskins took a flying leap across the room and switched off the lights; +his hand went to his pocket.</p> + +<p>"The gat—it's gone!" he muttered under his breath. "It musta dropped +outta my pocket when I was climbin' up the porch." He groped through +the darkness. "Helen!"</p> + +<p>"Sh!"</p> + +<p>"You gotta stash me away somewheres. If I get nabbed, what I said +goes—I spill what I know."</p> + +<p>Helen in the darkness concealed the automatic beneath the flowing +sleeve of her robe. With the gun she was no longer afraid of Don, but +she still did fear his threats, his power to send her to Auburn prison +on a charge of bigamy. A moment before he had loved her madly; the next +he might hate her again with just as much intensity. She had to aid +him—protect him.</p> + +<p>"I'll hide you," she told him, "on the third floor—an old storeroom. +No one ever goes there. I'll bring you food. I'll try to get you the +money; I'll get you money—somehow. I'll see that you get away. Follow +me."</p> + +<p>Cautiously she opened the door. The hallway was in friendly darkness. +She groped along the wall, fearful that Don would betray their +presence, but he followed her in stealthy silence.</p> + +<p>The third-floor stairway was inclosed, and it was reached through a +door which, since the third floor was seldom used, creaked dismally, as +she swung it open.</p> + +<p>"Up there!" she whispered. "The last door at the left; you'll know it. +It's a storeroom. I'll see you—some time to-morrow."</p> + +<p>The door closed again whiningly, inclosing Don Haskins within the +stairway. He considered it safe to light a match and did so to +illuminate the upward climb. He saw accumulated dust, evidence of +disuse; Greenacres servants were not good housekeepers above the second +floor, it seemed. Without any difficulty he found the storeroom and, +striking another match, discovered that a kindly circumstance had +left a discarded couch for him to rest upon. He sat down on the edge +of it and felt in his pocket for his package of cigarettes, and then +something dawned upon him. The gun had been in his pocket after he had +got inside the house; he remembered the touch of it, as he had sought +out a cigarette.</p> + +<p>"Curse her!" he gritted. "She took that gat outta my pocket. What did +she want with it, anyhow? I got a good notion to go back down there +an'——" He lighted a fag and smoked nervously, indecisively. He wanted +his gun. A desperate man feels safer with something to shoot with, but +he could not quite make up his mind to risk a return to the second +floor.</p> + +<p>Helen had returned to her room without detection. She switched on the +lights again, but in her agitation forgot to lock the door behind her. +Stunned, nervously exhausted by this new-conspiring circumstance, the +appearance of Don, she sank down into a chair, and, as her arms dropped +listlessly down, the gun which a few brief hours before had been the +property of Detective Sergeant John Henry Tish of the New York police +department slid down to the rug with a faint thud and lay at her feet. +She made no move to pick it up.</p> + +<p>She faced the door, her eyes fixed vacantly upon nothing; hopelessness +engulfed her. Don—her legal husband—here. Sarbella here, too. Both of +them here with her under the same roof. No wonder that she was stunned, +dazed; at times she felt that she must be in the midst of a terrible +nightmare, that she would wake up with the grateful realization that it +wasn't true.</p> + +<p>For perhaps ten minutes she sat motionless, surrendering any attempt to +think coherently. Suddenly her lax nerves snapped taut, a gasp escaped +her lips, her eyes widened. There had been no sound of a footstep in +the hall, there had been no rap at the door, but the knob was turning +slowly, silently, and the door began to move.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX</h2> +</div> + +<h3>THE OPEN DOOR</h3> + + +<p>The butler at Greenacres occupied a small room on the ground floor near +the kitchen. He had been asleep for some time when the ringing of the +doorbell sounded, a loud jangling in the night's stillness; he stirred, +muttered grumblingly, and was about to tell himself that it must be a +mistake, when the ring was insistently repeated.</p> + +<p>"There ought to be a law against it," he declared, as he slid his thin +old legs out from beneath the sheets, and, not more than partly awake, +fumbled groggily for the light. The clock on the bureau told him that +it was half an hour past midnight. "Fine time of night for people to +go around ringing bells at respectable houses!" Again the bell started +its clatter. "Maybe it's an automobile accident out on the road," he +said, but he did not hurry. Bates was not the hurrying kind. He reached +under the pillow for his false teeth, clicked them into his toothless +gums, and then began to pull his trousers on over the old-fashioned +nightshirt that flapped about his skinny legs.</p> + +<p>Still grumbling under his breath, he shambled down the hall, switched +on another light, and went to the front door, making sure that the +safety chain was in place before he opened it. Bates did not have good +eyesight even in the daytime, and at night he was little better than +blind; squintingly he stared through the narrow crack at the form of +the man out on the porch.</p> + +<p>"What's wanted?" he snapped complainingly.</p> + +<p>"It's me, Bates," came the answer.</p> + +<p>"Heaven bless us, it's Mr. Kirklan!" gasped the butler, making haste +to unfasten the chain and admit the master of Greenacres. "Was it you, +sir, doing all that ringing?"</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore, still wearing his disheveled dinner coat, entered the +house with a slow, dragging step. His face, as it had been all day, was +haggard and drawn.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I rang," he answered; "sorry to rout you out of bed, but I must +have forgotten my keys when I dressed for dinner. It was the only way I +could get in, and I didn't want to spend the night in the studio."</p> + +<p>"Oh, certainly not, sir," Bates agreed hastily. "You mustn't think I am +objecting to getting up to let you in. It's quite all right, sir—quite +all right. But you gave me a surprise; I thought you were in bed hours +ago. Have you been at your writing so late?" As an author, Kirklan +Gilmore was one of those methodical fellows who worked just so many +hours a day, usually eight, and at the most ten.</p> + +<p>He laughed mirthlessly. "Writing? Man, I can't think, much less write."</p> + +<p>"You are ill, sir," Bates murmured solicitously. "I noticed at dinner +that you did not look well. I thought——" He broke off abruptly, +realizing that thinking, especially as regards family affairs, was not +one of his offices as butler.</p> + +<p>"You thought—what?"</p> + +<p>"Er—nothing, sir; I beg your pardon very humbly. Is there anything I +can do for you before you turn in?"</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore's lips twitched.</p> + +<p>"Thanks for offering, Bates; as a matter of fact, I was thinking of +asking you to make me one of those old-fashioned toddies that you once +were so good at in my father's day. With a dash of stomach bitters in +it, you know. My nerves are all shot to pieces, Bates. You can see +that; probably liquor won't do any good, but perhaps a good, long drink +will help me get to sleep."</p> + +<p>Bates' head wagged approvingly on its slender neck.</p> + +<p>"Your father, Mr. Kirklan, always found them beneficial after a hard +day at court. I remember one time when——But I mustn't be gabbing, +when your nerves are jumping like that. I'll mix the toddy for you +right off, sir."</p> + +<p>"And I'll go with you," said Gilmore. "You know, as many of 'em as I've +had, I don't think I ever saw you make one."</p> + +<p>"There's a bit of a trick to it," Bates admitted modestly and shuffled +toward the rear of the house, Gilmore at his slippered heels. A moment +later the butler was performing a service for the author that, in the +old days, he had performed many times for Kirklan's father. Kirklan +wasn't so fond of liquor as his father had been.</p> + +<p>"A full measure of orange juice—like this," Bates was saying. "Two +squares of sugar and——" He droned on, illustrating his formula, as +Gilmore watched him dully.</p> + +<p>"Take one for yourself, Bates," he invited; but the butler shook his +head.</p> + +<p>"They say it's a poor doctor that won't take his own prescription, sir; +but it would upset me at this time of night. Thank you just the same, +sir. Ah, there you are." He handed Gilmore the glass, the square of ice +clinking, and the latter accepted it, sipping slowly. He did not gulp +it down hastily, as Bates had expected.</p> + +<p>"Is Sarbella still here?"</p> + +<p>The butler looked bewildered.</p> + +<p>"Is he still here, sir? Why—why certainly, Mr. Kirklan. I took it for +granted that he was down for a considerable stay. He retired to his +room a little more than an hour after dinner."</p> + +<p>Gilmore nodded.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, of course," he murmured and took another sip of the +toddy. "But I thought he might have gone. A little something +happened—something that——My God, man, what's that?"</p> + +<p>His body had tensed, and the glass slipped from his fingers, as a look +of horror spread over his face. Loud, shrill, blood-chilling, there +rang through the house a terrified scream—a woman's scream.</p> + +<p>Bang! A sharp, staccato explosion reverberated through the night's +stillness. Bates' thin legs were trembling beneath him, his mouth +sagged open, and his eyes rolled wildly toward the ceiling as, +struggling for utterance, he pointed a shaking hand upward.</p> + +<p>"That was upstairs!" he cried hoarsely. "Something—something terrible +has happened upstairs. It was a shot. And that scream—I swear that it +was Miss Joan's."</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore stood, his muscles rigid, hands clenched at his sides, +gulping hard.</p> + +<p>"Joan's scream?" he muttered. "No, Bates, no! Something tells me, man, +that it was my wife. I tell you it was my wife. Quick, the stairs! I've +got to know what happened; I've got to know. Come!"</p> + +<p>And, although it was Gilmore who urged haste, it was the butler who +took the lead, heading for the stairs with a lame lope.</p> + +<p>"I—I can't understand it, sir," the servant chattered as he went +along. "There's no weapon in the house except your shotgun; and that +report—it wasn't loud enough for a shotgun. It must have been a +pistol; I am sure that it must have been a pistol."</p> + +<p>When they were perhaps halfway up the staircase there came to their +ears, unmistakably clear and permitting no possibility of a mistake, +even in the tenseness of the moment, the sound of a hastily slammed +door. Gilmore stopped dead in his tracks. An opening door, some member +of the household aroused by the scream and the explosion, would have +been perfectly understandable. But a closing door! There was the +suggestion of hasty, headlong flight. Under the circumstances it was a +sinister sound.</p> + +<p>Nearing the top of the stairs, the two men, master and servant, saw a +patch of light rays which came from an open doorway down the hall.</p> + +<p>"That light!" panted Gilmore. "It comes from my wife's room. The door +of her room is open—her light is burning!"</p> + +<p>They had now reached that ominously opened door; it stood ajar for +perhaps ten inches. Gilmore stopped again, the breath wheezing through +his teeth, as if he might have had a presentiment of what he might find +on the other side of that panel. The old butler went on forward, laid +his withered hand upon the knob; but he was unprepared for the sight +which met his eyes. With a gasp of horror he reeled back.</p> + +<p>"You—you were right, sir," he whispered hoarsely. "It is your wife, +and she——Be brave, sir—be brave!"</p> + +<p>Helen Gilmore lay in a half-reclining posture on a wicker couch. +Looking only at her face, one might have thought her sleeping, such was +the repose of her features. But the bosom of her silk robe was stained +crimson. On the floor, beneath the outflung fingers of one hand, there +was an automatic pistol.</p> + +<p>Gilmore took another brief step forward and over the butler's shoulder +saw his wife, the light from one of the wall brackets flooding across +her beautiful face—still beautiful even now. A shudder shook his +shoulders, as if the hand of some invisible giant had seized him in a +vicious grip.</p> + +<p>"Your wife has killed herself!" cried Bates. "The poor woman has shot +herself!"</p> + +<p>"Is she dead?" Gilmore cried hoarsely. "I can't—I haven't the +strength—the courage to go near her, Bates. Can you tell me if—if my +wife is dead?"</p> + +<p>The butler was trembling in his agitation, but he steeled himself to +the ordeal and forced his unwilling feet forward. Even as he neared +the couch, he thought one last, weak breath escaped the lips of his +master's wife. But he might have been mistaken. His fingers reached +out and touched her cheek.</p> + +<p>"She is still warm," he gulped; "of course she would be—so soon after. +But I think she must be dead. You see, sir, the bleeding has stopped. +I understand that is a sign of death." He shook his head slowly. "Yes, +Mr. Kirklan, I am sure that she is dead."</p> + +<p>Gilmore collapsed into a chair; head lowered, his eyes closed, as if to +blot out the terrible sight in front of him, he began to sob, brokenly, +but without tears. A moment later he checked his grief.</p> + +<p>"You'd better call Doctor Bushnell, Bates," he choked. "There—there +might still be a chance of saving her."</p> + +<p>The butler shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid not, but there is a way +that I've heard the doctors use——" He shambled to Helen's dressing +table where he picked up a silver-backed hand-mirror; then he returned +to the limp form on the couch and held the glass close to her lips.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know," Gilmore muttered thickly, watching him with a fascinated +stare. "If any breath of life remains, there will be moisture on the +mirror." He leaned forward tensely. "What—what does it show, Bates?"</p> + +<p>The butler inspected it briefly.</p> + +<p>"There is no breathing," he answered; "I was right, sir; your wife is +quite dead. But I will phone for the doctor; that is, I believe, the +customary thing in cases like this."</p> + +<p>As the servant moved toward the door, he paused suddenly, a startled +look coming into his eyes.</p> + +<p>"It is very strange," he muttered; "yes, very strange."</p> + +<p>Gilmore looked at him dully. "What is strange?" he demanded heavily.</p> + +<p>"That—that she should have shot herself with the door standing open, +sir. If you will pardon me, I know that I wouldn't kill myself—with +a door open. I would lock myself in. And"—his voice sank to a tense, +vibrating whisper—"Mr. Kirklan, did you hear a door slamming shut, as +we were coming up the stairs just a moment ago?"</p> + +<p>"I heard a noise, Bates, yes. You are sure, Bates, that it was a +closing door?"</p> + +<p>"Quite sure of it!" cried Bates. "There is something else, too. If she +shot herself, why did she scream? My word, sir, don't you understand? +Your wife has been murdered!"</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X</h2> +</div> + +<h3>COMMON SENSE</h3> + + +<p>"Your wife has been murdered sir," repeated the butler, with growing +conviction of his sudden theory. "I am not a detective, but I am sure, +were it suicide, the door here would have been closed—locked. That is +only common sense, Mr. Kirklan."</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore forced his eyes to that lifeless, crimson-stained form +which so recently had been alive, that lovely creature whom he had +married only three weeks before. His face was set in a rigid paralysis +of horror, which did not change even when he turned his head away and +closed his eyes.</p> + +<p>"No, Bates, no!" he cried thickly. "It—it couldn't be. Look! There +is the gun beside her, where it must have dropped from her fingers +after—after she pressed the trigger. Your first impression was the +right one; Helen has killed herself."</p> + +<p>But the butler was not to be shaken.</p> + +<p>"You heard the scream, sir," he argued; "the scream that sounded before +we heard the shot—the scream that I thought was Miss Joan's."</p> + +<p>"What nonsense!" muttered Gilmore, pressing his hands to his temple. "A +scream is a scream, Bates; they all sound alike."</p> + +<p>"Of course I was mistaken," the butler broke in hastily. "I had heard +Miss Joan scream once, the time you were thrown by the horse, and we +all thought you had been killed. It sounded so much like that, sir, I +thought for a moment——But naturally it could not have been Miss Joan."</p> + +<p>"Certainly not," said Gilmore. "Why do you stand there arguing about +it? Go call the doctor, can't you? Tell Doctor Bushnell to come +quickly."</p> + +<p>Yet Bates delayed another moment to press his theory.</p> + +<p>"Do you remember the scream, sir?" he whispered. "There was terror in +it. Not at all the kind of a scream, Mr. Kirklan, that one would give +unless faced with a terrible danger. And people do not scream when they +are about to shoot themselves."</p> + +<p>Gilmore groaned and tossed his hands wildly.</p> + +<p>"Stop it!" he cried hoarsely. "Get out! Do what I tell you—call the +doctor. You're a butler, not a policeman. In Heaven's name, Bates, get +a move on you."</p> + +<p>As the butler shambled into the hall, almost ludicrous in his haste, he +narrowly escaped a collision with Victor Sarbella, who appeared from +out of the darkness, a dressing gown thrown over his pajamas.</p> + +<p>"What's happened?" demanded the guest of Greenacres. "I thought +I heard a shot." His voice was strained, excited; there could be +considered nothing strange in that, for there was certainly the +promise of sinister, tragic things when the after-midnight stillness +of a peaceable country house is shattered by the startling voice of +exploding gunpowder.</p> + +<p>"The younger Mrs. Gilmore is dead, shot—murdered!" panted Bates, and +dashed on past so headlong that it seemed he would surely tumble down +the steps.</p> + +<p>A smothered exclamation broke through Sarbella's lips, and for a brief +moment he did not move, as he stared toward the half-open door in front +of him. His face was set into tense lines. From within he heard the +sound of a groan, and, stepping forward, he saw Kirklan Gilmore, as his +body sagged in a chair, twisting his hands with such intensity that it +seemed he must snap the finger joints. And then the artist saw the dead +woman on the chaise longue.</p> + +<p>"Great Lord, Kirklan——"</p> + +<p>The novelist turned, flinging out an accusing finger in a wild gesture. +"You did this!" he screamed. "You——"</p> + +<p>Sarbella's eyes narrowed, his face hardened. "Be careful what you say, +Gilmore," he broke in. "It is no light thing to accuse a man of murder."</p> + +<p>"I say you did it! Helen has killed herself, and you—you drove her to +it—you drove her to her death."</p> + +<p>Sarbella was naturally bewildered.</p> + +<p>"Your butler says your wife has been murdered; then you accuse me of +it, and now you switch everything around by telling me that she has +killed herself. I don't know what it all means. What <i>has</i> happened?"</p> + +<p>"Bates is an old fool," muttered Gilmore. "Of course she has killed +herself. You see—there is the gun on the floor, where it dropped from +her fingers. Any one can see that it was suicide."</p> + +<p>One might have thought that a look of relief came into the face of the +artist; he nodded his head slowly in agreement.</p> + +<p>"Yes, that's the way it appears; but if that is the case, why is it +that your butler says——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, what's the use of discussing my butler's notions. He seems to +think that he ought to be a detective, that's all. She killed herself, +and"—his voice became edged with bitterness—"it was you who drove her +to do it."</p> + +<p>The artist tossed out his hands in an imploring gesture. "That is +unfair," he protested. "Perhaps her conscience, but am I responsible +for her conscience? Am I responsible for—for her sins?"</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore staggered to his feet. "What do you mean—her sins?" he +cried hoarsely. "Am I never to know the truth about her?"</p> + +<p>Sarbella shook his head. "Not from my lips," he answered; "she is dead. +Let what past there be buried with her. It will be better that way, +Kirklan—better for every one."</p> + +<p>"Who is dead?" came a tremulous question from the hall. The novelist +recognized the voice of Mrs. Gilmore, his stepmother, and leaped +forward to prevent her entrance. He knew, high-strung, nervous woman +that she was, the gruesome sight would be a tremendous, perhaps even +dangerous, shock to her.</p> + +<p>"You—you mustn't come in here, mother. Something—something has +happened to Helen."</p> + +<p>"You mean," gasped Mrs. Gilmore, clutching at the casing of the door +for support, "that she is dead?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Helen is dead," finished Kirklan. "Go back to your room, please."</p> + +<p>"I was awakened by something. I am not certain just what it was," +whispered the little, gray-haired woman. "And then there was a shot. +You mean, Kirklan, that your wife——"</p> + +<p>The novelist inclined his head. "Helen has—has killed herself. Bates +has gone to telephone Doctor Bushnell; there is nothing you can +do—nothing. Now please return to your room."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Gilmore began to sob wildly, perhaps not so much from grief as +from the hysteria of horror.</p> + +<p>"She has killed herself—suicide! Oh, the disgrace, the scandal of it; +three weeks married and—a suicide. I—I knew that something awful +would happen. It was in the air. I had a presentiment of it at dinner. +All of you acted so strangely, so tragic. Kirklan, what made her do it?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," he answered thickly. "Perhaps the reason for it died +with her. I—I don't want to talk any more about it, mother; it's all I +can do to hold myself together. Won't you please go back to your room?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Gilmore, making a move to obey him, released her fingers from the +support of the door casing and staggered; thus, unintentionally, she +reeled just within the door. As she saw the crimson-stained form on the +lounge, a scream tore up through her throat. She swayed dizzily, her +knees crumpled beneath her, and she would have fallen to the floor in a +limp heap, had not Kirklan reached out and caught her in his arms.</p> + +<p>"Sarbella!" he called. "She—has fainted. I knew that would happen +if—if she saw it. Won't you help me with her? I—I suppose we'd better +take her to Joan's room; she can't be left alone in this condition."</p> + +<p>Victor Sarbella rushed forward to lend his assistance, and between +them they supported the limp, gray-haired figure down the hall to the +wing of the house where Joan Sheridan's belongings had been banished by +the coming of Kirklan's bride to Greenacres. This, the room of tragedy, +had been Joan's until the coming of the house's new mistress.</p> + +<p>"You'll find a light button there, near the corner of the turn," +directed Gilmore, and Sarbella fumbled for the switch. "It's the last +door to the right. She—she's heavier than I thought."</p> + +<p>As the two men came to the door that Kirklan had indicated, there +reached both of their ears the muffled sound of sobbing—convulsive, +hysterical sobs. A tremor went through Gilmore.</p> + +<p>Joan's room being somewhat removed from the other part of the house, it +was reasonable that the sound of the shot might not have awakened her, +but, being awake, how could she have failed to hear it? And she was not +asleep! She was awake—weeping!</p> + +<p>Apprehensive terror clutched at Gilmore's heart—the terror of a +sinister something that he could not explain. Was it possible that, +after all, it had been Joan who had screamed? Sarbella, too, looked +startled and darted his host a quick, uneasy, questioning glance. His +arms being occupied, Gilmore kicked his shoe against the foot of the +door, as a substitute for rapping. On the other side of the panel the +choking sobs suddenly ceased.</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"It's Kirklan, Joan. Something has happened, and your mother has +fainted. We thought we ought to bring her here to you."</p> + +<p>"Just—just a moment, Kirk," came the tremulous answer, "and I will let +you in."</p> + +<p>There was a brief wait and the sound of running water, as the girl +within the room turned on a faucet. Then the door opened, and Joan +stood before them. Although it was now almost one o'clock in the +morning, she had not taken down her hair for the night; she had, late +as it was, not yet retired. Evidently the sound of running water had +marked her effort to undo the evidence of tears, but her eyes were red +and her face was ghastly! After a first furtive glance her gaze avoided +Gilmore's eyes.</p> + +<p>"You can put her on my bed," she said in a shaking voice, but she did +not ask why her mother had fainted.</p> + +<p>"Something very terrible has happened, Joan," the novelist said +hoarsely. "Didn't you hear it?" He had placed his stepmother on the bed +and mechanically began to rub her wrists.</p> + +<p>"Didn't I hear—what?" Joan asked so faintly that her voice was hardly +audible.</p> + +<p>"The pistol shot—just—just a few minutes ago," answered Gilmore.</p> + +<p>The girl shuddered, her head averted. Her hands were clenched at her +sides, and her lower lip was imprisoned between her teeth, obviously in +an effort to keep it from trembling. She was making a tremendous effort +to keep her self-control.</p> + +<p>"I did not hear a pistol shot," she said, her voice still very low. "I +did not hear any shot. Why do you ask?"</p> + +<p>"Helen has killed herself, Joan; she shot herself with a pistol."</p> + +<p>There was no startled cry of horror from Joan's lips, as she heard what +might have been supposed to be her first news of tragedy. But was it +news to her? There was not so much as an exclamation of surprise, not +so much as a murmured word of sorrow or sympathy.</p> + +<p>Standing a little to one side, Victor Sarbella stared at the girl in +narrow-eyed, intent interest, evidently greatly puzzled by her peculiar +attitude. Joan still said nothing; almost absently she began massaging +her mother's ice-cold fingers.</p> + +<p>"She faints very easily," she murmured. "It is never serious. She will +be all right presently. Mr. Sarbella, will you please dampen a towel +under the cold-water tap?"</p> + +<p>"I had been out at the studio," Gilmore went on, the words tumbling +out jerkily. "I think I must have fallen asleep out there. When I came +to the house I found that I didn't have my keys, and had to ring for +Bates to let me in. My nerves were in a bad way, so I asked Bates to +mix me a toddy, a nightcap. I was drinking it, when both of us—Bates +and I—heard a scream. Right after that there was a shot. Bates and I +rushed upstairs to find Helen dead; that's all I know."</p> + +<p>As his voice trailed off to a dull, lifeless stop, Joan gave a start +and looked up to take the damp towel that Sarbella offered her. She +placed it across her mother's forehead; Mrs. Gilmore stirred under this +application and moaned faintly.</p> + +<p>"I think mother will be all right now," said Joan. "I don't think it +will be necessary for either of you to stay. If I need you I will +call."</p> + +<p>"Bates has telephoned to Doctor Bushnell. I will have him see mother +when he comes, Joan."</p> + +<p>Joan nodded.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it would be best," she agreed. "She is very high-strung, and +may need an opiate. It was a tremendous shock to her—of course."</p> + +<p>Kirklan began a retreat from the room, and Sarbella, after another +queer glance at Joan, followed. No word was spoken until they had come +to the room of the tragedy.</p> + +<p>"I can't stand to go back in there!" Gilmore cried hoarsely. "It—it's +all that I can do to hold myself together as it is. I think I'll go +downstairs and have another drink."</p> + +<p>Victor Sarbella, frowning so deeply that his eyes seemed to be closed, +put out his hand impulsively.</p> + +<p>"Don't do that, my friend," he murmured; "for your own sake—don't. +Liquor will not help any at a time like this, and it will look bad, +very bad, for you to be under the weather at a time like this."</p> + +<p>The butler came hurrying up the stairs.</p> + +<p>"I have had Doctor Bushnell on the wire, sir," he reported. "He had +just got home from a call, and he says that he will be here as quickly +as the car can bring him—a matter of minutes. It is only two miles +from the village."</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore glanced shudderingly toward the door of his wife's +room. "It doesn't seem right," he muttered, "leaving her in there +alone, but I can't stand to look at her again. I——"</p> + +<p>"There no use torturing yourself," advised Sarbella. "It is quite +certain that she is beyond all human help. There is nothing that can +be done until the doctor comes. Here, man, you're wabbly—all in; sit +down here on the top step. Hold yourself together the best you can, my +friend."</p> + +<p>Kirklan laughed harshly, mirthlessly. "Stop calling me 'my friend,' +Sarbella," he said unsteadily. "I won't have any more of that from you. +If it hadn't been for your coming down here, Helen would——" He broke +off abruptly, as he realized that Bates was within earshot, and that +very little missed the butler.</p> + +<p>Sarbella shrugged his shoulders, but made no verbal response. The house +had become intensely still again. From the foot of the stairs there +was the steady, measured ticking of the tall clock on the first floor, +as the long pendulum moved to and fro. Gilmore sat down on the steps, +shoulders slumping forward, as he laced and unlaced his fingers.</p> + +<p>Why had Joan been sobbing in her room? What was the reason for her +strange behavior? Why had her face been so ghastly pale, even before he +had informed her of Helen's death?</p> + +<p>He pondered this.</p> + +<p>"Listen!" said Bates, breaking the uneasy silence. The other two men +jerked into an attentive attitude. There came to their ears the hum +of a powerful motor. An instant later an automobile horn blasted the +stillness in brief announcement. Doctor Bushnell had arrived.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI</h2> +</div> + +<h3>BUSHNELL CALLS THE POLICE</h3> + + +<p>The butler hurried stumblingly down the steps to admit Doctor Bushnell, +who had been the Gilmore family physician for almost a dozen years; +he swung open the door, as the doctor was stepping briskly across the +porch.</p> + +<p>"You got here in a hurry, doctor," said Bates. "It happened upstairs. +Mr. Kirklan is up there now—at the top of the steps. She's dead; I +held a mirror to her face and——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, so you told me over the telephone," broke in Doctor Bushnell; he +was a tall, crisp man, with a pair of gray eyes looking out from behind +a pair of rimless spectacles.</p> + +<p>"She——" began Bates again.</p> + +<p>"This is no time for conversation, my good man," the doctor again +interrupted firmly, but not impatiently. "You can talk later." He +started swiftly for the stairs.</p> + +<p>But Bates was not to be shaken off so easily.</p> + +<p>"You didn't give me a chance to finish telling you over the phone," he +said, blocking the way. "Mr. Kirklan says she killed herself, but I +know better. She was murdered."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell abruptly halted. "Murdered?" he repeated.</p> + +<p>"See if you don't bear me out, sir," whispered the butler. "I'm not a +detective, but I've got common sense enough to know——"</p> + +<p>The physician shook loose Bates' fingers. "There'll be time enough for +that, Bates. Just now there's a chance—a bare chance—that you are +mistaken, and that she is still alive. If there is any chance of saving +her, there must be no wasted time."</p> + +<p>Surgical kit swinging at his side, the doctor bounded up the stairs, +two steps at a time. Kirklan Gilmore was waiting just outside the +door of Helen's room. The doctor offered his hand, and they clasped +silently for a brief moment, the grasp of the physician warm-hearted, +sympathetic.</p> + +<p>"Am I too late, Kirklan?"</p> + +<p>The novelist bowed his head. "Yes, Doctor Bushnell, you are too late. +She is dead—I am sure she is dead. She shot herself with a pistol. +She is—there." He pointed to the partly open door. "It—it won't be +necessary for me to—to come in there with you?"</p> + +<p>The doctor gave a pitying glance at the young husband, whose wife had +been taken from him after three weeks of marriage; he saw the haggard, +drawn face, the horror-filled eyes, the twitching lips.</p> + +<p>"It will not be necessary," he answered quietly. "Perhaps you had +better wait downstairs. If I need you I will call."</p> + +<p>"Th-thanks," gulped Gilmore.</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell, after a glance at Victor Sarbella, who, of course, was +a stranger, passed on into the room and closed the door behind him. +Being a doctor, he was steeled to death, but he was hardly prepared for +the sight that shocked his eyes. Despite himself, his nerves reacted +with a tingle of horror, and a gasp slipped through his lips.</p> + +<p>Quickly he bent over the still form of the beautiful woman; it was +the first time that he had seen Kirklan's wife, although gossip of +the surprisingly sudden unannounced marriage had reached the near-by +village. Little more than a cursory examination was necessary to +verify the butler's earlier findings. Helen Gilmore was dead; she had +succumbed to that bullet wound which the doctor found in the chest, +just a little below the left armpit.</p> + +<p>"She was murdered!" The butler's statement came back to Doctor Bushnell +with a rush of conviction now. It would have been almost impossible +for such a wound to have been self-inflicted. For the woman to have +shot herself would have meant the holding of the weapon at a decidedly +awkward and unnatural angle. Possible, perhaps, but highly improbable +from a medical viewpoint.</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell's face had become grim. Swiftly he unfastened the +surgical kit and found a long, slender probe, with which he might +approximate the direction that the bullet had taken. Ranging downward! +Still further argument against the wound having been self-inflicted.</p> + +<p>"Bates was right!" muttered the physician. "I wonder how he knew." He +stepped back and glanced at the gun on the floor. He had, of course, +noted that the moment he had entered the room, and he took it at the +moment as proof of suicide. The pistol had every appearance of falling +from the hand flung out over the edge of the lounge.</p> + +<p>"Who could have killed her—this beautiful bride of three weeks?" he +said under his breath. As a physician, as a surgeon, he knew the right +thing to do at the right time, but now a feeling of helplessness came +over him. Obviously something had to be done. What?</p> + +<p>As he stood there in the center of the floor, staring down at the dead +woman, debating, there came to his ears the sound of a muffled cough in +the hall. He took a quick step toward the closed door, more than half +suspecting that some one was eavesdropping.</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's you, Bates," he grunted, as he saw the butler. "You might as +well come in; there are some questions I wanted to ask you, anyhow."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," murmured Bates, entering the tragedy chamber willingly +enough. "Have you discovered anything, doctor?"</p> + +<p>"Did you examine the body, Bates?"</p> + +<p>The butler shivered.</p> + +<p>"Examine it?" he whispered. "Heaven, no! I held a mirror close to her +face; I touched her with my hand; that is all. Why did you ask me that, +sir?"</p> + +<p>"I wondered what made you so certain that it was murder, Bates, and +whether you had observed the nature of the wound which caused her +death."</p> + +<p>"It wasn't that made me know it was murder; it wasn't anything more +than just common sense. The door into the hall was open when we found +her."</p> + +<p>"The door was open? What significance was there in that?"</p> + +<p>"Would you shoot yourself, sir, with a door standing half open?"</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell stared and, after considering this question for a +moment, shook his head. "No," he answered slowly; "since you mention +it, I don't suppose I would."</p> + +<p>"And you wouldn't scream, doctor, while you were getting ready to pull +the trigger," added the deductively inclined butler.</p> + +<p>"You mean——"</p> + +<p>"I mean, sir, that she screamed horribly. Oh, it was a terrible scream, +the kind of a scream that makes a man's blood turn to ice." Bates made +no mention of his first impression that the scream might have been +that of Miss Joan; he had, in his own mind, entirely rejected that +possibility as too absurd for any consideration whatever. "As I take +it, sir, she screamed when she knew that she was about to be murdered."</p> + +<p>"Humph!" murmured Doctor Bushnell. "You've got quicker wits than I'd +given you credit for. You figured that out like—well, like, I imagine, +a trained detective might do it."</p> + +<p>Despite the situation, Bates gave a faint smile of pleasure at this +compliment.</p> + +<p>"I have always read a great many detective stories, sir," he said. +"I've not only read them, I've studied them. I might say that I am +quite a student in a way. Had I not waited so late in life to develop +my mental faculties, I hardly think that I should have remained a +butler. In fact, I am quite sure that I would not."</p> + +<p>"You're a queer fellow," mused the doctor. "What else have you +deducted, Bates? Can you manage your tongue?"</p> + +<p>"Why do you ask that, doctor? If you mean, can I keep from talking too +much, I can be very discreet."</p> + +<p>"All right, Bates; then I'll tell you that you were right. This woman +has been murdered. The nature of the wound verifies your guess."</p> + +<p>Bates looked grieved. "You don't call it guessing?" His tone was +protesting.</p> + +<p>"Well, no, not guessing," Doctor Bushnell answered slowly. "It had +more foundation than a guess. Very logical, Bates, reasoning out that +business about the door. What else can you tell about this business?"</p> + +<p>"Very little, sir, very little, indeed. Mr. Kirklan and I rushed +directly upstairs when the shot was fired and then——"</p> + +<p>"Wait a minute. You rushed upstairs? What time was this?"</p> + +<p>"A few minutes after half past twelve, very shortly before I had you on +the telephone."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell gave the man a quick glance. "You had been in bed, +hadn't you? I judge from your state of dress——"</p> + +<p>"Quite so, doctor; I had retired early. I was sound asleep when I was +awakened by the ringing of the doorbell. It was Mr. Gilmore; he had +locked himself out and was trying to get in. He had been out at the +studio—the old stable, you know, where he does his writing. The poor +man was quite badly upset; he was in a terrible way, and asked me to +make him a toddy."</p> + +<p>The physician looked uneasy. "Good Lord, Bates," he muttered, "you +don't think it possible that Kirklan——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, certainly not, sir," the butler broke in quickly. "It was quite +impossible. I was standing within four feet of him when we both heard +the scream and the shot. The glass dropped out of his hand, and he +stood there like a man of stone, his hands shaking, his face white as +a sheet of paper. He said: 'My God, Bates, what's that?' And while we +were both still listening, there came the shot; it must have followed +the scream by half a minute, perhaps not so long as that. We both +dashed up the stairs, I in front. While we were mounting the steps, +sir, we both heard a sound that seemed to be the slamming of a door."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" exclaimed the doctor. "The slamming of a door? Then you think +that some one in the house——"</p> + +<p>"That would be but guessing, doctor. The door of this room was open, +the light was burning, and I was the first to see her. It seemed +to me—I cannot be sure—that she took her last breath while I was +watching her. The bleeding had stopped. Am I right, doctor, in +supposing that the flow of blood stops when death takes place?"</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell nodded. "Yes, when the heart action ceases," he +answered. "What else, Bates?"</p> + +<p>"The gun was just as you see it now, sir. It was only natural that Mr. +Gilmore should be so firm in his belief that she had taken her own +life. He was not even convinced when I mentioned the matter of the door +and the scream. Poor man, he couldn't be expected to do any thinking at +a time like that. He was very much in love with her; he seemed fairly +to worship her. It was too bad that she wasn't the right wife for him. +Miss Joan is the one he should have married; she's only his stepsister, +you know, no blood kin. I guess it nearly broke her heart, poor girl, +when——"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean by saying she wasn't the right wife for him, Bates?" +broke in the doctor, moving toward the bed, where he began removing +a sheet with which to cover the body until an undertaker could be +summoned.</p> + +<p>"She had good looks, but she wasn't his kind," Bates replied. "She'd +managed to climb up in the world—most likely from pretty near the +bottom. A servant can usually tell, sir, from watching them at table, +and a letter came—day before yesterday, I believe it was—a most +disreputable-looking letter it was, sir, to be received at Greenacres, +all smudgy and dirty. It gave her a shock, too, although she tried to +pass it off casual."</p> + +<p>"What the servants don't know!" murmured the doctor under his breath, +and then added, aloud: "You think there may have been some connection +between the letter and the murder?"</p> + +<p>"As to that, I couldn't say, Doctor Bushnell, but she was much +agitated, it seemed to me. I would say that it must have been written +by some very low person, a most peculiar sort of a missive for Mr. +Kirklan's wife to be getting."</p> + +<p>"All these little scraps of information may prove valuable, Bates," the +doctor said meditatively. "You were pretty sharp on naming it murder. +Perhaps you have some theory as to who killed her."</p> + +<p>Bates looked crestfallen; his slender stock of theory was completely +exhausted, and then he brightened.</p> + +<p>"Finger prints!" he exclaimed. "Perhaps the murderer's finger prints +are on the gun." He made a move to pick up the weapon, but the doctor +stopped him with a gesture.</p> + +<p>"Better not," he warned. "I understand it's such a simple matter to +destroy a delicate thing like a finger print. We'd better leave that +for more practiced talents than ours; I'm afraid that all finger prints +look alike to both of us."</p> + +<p>"It wasn't robbery, sir," offered the butler. "She is still wearing +some jewelry."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I'd noticed that. There are no back stairs, Bates?"</p> + +<p>"There are none."</p> + +<p>"In that case, Bates, it hardly seems likely that the slayer could have +fled from the second floor without you or Kirklan seeing him. That +probably means that the murderer is still in the house. That would not +give us a very large list, eh?"</p> + +<p>The butler's eyes widened.</p> + +<p>"You mean, sir," he whispered tensely, "that you think Mr. Sarbella +could——"</p> + +<p>"I mentioned no names, Bates. Sarbella—is that the man I saw in the +hall when I arrived?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir, that's him; he's a friend of Mr. Kirklan's, a guest who +came out only this afternoon—yesterday afternoon it is now, speaking +precise. He's some kind of an artist, I believe. I guess he's an +Italian, sir. I don't want to go around accusing any one, Doctor +Bushnell, but——"</p> + +<p>"But what, Bates? This talk is strictly between ourselves."</p> + +<p>"There was a most peculiar attitude at dinner, sir; Mr. Sarbella and +her"—pointing toward the sheet-covered lounge—"did not so much as +speak once, while I was serving. They were all on edge—even Mr. +Kirklan. I didn't understand it; I don't understand it now. After +dinner the younger Mrs. Gilmore went very quickly to her room; she was +pale and nervous. I don't think I know anything more, doctor."</p> + +<p>"Just one more question, Bates. You and Mr. Kirklan were downstairs. +Sarbella was upstairs. Who else?"</p> + +<p>"The elder Mrs. Gilmore, Miss Joan, and her." Again he pointed to the +dead woman.</p> + +<p>"What about the other servants?"</p> + +<p>"Elizabeth, the maid, went to Yonkers yesterday, sir. She pleaded that +her mother was ill, but I doubt it. She don't know what the truth +is, that girl; she's always making excuses, and Mrs. Gilmore is that +soft-hearted she never refuses her."</p> + +<p>"Or doubts her stories," added Doctor Bushnell with a faint smile. "A +most credulous woman, Mrs. Gilmore."</p> + +<p>"Exactly, sir," agreed the butler. "Mrs. Bogart, the cook, does not +sleep at Greenacres; she comes every morning from the village and goes +home again at night. And the gardener isn't employed full time—only +three days a week."</p> + +<p>"To me it looks very much like Mr. Sarbella," murmured the doctor and +glanced around the room. For all that the physician knew there might be +clews within touching distance, but which he, untrained as he was in +such business, would never be able to recognize as clews.</p> + +<p>"I am going to lock this door, Bates," he said. "No one must enter it +without my express permission. I am going downstairs now. I suppose you +might as well go to bed."</p> + +<p>"What's the use?" muttered Bates. "Not a wink of sleep would I get +after this."</p> + +<p>The key was in the lock; Doctor Bushnell removed it and put it in the +outside of the door. Then he turned off the lights, stepped into the +hall, shot the bolt, put the key in his pocket, and went down the +stairs. He found Kirklan Gilmore and Victor Sarbella in the library, +the latter sitting in a chair, puffing nervously at a cigarette, while +the novelist paced back and forth like a caged beast. At the doctor's +step, Gilmore swung around.</p> + +<p>"You found her dead, of course?" he muttered thickly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Kirklan, I found her beyond all help." Doctor Bushnell gave a +quick glance at Sarbella, who returned it steadily for a moment with +his intense black eyes. "I would like to talk with you, Kirklan, +privately if I may. Suppose we go across the hall into the den."</p> + +<p>Sarbella inhaled deeply at his cigarette and got to his feet.</p> + +<p>"I am going to my room," he announced; "if you need me for anything, +I shall be at your service." He moved perhaps three paces toward the +stairs and then turned; his face was in the shadows, so that it was +impossible to see any expression that may have been on his features, as +he asked: "You discovered that it was self-destruction?"</p> + +<p>"So it would appear," answered the doctor, deliberately indulging in +a deceiving play on words. With suspicion pointing toward Sarbella, +it was perhaps best that the man not know too much—just yet. If the +artist were guilty, there might be something gained by keeping him in +ignorance that the suicide sham had fooled no one. Sarbella moved on up +the stairs; Doctor Bushnell would have given a pretty penny to have +had a good look at his face, wondering if he might not see there a look +of relieved suspense.</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore's hands fidgeted restlessly in his pockets. "You say +that you want to talk with me privately?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, suppose we go into the den."</p> + +<p>"That isn't necessary now, is it? Sarbella has accommodatingly gone +upstairs to his room."</p> + +<p>"The den, if you don't mind," insisted Doctor Bushnell. "I'd prefer +taking no chances of being overheard."</p> + +<p>Gilmore's head jerked up. "I can't understand the reason for all this +secrecy," he muttered; nevertheless he led the way across the hall to +the room known as the den. It had in former days been his father's +favorite room. The physician followed and gently closed the door.</p> + +<p>"Sit down, Kirklan," he murmured. "I dislike to add to your strain, +but there is something that I must tell you. Your wife did not kill +herself."</p> + +<p>The novelist winced.</p> + +<p>"You mean——"</p> + +<p>"Kirklan, it's murder."</p> + +<p>Gilmore staggered and dropped limply into one of the big leather +chairs, face buried in his hands. "But, Doctor Bushnell, it—it can't +be that. There—there was the gun beside her. That is proof——"</p> + +<p>"Only proof of an effort to make murder appear suicide," broke in +the physician. "The nature of the wound is such as to preclude any +reasonable thought of self-infliction."</p> + +<p>"Murder?" Gilmore whispered dully. "Bates was right, after all, then? +I can't understand it. Who would have killed her?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, that is what remains in front of us. I am in a very peculiar +position, Kirklan. I am your family physician, but at the same time I +am a deputy coroner; I accepted the appointment only last month. It is +my official duty to do everything in my power that the law may take its +proper course. I don't suppose you know whom the gun belongs to?"</p> + +<p>"I do not know."</p> + +<p>"It is a heavy gun, Kirklan; not at all the sort of weapon that would +belong to a woman, or that a woman would use if it were left to her own +choice. I have not examined it; I have not so much as touched it. I was +afraid that I might destroy possible finger prints; I thought it best +to wait."</p> + +<p>"Wound or no wound," muttered Gilmore, "I can't believe that it was +murder. Why would any one have killed her?"</p> + +<p>"Kirklan, I am going to put a frank question. How well do you know this +guest of yours, the man Sarbella?"</p> + +<p>"Great Lord, doctor, you don't think that he——"</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid I don't think anything yet. I'm just stabbing around in the +dark. Was Sarbella previously acquainted with your wife?"</p> + +<p>"See here, I don't want any insinuations of that sort."</p> + +<p>"I am not insinuating, only asking a question. Bates thought he noticed +a peculiar, strained situation at the dinner table. Since you and Bates +rushed directly upstairs, and since that is the only means of reaching +the second floor, it seems quite certain that she was killed by some +one who is still in the house. There is no evidence of robbery. There +were but five persons in the house—Sarbella, your stepmother, Joan +Sheridan, Bates, and yourself. Unless we want to suspect Mrs. Gilmore +or Joan——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, that's too absurd for words," broke in Gilmore, making no mention +of having heard Joan's sobbing.</p> + +<p>"And that leaves Sarbella."</p> + +<p>The novelist beat his clenched hands against his knees. "Doctor, I tell +you that you're wrong—wrong!" he cried. "Helen killed herself; there +is no other explanation—none! I must tell you something; my wife asked +me for a thousand dollars. She must have needed it desperately. Because +I did not give it to her——What are you doing with that telephone?"</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell had picked up the instrument from the desk and lifted +the receiver from the hook.</p> + +<p>"I am doing what I must do, Kirklan," he answered with quiet firmness. +"I am calling the village police."</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII</h2> +</div> + +<h3>"WIGGLY" PRICE</h3> + + +<p>The local police authority in the village of Ardmore was vested in the +person of Mr. Hamilton Griggs, who held the office of constable, and +whose most important duty was the enforcement of the municipality's +automobile laws. Since the roads were exceptionally good, and since +Constable Griggs received a fee of two dollars and fifty cents for +each arrest resulting in a collected fine, he found the office fairly +lucrative during the touring months.</p> + +<p>Constable Griggs—generally called "Ham" by way of brevity—was a +widower and occupied with his daughter a neat, green-shuttered cottage +on Hudson Street. His police equipment was a high-powered motor cycle, +and his most profitable hours of patrol duty were between nightfall +and a little past twelve, when automobilists were hurrying over the +highways, probably feeling more secure in their breach of law under +cover of darkness.</p> + +<p>It had been a good night for speeders, and "Ham" Griggs was mightily +pleased with himself; an even ten arrests he had made, the fines had +all been paid, and the neat sum of twenty-five dollars in fees reposed +in a trousers pocket of his khaki uniform. At a quarter of one his +motor cycle putt-putted stormily into the yard beside the cottage. He +shut off the engine, locked the ignition, and, going to the rear of the +house, let himself in through the unlocked kitchen door.</p> + +<p>Etta, his daughter, had set out a cold lunch for him, as was her +custom, and the constable lost no time in "falling to." With a chuckle +of satisfaction he took the little wad of crumpled bills from his +pocket and tossed them to the top of the kitchen table, where he might +enjoy the sight of them.</p> + +<p>"Pretty good," he told himself with a grin. "Let 'em speed!"</p> + +<p>There was even further reason for jubilation. During his patrol of the +roads within the village's corporate limits, he had found the deserted +blue taxi, where Don Haskins, fleeing the New York police, had left it +to continue his journey to Greenacres on foot.</p> + +<p>Taking the number, he had reported his find to the New York company +which controlled an entire fleet of like cabs. There ought to be a +ten-spot from the taxi company, the constable told himself. All in all, +it had been a most satisfactory night.</p> + +<p>Ham Griggs was a heavy-set, dull-faced man of forty-odd; he had, +prior to his elevation into public office, been a caretaker for one +of the summer homes which border the Hudson River. Having an appetite +in proportion to his stalwart build, he ate with a gusty heartiness. +When the last chicken bone had been picked clean, he leaned back in +the chair, which creaked protestingly on its two rear, straining legs, +loosened his belt, and took from inside his uniform cap, always the +policeman's cigar cache, a rich-looking Havana which had been the +ineffectual peace offering of a gentleman who had been doing forty +miles per, when Mr. Griggs halted him.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" murmured the constable, puffing deeply. "Betcha this is a +twenty-center—mebbe twenty-five." He removed it from his mouth and +examined the embossed band with utmost respect. "A smoke like this sure +tops off a good feed."</p> + +<p>His coat unbuttoned, his thumbs hooked beneath the straps of his +wide-webbed suspenders, he continued smoking until the electric light +seemed to be swimming in a sea of smoke. And then the telephone rang, +a loud, insistent jangling from the front of the cottage. Ham Griggs' +chair thudded down on all fours with such force that there was the +sound of cracking wood.</p> + +<p>"Now I wonder what that is?" he grunted. Ardmore being a quiet, +law-abiding community, a night call for the constable was highly +unusual. He lumbered hastily to his feet and plunged toward the sitting +room, where the telephone was located. The bell was still ringing when +he took down the receiver.</p> + +<p>"Hello!" he shouted into the transmitter. "Hello there! Dang it, +central, quit ringin' in my ear; you'll bust an eardrum!" Possibly in +retaliation of this impolite tone, the switchboard operator buzzed +again.</p> + +<p>"Constable?"</p> + +<p>"Yeah, this is Ham Griggs."</p> + +<p>"Doctor Bushnell speaking, constable. There's been a tragedy at +Greenacres—the Gilmore place, you know. Can you come at once?"</p> + +<p>"Whatcha mean—tragedy, doc?"</p> + +<p>"There'll be time enough for that when you get here," came the voice of +the village physician.</p> + +<p>"I gotta right to know," grunted Ham Griggs. "Let's have it." His +voice was officially important now. "Y'mean robbery?"</p> + +<p>"Worse than that, constable. Oh, I might as well tell you—Kirklan +Gilmore's wife has been killed. It is—murder."</p> + +<p>"Good Lord, murder!" cried Griggs, his voice rising thunderously loud. +"Who killed her, doc? Who done it?"</p> + +<p>"That's our job, constable, to find out. You'll come right away?"</p> + +<p>"Sure I will. Whatcha think I'm constable for? How—how was she killed?"</p> + +<p>"Shot, Griggs; let's not waste any more time talking now." And at the +other end of the line the receiver clicked, breaking the connection.</p> + +<p>It was not surprising that the persistent ringing of the phone and +Ham Griggs' loud-pitched voice should have aroused the constable's +daughter, Etta. She appeared in the sitting-room doorway, her hair done +up in curlers, her rather plain face a glistening smudge of cold cream.</p> + +<p>"What's happened, fawther?" she demanded, her none-too-plump arms +hugged tight across her flat chest.</p> + +<p>"Ain't I told you to cut out that 'fawther' stuff?" growled Ham Griggs.</p> + +<p>"Yes, fawther, but did you say somebody had been murdered?"</p> + +<p>"That's the size of it," nodded the constable, beginning to button his +coat. "Out to Greenacres—Gilmore's new wife, so Doc Bushnell says."</p> + +<p>"My Gawd!" gasped Etta Griggs, momentarily forgetting her little book, +"Social English." Etta was ambitious for herself; she was engaged in +writing a play, and wished to equip herself to move as one of the +elect in literary circles, when the moment of her great success should +arrive. "The—the author's wife? Why, they ain't—they haven't been +married a month yet! Did he kill her, fawther?"</p> + +<p>Ham Griggs was impatient of questions, eager to be off, but his +daughter barred the sitting room's one door, and he knew that the only +way to pass without absolute violence was to answer her.</p> + +<p>"I don't know nothin' 'bout it," he grunted, "except what the doc told +me, which was precious little. Seems like she's been shot. I dunno who +done it. Now get outta the way, Etta, an' let me get goin'."</p> + +<p>"Chances are he did," mused Etta; "we literati are so temperamental, so +given to quick, strong passions."</p> + +<p>"You just natcherally make me sick!" snorted her father, as he plunged +past her. A moment later she heard his motor cycle bark into life and, +with staccato explosions from the exhaust, race out of the yard and +down the quiet village street.</p> + +<p>Etta's rôle in the Greenacres tragedy was more important than one might +imagine it could be, and for no greater reason than that she aspired to +be a playwright. Her play had reached its fourth and final act; with a +few minor corrections here and there, it was ready for its journey to +New York. She had not the slightest doubt of its immediate acceptance +and production.</p> + +<p>She realized in a vague sort of way the power of the newspapers; +and, little knowing into how many independent departments a great +daily is divided, she was suddenly seized with an idea—a great idea. +The murder of Mrs. Gilmore, she reasoned, was news, stupendous news; +Kirklan Gilmore was a famous novelist. The newspaper which she read +regularly would, as she saw it, naturally feel grateful to her for +giving them firsthand information regarding the tragedy. It would serve +as a pleasant introduction to the editor of that great metropolitan +publication, would tincture the review of her "play" with a personal +kindliness.</p> + +<p>What queer notions people do get into their heads! But the merit of her +idea is neither here nor there; the important thing is that Etta Griggs +did call the office of <i>The Morning Star</i>, and she was thus responsible +for the appearance on the scene of a certain news hound named Jimmy +Price, sometimes more intimately known as "Wiggly."</p> + +<p>The news-gathering staff of <i>The Star</i> is a high-pressure, hectic +organization; one would wonder how they could get out an intelligent +paper in the midst of such a mad scramble. It was nearing press time +for the final edition; Scoggins, the city editor, was bellowing at +the top of his nasal voice; the copy desk was railroading a last +batch of late news matter; the assistant make-up man, who is one of +the important gentlemen who keep the type in the right columns, was +screaming frantically about something of which no one except himself +seemed to know anything, and, from the way the office boys were +sliding back and forth across the floor, one might have thought the +city room was the skating rink of an insane asylum.</p> + +<p>And then, with a breathless suddenness—silence! In newspaper parlance, +"the paper had been put to bed." From the street below there sounded +the blump-blump of a flat-wheeled surface car journeying along Park +Row. Scoggins, the city editor, gave a look at his news schedule, +sighed, and jerked off the shade which protected his eyes.</p> + +<p>"There's not a live piece of local news in the whole darn paper!" he +muttered. "Here, Milne, take the desk; I'm going home, and——" He took +a last survey around the long, paper-cluttered city room, and saw Jimmy +Price, who was cognizant that he had incurred the displeasure of the +gods, trying to do a quick sneak out.</p> + +<p>"Hey, you, Price!" he bawled.</p> + +<p>Jimmy Price turned, and it became apparent why he had been saddled with +the nickname of Wiggly. In moments of inner excitement or of strong +emotion, Jimmy's protuberant ears became animate objects. They were +unruly ears, always wiggling when he least wanted them to; it seemed +that Jimmy had absolutely no control over his ears. They were wiggling +now, for their owner sensed what was coming. He turned slowly and +retraced his steps toward the city editor's desk, which was set up on +a platform. The boys called it "the throne," and certainly no monarch +ever held more despotic sway than Caleb Scoggins, the city editor of +<i>The Star</i>.</p> + +<p>Scoggins was a good city editor, but he was a man of strong +prejudices, and he was prejudiced against Wiggly's animated ears. +It annoyed him to look down the room and have a perfectly good idea +take sudden flight, as he was forced to stare in fascinated, almost +hypnotized, interest at a pair of ears doing a sort of uncanny dance +on the side of a man's head, while the owner of those remarkable +appendages bent industriously over his typewriter entirely unaware of +his innocent havoc. Bob Roddy, the star rewrite man, that high-salaried +word slinger, whose supple brain and nimble fingers could paint a +column word picture with no more material than a five-line news +bulletin, was, likely as not, to be discovered staring, vacant-eyed, at +"Wiggly" Price, while the desk was waiting for the rest of his story.</p> + +<p>And Jimmy Price was a good reporter, a rattling good one, so good, in +fact, that Scoggins had been at a loss for an excuse to fire him. But +now he had the excuse.</p> + +<p>"Price," he rasped, "you fell down on the Hammerslaw kidnaping case." +His voice had the tone of doom, but Wiggly, except for the renewed +twitching of his ears, moved neither of body nor tongue. He was too +wise to point out that he had registered this one failure to fifty +successes, or to remind Scoggins that no reporter can bat a thousand in +the news-gathering league.</p> + +<p>"Where you belong," went on the city editor with withering sarcasm, +"is in a side-show tent, along with the rest of the freaks, not in a +newspaper office. As a reporter——" He broke off, as the telephone +rang; mechanically he spun half around in his chair and pulled the +instrument toward him.</p> + +<p>"Yeah?" he grunted.</p> + +<p>Etta Griggs had chosen this opportune moment to call.</p> + +<p>"Is this the editor of <i>The Star</i>?" came her sweetest, most cultured +tones over the wire. Scoggins admitted it with a grunt.</p> + +<p>"This is Miss Griggs, the playwright, and I am calling to give you a—a +scoop, I believe you call it."</p> + +<p>Had it been a busy hour, Scoggins would have switched the call over to +his assistant; experience had hardened him to persons calling him up to +give him a scoop. Usually they didn't pan out, these scoops.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Miss Griggs?" he inquired with a deference that he never +used toward his staff.</p> + +<p>"It—it's very important news," went on Etta Griggs tremulously, almost +overwhelmed by the realization that she was in conversation with the +great editor of her morning paper. "There has been a murder—a very +prominent family, and I thought you might be interested——"</p> + +<p>"I should say I am!" exclaimed Scoggins, picking up a pencil and +poising it over a sheet of paper. "What did you say the name was?"</p> + +<p>"Miss Griggs. I am——"</p> + +<p>"Not your name—the murdered person's name."</p> + +<p>"Oh, of course! Why, Mrs. Gilmore—the wife of Kirklan Gilmore, the +famous novelist, you know."</p> + +<p>Now, as a matter of fact, Scoggins didn't know; he didn't read the book +reviews, and Gilmore, while he had written a selling book, wasn't +quite so famous as Etta imagined.</p> + +<p>"You say she has been murdered, Miss Griggs?" he purred. "Where did +this happen?" And, waiting for the reply, he put his hand over the +transmitter as he said out of the corner of his mouth to Milne, his +assistant: "Who the devil is Kirklan Gilmore, the novelist? Get the +clippings on him outta the reference room. Picture of his wife, if +there are any. Hurry! We gotta stop the presses and make a lift, if +this pans out."</p> + +<p>"Ardmore—Ardmore-on-the-Hudson," went on Etta. "The Gilmore estate is +Greenacres. She was shot—killed. Poor thing, they'd only been married +three weeks, too." Scoggins' eyebrows went up. In a flash he visualized +the headline, "Bride of Three Weeks Slain."</p> + +<p>There followed a few rapid-fire questions in which the city editor +had all available information. The constable had been summoned—Etta +neglected to state that this constable person was her father—and the +village physician, a Doctor Bushnell, was at the house.</p> + +<p>"Fine!" exclaimed Scoggins with that inhuman delight with which some +city editors receive the news of a crime. "If you will give your name, +I will have the business office send you a check, and then——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no!" cried Etta. "But I expect that my play will be coming out +soon, and——"</p> + +<p>"Certainly—certainly," Scoggins murmured mechanically and snapped the +receiver to its hook. "She's a nut," he grunted. "Gotta verify this +story before we can use it, but I guess it's safe enough at that. +You, Kinsella, call up the Gilmore place, Ardmore, and ask for Doctor +Bushnell. You, Roddy, bat out a coupla sticks for a lift on page one, +and——" His eyes roved over the now empty city and then back to Wiggly +Price, who had withdrawn a few feet from the desk. In the pressure of +the moment he forgot that he had been about to fire the reporter with +the animated ears; he only remembered that he needed a good reporter +for a good story, and that Jimmy Price was a good reporter. He slid +open a drawer of the desk and tossed over a roll of bills.</p> + +<p>"Here's a hundred dollars for expense money, Price," he snapped +crisply. "Gilmore place, Ardmore. Author's wife—bride three +weeks—murdered. May have to take taxi. Get pictures—lots of pictures. +Gotta hunch this is a good yarn." Wiggly's ears wiggled violently, +probably registering his delight that the catastrophe of being fired +had been so narrowly and unexpectedly averted, but Caleb Scoggins had +turned his vigorous attention to other details of the new story—the +only real piece of local news during the night—and he did not notice.</p> + +<p>Price grabbed up the expense money and left the city room with discreet +swiftness. Less than five minutes later he was in a taxicab, speeding +out Broadway toward Greenacres.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII</h2> +</div> + +<h3>WHAT DID JOAN KNOW?</h3> + + +<p>Awaiting the arrival of the constable, Doctor Bushnell was still in the +den of the Greenacres house, while across from him Kirklan Gilmore sat, +like a man dazed, in one of the great leather chairs, staring vacantly +into space. He had not spoken for almost five minutes.</p> + +<p>"So you had to call in the police," he muttered bitterly, breaking the +silence. "They've got to come, snooping through the house, prying into +things, asking questions, badgering, bullying——"</p> + +<p>"You're taking the wrong attitude, Kirklan," the doctor broke in +gently. "I know how you feel, of course; you abhor the legal procedure, +but a crime has been committed, and the law must function. You would +not want your wife's murderer to escape, would you, no matter what the +price?"</p> + +<p>"I can't believe yet, doctor, that it was what you claim—murder," +protested the novelist with a shudder. "Your opinion is based on—just +exactly what?"</p> + +<p>"The nature of the wound, Kirklan. Look, here is my pipe." He produced +from his pocket a straight-stemmed brier, holding it by the bowl. "Let +us suppose that this is the pistol. Your wife is right-handed? Yes, I +supposed as much; imagine any person holding a gun in the right hand +and reaching halfway around their body and shooting themselves under +the left armpit. You can see how absurd that is; even supposing she +might have been left-handed, it is almost as ridiculous."</p> + +<p>Gilmore debated this a moment.</p> + +<p>"I suppose you consider that incontrovertible—medically," he argued, +"but I've got a theory to suggest. I've had to study things a bit along +such lines—the material for my books, you know. My last was a mystery +story."</p> + +<p>"Helen was lying on the lounge. The gun was heavy, hard for a woman to +handle, as you have said. Suppose she used <i>both</i> hands in firing the +pistol; one to support it in range, and the other to press the trigger?"</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell toyed with his pipe for a moment; absently he filled it +from a chamois pouch and struck a match.</p> + +<p>"It's possible," he admitted, and then he shook his head, adding, "but +improbable. I did work at Bellevue in New York, while I was at medical +school. Naturally we had some suicide cases. It's a queer thing, but +most of the men shot themselves through the head, while the women aimed +for their heart—perhaps a natural horror of disfiguring their faces. +But, looking back, none of them tried to reach the heart from so far +around at the side. Always in front. Adding weight to the medical +aspect of it, there are those very significant points that Bates +raised. Quite an intelligent fellow, that butler of yours. He's been in +the family a long time, hasn't he?"</p> + +<p>"More than twenty years, I think; he was much attached to my father."</p> + +<p>"It is significant, Kirklan, that you and Bates found the door standing +open. And the scream—ah, there's the big point! Why did she scream? +Not because she had reached a decision to end her life. As I consider +the matter, this man Sarbella——"</p> + +<p>"No!"</p> + +<p>"Is your friendship for him so blind as that, Kirklan? Stop and think +things over, man; on the second floor, when the shot was fired, were +only your stepmother, your stepsister, and Sarbella. It must have been +one of the three; there is no other explanation!"</p> + +<p>As his voice came to a dramatic pause, there was a rap at the door.</p> + +<p>"Doctor Bushnell," came the voice of the butler from the other side of +the panel, "will you answer the telephone? There is a call for you."</p> + +<p>The doctor looked puzzled. "There was no ring," he said.</p> + +<p>"That is an extension," explained Gilmore. "There is no bell in this +room."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I see," murmured the physician, and, leaning across the table, he +pulled the telephone toward him.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Doctor Bushnell speaking," he said. "Who—what? Where did you get +that information?" A pause. "Yes, that is true, but there will be no +further information—positively none. You are quite wasting your time +in pressing these questions." He cut the conversation short by clicking +down the receiver.</p> + +<p>Gilmore lifted his haggard face in a glance of curiosity. "Who was it?" +he wanted to know.</p> + +<p>"<i>The Star.</i> It is really quite amazing how quickly the newspapers get +hold of a thing like this. Probably the telephone girl at the village +gave them the tip."</p> + +<p>"The newspapers!" groaned Gilmore. "The scandal they will make of it. +Did—did you tell them that it was murder?"</p> + +<p>The doctor nodded.</p> + +<p>"They were already in possession of that report, and I verified it. +There's no use kicking against the pricks, Kirklan; the best that could +have been done was to keep it out of the papers for a few brief hours. +There will have to be an inquest, you know; that is a public hearing. +It's an ugly situation, but there's no escaping it."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I suppose you're right," muttered the novelist, "but I want it +expressly understood that no reporters are to be admitted to my house."</p> + +<p>"They won't bother you until daylight, I suppose," said Doctor +Bushnell, little thinking that already a madly speeding taxi was +bearing Wiggly Price toward Greenacres. "They'll descend upon you in +droves with morning, and they're a persistent lot, those chaps."</p> + +<p>The two men in the den again lapsed into silence; Gilmore's muscles +twitched spasmodically. It looked as if he were about to crack under +the strain.</p> + +<p>"I think I will give you an opiate of some sort and then get you in +bed," the physician said gently. "You've about gone your limit, I'm +afraid."</p> + +<p>"That reminds me of something," Gilmore told him. "My stepmother +fainted; I promised to send you to her when you came. And as for +my going to bed—my room is next to Helen's. You couldn't expect +me to spend the rest of the night there. But I will let you give me +something, doctor; I feel as if my body were about to separate into +atoms. Yes, give me something that will let me forget—for just a few +hours."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell reached for a compact pocket medicine case and selected +a vial containing some small white pellets.</p> + +<p>"The constable ought to be here any moment now," he said. "Not that +I expect Ham Griggs is going to be of very much help to us; catching +speeders is about the limit of his abilities. But he had to be +notified, and in the morning we'll notify the district attorney's +office. We may get an intelligent investigation from that source. Ah, +that must be Griggs now."</p> + +<p>There had reached his ears the sound of the constable's approaching +motor cycle.</p> + +<p>"I'll have Bates let him in and keep him waiting downstairs until I +have a look at Mrs. Gilmore. One of these pellets, Kirklan, and you'll +be falling asleep in no time."</p> + +<p>The doctor left the den and went upstairs, after pausing in the hall +to instruct Bates that Ham Griggs should wait; passing the tragedy +chamber, he tested the door and found it, as he had left it, locked. +Then he made his way around the hall toward the room which, from +previous professional calls, he knew to be the elder Mrs. Gilmore's. +Kirklan had neglected to tell him that she had been taken to Joan's +part of the house.</p> + +<p>Ahead a gleam of light sliced out into the hall from a half-open door, +the room occupied by Sarbella. The doctor's footsteps were audible, +and the guest of Greenacres appeared at the opening.</p> + +<p>"You were looking for me?" he inquired.</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell paused, wondering if Sarbella had left the door open in +an effort to keep in touch with what was going on; a guilty man, it was +reasonable to presume, would be nervously anxious to know the progress +of the investigation, to be forewarned of any suspicion turning in his +direction.</p> + +<p>"No, Mr. Sarbella, I am on my way to Mrs. Gilmore's room. Kirklan has +just told me that she fainted some time since."</p> + +<p>"Oh, but you're in the wrong part of the house, doctor; Gilmore and I +took his stepmother to Miss Sheridan's room." He paused for a moment, +and then added: "It has been a terrible night for all of us."</p> + +<p>"It is a very puzzling business," murmured Doctor Bushnell.</p> + +<p>"Very," nodded Sarbella.</p> + +<p>"How long have you known the—ah—the dead woman?"</p> + +<p>The artist hesitated briefly, and when he did reply gave the shrewd +doctor the impression of carefully chosen words.</p> + +<p>"I met her last evening for the first time," he said. "I had never met +her before."</p> + +<p>"During the dinner," pursued the physician, watching the man's face +closely, "did you notice anything strange?"</p> + +<p>Sarbella shot him a quick glance. "She may have been depressed," +he answered evasively. "Other than that I can tell you +nothing—absolutely nothing. Please do not let me keep you from +attending Mrs. Gilmore."</p> + +<p>The doctor had the baffled feeling that something was being hidden, +that Sarbella knew a great deal more than he was willing to tell. +Yet he felt that this was the wrong time to ply questions, that +he would only muddle things until he was better fortified for a +cross-examination. So he turned and retraced his steps around the hall +to Joan's room.</p> + +<p>Even before he rapped, he heard the sound of moans, punctuated by a +hysterical rambling of speech. His knuckles descended upon the panel, +and Joan promptly admitted him. Mrs. Gilmore tossed upon the bed like a +woman in physical pain.</p> + +<p>"I am glad you have come, Doctor Bushnell," murmured Joan. "Mother is +almost beside herself with the horror of it."</p> + +<p>"Kirklan was so upset that he didn't tell me until just a moment ago. +Your mother fainted, I believe."</p> + +<p>"Yes, she was awakened by the shot and went to investigate. She +saw—her."</p> + +<p>"I knew something was going to happen!" moaned Mrs. Gilmore. "It was in +the air. I felt it—impending disaster. Every one acted so strange." +There she broke off into wild weeping. The doctor reached for Mrs. +Gilmore's wrist and took her pulse. He decided that it was safe enough +to administer a soothing hypodermic. When this had been done, and the +morphia had taken effect, Bushnell turned to Joan.</p> + +<p>"What does she mean by saying that she felt something was going to +happen?" he asked. "Did you notice anything peculiar in the behavior of +Kirklan's wife last night?"</p> + +<p>Joan hesitated, twisting her fingers and biting her lip. "I—I don't +think she was quite herself," she answered, her voice very low. "She +seemed greatly worried."</p> + +<p>"And the guest, Mr. Sarbella?"</p> + +<p>A gasp escaped the girl's lips, as she gave the physician a startled, +wide-eyed stare. "Why—why do you ask about him?" she whispered.</p> + +<p>"Joan, you are holding back something, and you have no right to do +that. This atmosphere of secrecy, concealment—what does it mean? +You are a sensible girl, and I feel that I can tell you something +confidentially. Kirklan's wife did not end her own life."</p> + +<p>Standing near the foot of the bed, one of the girl's hands clutched at +the rail.</p> + +<p>"Kirklan said that—that she had—killed herself. So you think that she +was shot by some one else? What makes you think that?"</p> + +<p>"Without going into the unpleasant details, it would have been +practically impossible for her to have shot herself in such a manner. +And there was her scream. You didn't hear it?"</p> + +<p>Joan's face was white.</p> + +<p>"N-no," she stammered. "I—I did not hear Helen scream."</p> + +<p>"Scream she did—a terrible scream of terror, according to Bates. +Added to that, the door of her room was found open, and—it was Bates +who suggested it—people do not scream when they are about to kill +themselves."</p> + +<p>The girl's lips moved soundlessly as if she were trying to speak but +could not find the words.</p> + +<p>Her eyes refused to meet his, and the physician had a baffled, +apprehensive feeling that she knew something she was very unwilling to +tell. Her attitude was one of terrified concealment. Was she trying to +protect some one? Or was she trying to protect herself? What did Joan +know?</p> + +<p>"But," she said, after this tense pause, "you—you don't think that Mr. +Sarbella——"</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "I don't +know what to think," he replied. "From what I have gathered there is +something under the surface and——"</p> + +<p>Before he could complete the sentence Ham Griggs' voice bawled from +down the hall:</p> + +<p>"Hey, doc! Where are you?"</p> + +<p>The constable was not disposed to bide his time downstairs; officially +important, he had brushed the butler aside and mounted the stairs +in search of the physician. Joan drew a breath of relief and Doctor +Bushnell frowned.</p> + +<p>"That's Constable Griggs," he said; "he's looking for me. Isn't there +something you can tell me, Joan, that will throw some light on the +tragedy?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing," she answered faintly, "absolutely nothing. Only—I feel very +positive that Mr. Sarbella did not do it."</p> + +<p>"Doc! Where the thunder are you, anyhow?" Again Ham Griggs' raucous +bellow, edged with impatience, boomed through the upper hall. The +physician turned toward the door, having no choice but to respond. +Joan's attitude troubled him. Why did she express such a positive +conviction of Sarbella's innocence, the most obvious suspect?</p> + +<p>He found Griggs around the turn in the hall, stern and grim.</p> + +<p>"This is a fine howdy-do," Griggs rumbled, "keepin' an officer of the +law coolin' his heels, when there's murder been done, an' there's +a murderer to be put under arrest." His hand moved in his pocket, +jingling a pair of handcuffs. "Who done it, doc?"</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell sighed wearily, realizing that the constable was going +to be a difficult person to deal with. There is nothing more trying +than official bigotry.</p> + +<p>"That's the job in front of us—to ferret that out," he answered.</p> + +<p>"Reckon Gilmore——"</p> + +<p>"No, Gilmore was downstairs talking to the butler when the shot was +fired," broke in the doctor. Briefly he related the facts, as he had +found them, but he confined himself strictly to facts, and indulged +in no theories or suspicions; he was afraid to trust Ham Griggs with +theories.</p> + +<p>The constable listened, rocking his heavy body on his heels and +frowning sternly.</p> + +<p>"Hum!" he grunted when the other paused. "Where's the body?"</p> + +<p>"I'll take you there," the latter answered. "I locked the room—didn't +want anything disturbed, of course." He took the key from his pocket +and led the way to the tragedy chamber.</p> + +<p>For all of his outward bluster, Ham Griggs was inwardly nervous and +uncertain, for this was his first murder case.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV</h2> +</div> + +<h3>THE GIRL IN THE SARBELLA CASE</h3> + + +<p>As Doctor Bushnell unlocked the door and snapped on the lights, +the constable was close upon his heels, staring at the lounge with +its sheet-shrouded burden. From beneath the edge of the white linen +covering, where it almost touched the floor, was the automatic pistol.</p> + +<p>"Do you know anything about finger prints?" asked the physician. "I +thought there might be finger prints on the grip of the gun; but I +doubt it. The weapon was left behind to give the appearance of suicide; +the murderer, being deliberate as that, would hardly have been fool +enough to leave his signature behind him."</p> + +<p>Ham Griggs neither admitted nor denied knowledge of the finger-print +science; as a matter of fact, he knew precious little about it, but +that did not deter him from stepping promptly forward, with great show +of confidence, and picking the pistol up by the barrel. He did have +gumption enough for that.</p> + +<p>Stepping close to the electric light burning from one of the wall +brackets, he turned the gun slowly, examining the butt plates at +various angles.</p> + +<p>"Gotta have a smooth surface, doc, to get finger prints," he grunted, +tapping the corrugated rubber with his finger. "There ain't any—no, +sir, there just natcherally ain't any."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell nodded. "You're right about that," he agreed.</p> + +<p>"Guess I better keep this for evidence," said Griggs, handling it +gingerly; ignorant of an automatic's mechanism, he did not know just +how easily it might be discharged.</p> + +<p>"Careful there!" warned the doctor. "It's ready for firing; the +explosion, you know, ejects the shell and throws back the plunger for +another shot. There's a safety catch on the side; I'll attend to it for +you."</p> + +<p>Griggs willingly surrendered the gun and glanced around the room.</p> + +<p>"Don't look like there'd been no scuffle," he muttered. "None of the +chairs is turned over, or nothin' like that. Don't seem like there is +any clews."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell handed back the gun. "I understand that there are +always clews, Griggs. No doubt there are plenty of them right here, but +our eyes aren't trained for seeing them. We're just overlooking them, +that's all, and I am afraid that we shall continue to overlook them. +This is a job for a detective—a real detective."</p> + +<p>Ham Griggs looked resentful.</p> + +<p>"Just you hold your horses a little while, doc," he growled. "Gimme a +chance, can't you? You don't expect me to clear this thing up in the +battin' of an eye, do you? Mebbe if I'd been on the ground long as you +have, an' talked to all the folks in the house, like you've done, I'd +have got somewheres by this time."</p> + +<p>"Yes—maybe," murmured Doctor Bushnell.</p> + +<p>"Well, anyhow," retorted the constable, "I allow to ask a heap of +questions. I ain't gonna stand here suckin' my thumb. Where's Gilmore?"</p> + +<p>"I gave him an opiate, Griggs; the poor chap's a nervous +wreck—naturally. Give him a chance to pull himself together. It would +be rank cruelty to subject him to an inquisition until he's had an +opportunity to come out from under the first shock. Remember, he had +been married but a few weeks; a terrible blow, Griggs."</p> + +<p>"Who else did you say was in the house?"</p> + +<p>"Bates, the butler, the elder Mrs. Gilmore, Miss Joan Sheridan, Mrs. +Gilmore's daughter by her first marriage, and a Mr. Sarbella, a +guest from New York. Mrs. Gilmore is in a state bordering on nervous +prostration, and, as her physician, I should certainly refuse to admit +her to be questioned just now."</p> + +<p>"Seems like to me," grunted the constable, suspicion in his voice, +"they don't mebbe want to be questioned. The other three—they got +prostrations, too?"</p> + +<p>"No; there is nothing to prevent your cross-examining the others."</p> + +<p>"The butler feller, you said he was downstairs with Gilmore when the +gun was shot off?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, that's right."</p> + +<p>"An' that the two womenfolks an' this—whatcha say his name is?"</p> + +<p>"Sarbella, Victor Sarbella."</p> + +<p>"Sounds dago. So you say that Sarbella an' the two women was upstairs?" +In his slow-witted, blundering way, Ham Griggs was arriving at the +obvious. "That bein' the case, doc, I guess—hum—I reckon we better +have a look at this Sarbella. I hope you ain't give him no chance to +escape?"</p> + +<p>"I'll call him," responded Doctor Bushnell, "but do you want to +question him here?"</p> + +<p>"Best place I can think of, doc; if he done it he'll kinda give himself +away by bein' in the presence of the victim."</p> + +<p>"Up to date," imparted the physician, "Sarbella thinks we believe she +took her own life."</p> + +<p>"That's good; we'll spring a surprise on 'im. Go get 'im, doc."</p> + +<p>When Bushnell had responded to this command, Ham Griggs stepped to the +lounge and drew back the edge of the sheet, staring at the beautiful +face below him. He was surprised at the woman's beauty.</p> + +<p>"Sure was a swell looker," he said to himself and drew the sheet back +in place. With his stubby, thick fingers clasped behind his back, he +took a turn across the room, so intent with his sluggish thoughts +that he did not notice the trodding of his heavy shoes upon a bit of +dark porcelain that lay upon the rug near the table which stood by +the north wall—a bit of porcelain no larger than a silver dollar. It +splintered beneath his weight, with a faintly crunching sound. In his +preoccupation he did not hear it.</p> + +<p>A moment later Doctor Bushnell had returned with Victor Sarbella. Ham +Griggs turned and stared intently at the guest of Greenacres, who had +himself well under control.</p> + +<p>"The doctor tells me that you wish to see me," murmured Sarbella. "I am +at your service."</p> + +<p>"You betcha I want to see you," grunted the constable, motioning to a +chair that faced the sheet-covered lounge. "What do you know about this +case?"</p> + +<p>Sarbella let himself into the indicated chair, facing the shrouded body +without flinching. "Nothing," he answered steadily.</p> + +<p>Griggs whipped the automatic from his pocket and thrust it before the +man's eyes with what might have been considered an accusing gesture.</p> + +<p>"Ever see this before?" he demanded, and, when Sarbella nodded, he went +on with a triumphant exclamation: "Oh, you admit it, do you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered the artist, "I saw it on the floor, where it must have +fallen from her hand, after she shot herself."</p> + +<p>"She didn't do no such thing," the constable retorted belligerently. +"It was murder."</p> + +<p>Sarbella's head jerked up, and his hands suddenly froze rigidly +about the arms of the chair. Into his intense black eyes there came +a startled, narrow-lidded gleam that Doctor Bushnell, watching him +closely, decided could have been guilt. But he recovered himself +quickly.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe it," he said flatly. "I begin to understand. You are +hinting that I——"</p> + +<p>"Matter of fact, now, ain't this your gun?" broke in Ham Griggs. "No +use lyin'; we can trace it easy enough."</p> + +<p>Sarbella did not become angry; he did not bluster.</p> + +<p>"I do not know what has given you this ridiculous idea," he said +quietly, "but I shall make a statement that, in so far as I am +concerned, covers everything. The gun is not mine; I have never seen +the gun until, aroused by the pistol shot, I saw Gilmore's wife dead. +Never in my life had I ever seen the woman until I was introduced to +her before dinner last evening. It did not for a moment enter my mind +that it was other than suicide. If, as you claim, it is murder, I did +not do it, and I do not know who did, or why. That is all I have to +say." His tone had a firm finality that was discouraging to further +questioning; over the room there fell a silence, a silence so tense and +absorbed that none of the three men heard the automobile that sped into +the Greenacres driveway and came to a halt beneath the portico.</p> + +<p>Constable Griggs reached behind him and drew the sheet from the dead +woman's face. Even the bosom of her crimson-stained silk robe was +exposed to view. But no cry of guilty horror came from Sarbella; in +fact, he seemed a little contemptuous of this dramatic play. His face +was stonily hard.</p> + +<p>Below, the taxicab bearing Wiggly, otherwise Jimmy Price, had arrived +at Greenacres, and Wiggly, bidding the driver wait, leaped across the +porch to the entrance. His finger pressed the bell button with one +brief, curt ring. He waited grimly.</p> + +<p>Now, Wiggly Price was wise in the ways of his craft; he knew that +in a case like this, among such people, a reporter is emphatically +unwelcome. From countless previous experiences he had learned that the +big thing is to keep the door from being slammed in one's face. There +was an old trick that he had used with success before; possibly it was +chicanery, but the good reporter must get the story to hold his job. +There are times when the exigency of the situation demands a blind +eye toward strict ethics, and he knew that, unless he made good on the +Gilmore murder yarn, Scoggins would complete the fatefully interrupted +business of firing him.</p> + +<p>There had been a day when New York newspaper men were given neat +nickeled and numbered badges, issued by the police department to +identify them in getting past the police lines at fires, parades, and +the like. They looked official, these badges, and, although they had +long since been withdrawn by the department, Wiggly Price had retained +his; that word "Police" stamped upon the metal in much larger lettering +than "Press" had more than once been the open sesame for him.</p> + +<p>So when Bates, the Gilmore butler, opened the door in answer to the +ring, Wiggly Price flipped back the lapel of his coat so that the +servant might be misled by the brief flash and glisten of the metal.</p> + +<p>"I'm here on the case," Wiggly announced briskly, knowing full well +that if he revealed his true identity he would get about so far as "I +am a reporter." Then the door would have closed in his face.</p> + +<p>Bates readily admitted him. "Doctor Bushnell is expecting you?"</p> + +<p>Wiggly, having no notion of committing himself, evaded the question.</p> + +<p>"Hum!" he said. "Bad business, I understand. How long since it +happened? I'll hear what you know about it before I see Doctor +Bushnell."</p> + +<p>Thus Bates, who would have let his tongue be cut out before he would +have divulged so much as a grain of information to a reporter, +was misled into telling all he knew. Thinking he was talking to +a detective summoned by the doctor, he pridefully told of his own +deductions of murder; he omitted nothing, and Jimmy Price's animated +ears wiggled delightedly, as he realized how lucky he was.</p> + +<p>"Fine!" he murmured. "You're a pretty good detective yourself. Now just +between us—strictly confidential, y' understand—who do you think +killed her?"</p> + +<p>Bates looked around cautiously, and then lowered his voice to a mere +thread of a whisper.</p> + +<p>"Things began to be queer, sir, after Mr. Sarbella arrived. Mind you, +I don't say that he did it, but——" His voice tailed off meaningly. +Jimmy Price's ears moved rapidly—swift thinking.</p> + +<p>"Sarbella?" he said under his breath. "Sarbella? I've heard that name +somewhere before." And then aloud: "Where is the doctor now?"</p> + +<p>"Upstairs with the constable; I think they are in the room where it +happened. Who shall I tell him is here, sir?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't bother about that," Wiggly Price said carelessly. "I'll go +right on up. No, don't bother. Which room?"</p> + +<p>"At the head of the stairs."</p> + +<p>"Gee, but I'm one lucky bird!" chuckled Wiggly, as he hurried up the +steps. "Now what's going to happen? Get pitched out on my ear, most +likely."</p> + +<p>Reaching the top of the stairway, there was no need for him to seek +further directions. The door of the tragedy chamber was not fully +closed, and there came to his ears the voice of Constable Griggs, +badgeringly insistent, as he sought in vain to batter down Victor +Sarbella's brief statement.</p> + +<p>The guest of Greenacres remained calm. "I have told you all that I can +about the case—the murder, as you insist," he was saying. "I have +nothing more to say."</p> + +<p>Wiggly edged closer to the crack of the door, peering within, and saw +the face of the dead woman across which Griggs had not replaced the +sheet. As he stared, his ears began to wiggle violently. Without any +more hesitation he walked into the room. Ham Griggs looked up with a +hostile and questioning frown.</p> + +<p>"Who're you?" he barked. "Where'd you come from?"</p> + +<p>"Price, Price of <i>The Star</i>," Wiggly murmured mechanically, as he +continued staring at Helen Gilmore.</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell took an angry step forward. "Mr. Gilmore issued +specific instructions that no newspaper men were to be admitted," he +said. "I don't know how you managed to get in, but I know how you're +going to get out."</p> + +<p>"Wait a minute!" muttered the reporter. "I've seen her somewhere. I +never forget faces, and she——Wait a minute, I tell you, and I'll +place her. Let a fellow think, can't you!" He moved a little closer, +staring at the beautiful features. Victor Sarbella had strained forward +in his chair, and there was something so tense in his attitude that +Doctor Bushnell signaled to the constable that the intruding newspaper +man was not to be interfered with for a moment. The constable did not +notice that; he seemed little short of hypnotized by Price's animated +ears.</p> + +<p>"She must have figured in some story that I worked on," went on Jimmy +Price, hardly conscious that he was thinking aloud. "And it must have +been some time ago, or I wouldn't have so much trouble remembering."</p> + +<p>The doctor made a suggestion that bore more fruit than he could have +expected.</p> + +<p>"Take a look at this gentleman," he said, pointing to the artist; "you +don't happen to remember him, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>Jimmy Price shook his head slowly and positively. "I am quite sure," he +answered, "that I have never seen Mr.—Mr.——"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Sarbella," supplied the doctor.</p> + +<p>The effect of that name on Jimmy Price was startling. It seemed that +his ears would surely work themselves loose from the side of his head.</p> + +<p>"Sarbella?" he exclaimed, turning swiftly and looking again at the dead +woman. "Sarbella? Yes, I know her now; she was the girl—the girl in +the Sarbella case!"</p> + +<p>A grunt of elation escaped Constable Griggs, as he stared triumphantly +at the artist; this reporter had supplied the missing link between +the dead woman and the suspect. Victor Sarbella's body stiffened and +relaxed, as his shoulders moved with a sigh of weariness and defeat. +The secret which he had guarded with his silence was out.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV</h2> +</div> + +<h3>SARBELLA SPEAKS</h3> + + +<p>No longer was Wiggly Price an interloper, an unwelcome intruder facing +eviction; for, instead of asking for facts, he was supplying facts, and +extremely vital facts they seemed to be. Both the constable and Doctor +Bushnell, since the Sarbella case stirred no memories, were both eager +for further enlightenment.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Wiggly, "I am sure of it now; this woman was the girl in +the Sarbella case. I think I must have written five or six columns +about it; queer that I shouldn't have spotted her the minute I put eyes +on her, but a fellow's memory does slip sometimes. The minute I heard +the name just now it all came back to me with a rush."</p> + +<p>"I knew you was hidin' something," grunted Constable Griggs, fixing +Victor Sarbella with a stern eye. "I had a feelin' that you was lyin' +about never havin' set eyes on 'er until last night. I guess you killed +her, all right—that was the reason you wouldn't talk. Guess you +thought you was pretty slick." He turned to the newspaper man. "I guess +it wasn't nothin' short of Providence that let you get into the house +just now. Queer, ain't it, how things is always turnin' out?"</p> + +<p>"My statement," said Sarbella, his voice husky, "was entirely true. I +had never seen the woman until last night—when my friend introduced +her as—as hees wife. She—she the wife of my good friend!"</p> + +<p>"I guess you think we're a lotta country boobs to swaller a thin yarn +like that. Never seen her before, huh? That's likely—I guess not."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell looked eagerly at Wiggly Price, impatient to hear what +was meant by "the Sarbella case."</p> + +<p>"Let's hear what he's got to say, Griggs," he urged.</p> + +<p>"Sure," nodded Ham Griggs; "talk right up, mister. I guess we're all +wantin' to hear it—except Sarbella. You've put us on a hot trail, all +right, young feller."</p> + +<p>"For all I know," said the reporter, "he may be telling the truth about +never having seen the woman before. It sounds reasonable enough, as you +shall see.</p> + +<p>"The Sarbella case got into the newspapers a little over two years +ago. There was a young chap—handsome kid he was—a violinist. Born in +Italy—forget what place—and came to New York in concert work. His +first name"—he frowned meditatively—"I think it was Andrea."</p> + +<p>"Yes, it was Andrea," muttered Victor Sarbella. "Poor Andrea! And that +woman—death was too good for her!"</p> + +<p>"He fell in with a girl, a beautiful girl, with bronze hair. The +attraction of opposites, I suppose; he was dark—naturally, being +Italian. But this girl's past wasn't as pretty as her face. A lot of it +is coming back to me now—the details. She'd been raised on the fringe +of the underworld. Maybe you know what I mean. Her father and her +brother had served time. Oh, not her; she tried to pull away from that +sort of thing.</p> + +<p>"Anyhow, the young violinist fell in love with this girl, madly in love +with her. I think they were planning to be married, and then he found +out the truth about her. How? I can't tell you that, but he did. The +note he left behind him told that—how she had lied to him, deceived +him.</p> + +<p>"He went into the bathroom of his hotel and shot himself through the +heart. You see, this young Sarbella came of a very proud family—his +father related to the nobility and all that sort of thing. He couldn't +marry a girl like that, and he couldn't give her up. There was only one +way he could forget her, and he took that way.</p> + +<p>"In brief, gentlemen, that's the Sarbella case. The girl disappeared; +the police didn't hold her, since it was so obviously a suicide. I saw +her at the inquest; she seemed pretty badly cut up over it, but—well, +you can't always tell about that."</p> + +<p>"My word!" whispered Doctor Bushnell, aghast. "Kirklan Gilmore's +wife was that woman, a woman of the underworld? It seems incredible, +preposterous!"</p> + +<p>"Sarbella," went on Wiggly Price, looking steadily at the guest +of Greenacres, "had a brother who was in Italy at the time of the +suicide. This brother caught the first boat to New York with the avowed +intention——"</p> + +<p>"I think that I am the best qualified person to finish your narrative," +the voice of Victor Sarbella broke in.</p> + +<p>"So you've decided to start your tongue workin'," crowed Constable +Griggs; his chest bulged importantly. "It is my official duty to warn +you that anything you may say will be used against you."</p> + +<p>Sarbella waved his hand impatiently. "This is an explanation, not a +confession," he retorted. "My first statement to you remains true, +although I admit that I did not tell you all the truth—for two reasons.</p> + +<p>"Yes, this dead woman," his voice dripped with bitterness, "was the +girl in the Sarbella case. It is necessary for me to tell you that +Andrea, my younger brother, and I were born and reared in Florence. Our +mother was American, our father Italian.</p> + +<p>"I came to America where I could find a better market for my drawings, +and I brought with me Andrea, who was a violinist and expected to +earn a great deal of money with his playing. He had wonderful talent, +Andrea; even so young, his playing was attracting attention. Would to +Heaven that I had left him in Italy. Then that woman would never have +set his brain on fire, driven him mad with the madness of infatuation.</p> + +<p>"It was the first winter that we were in New York, and I returned to +Florence that I might accompany my mother back to America. She, too, +was to make her home in New York, my father having died. It was while +I was away that Andrea met this devil of a woman. How? I do not know, +but he loved her madly; the letter he left behind for me told me the +intensity of his passion for her.</p> + +<p>"Andrea was young, idealistic; he thought her everything that was good, +noble. And then there came to him a man; a low, common person, who was +the woman's husband!</p> + +<p>"You see how she had tricked him? She was not the innocent, lovely girl +she had led my brother to believe. He had thought to marry her—soon. +The shock of the truth dethroned reason; he could not have her, and he +could not give her up. There seemed to him only one way that he could +forget.</p> + +<p>"If I could but show you his farewell letter to me, the letter that +he wrote a few minutes before he fired the bullet through his heart!" +Tears came into Victor Sarbella's eyes, and his voice trembled and +broke. "Could you read that letter of Andrea's you would understand +better.</p> + +<p>"He was my brother, my only brother, and I loved him devotedly. News of +his death was cabled to me, but it was not until the boat docked in New +York that I knew how he had died—and why.</p> + +<p>"My mother—Andrea was her very life. She—it killed her. This woman, +this vampire, killed both of them—Andrea and our mother—as surely as +though she had driven daggers into their hearts. And that—that would +have been a kindlier way." He pointed a dramatically accusing finger to +the couch. "There she is, a murderess, a moral murderess, and she has +reaped as she had sown!"</p> + +<p>Victor Sarbella's voice came to a pause.</p> + +<p>"All right," said Constable Griggs, "let's have the rest of it. You +killed her for revenge!"</p> + +<p>"A life for a life!" murmured Wiggly Price, his ears twitching again, +as he thought of a dramatic line for this amazing story that he was to +write for <i>The Star</i>. "'The code of Latin vengeance!' Wow! What a whale +of a yarn!"</p> + +<p>Victor Sarbella shook his head slowly.</p> + +<p>"Time passes, and the deepest of wounds heal—although there may be a +scar," he said. "It is futile for me to deny that in my first grief +and rage against this woman I made bitter threats, that I said I would +hound her down and make her pay. I do not deny that I meant it—at the +moment; I do not deny that I sought her in vain."</p> + +<p>"But you did find her yesterday," exclaimed Constable Griggs. "I've +heard tell of them Eyetalian vendettas. You hadda wait most three +years, but you got 'er all right. Ain't no use holdin' out on me no +longer, Mister Sarbella; we gotcha, an' we gotcha cold. Mebbe you can +get by with that revenge business over in Italy, but you can't work it +here."</p> + +<p>Victor Sarbella looked tired, and his face was drawn, haggard.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I found her here yesterday," he nodded. "I found her—this +murderess—married to my good friend, who loved her madly—as poor +Andrea loved her. While I had never seen her, I knew her from that +picture of her that lay beside Andrea when he died. Every detail of +that face was burned into my memory; I recognized her instantly. And +she—the name and the family resemblance—she, too, knew me for who I +am.</p> + +<p>"Kirklan Gilmore saw that something was wrong, but I could not tell +him. He was my friend; she was his wife; my lips were sealed. I swear +to you that no thought of killing her entered my mind, although in the +past I had thought many times of putting my fingers about her throat +and——"</p> + +<p>"Huh!" broke in Ham Griggs' grunt. "I guess you'd swear to most +anything to keep yourself from goin' to the chair. What made you hold +out on us about knowin' who she was, if you wasn't guilty?"</p> + +<p>"As I told you a few minutes ago," answered Sarbella, "there were two +reasons. One was that I wished to spare Gilmore, my friend, the torture +of the truth."</p> + +<p>"And the other reason," said Griggs, "was that you knowed blame well it +would make things look purty black for you. You knowed that it would +throw suspicion square on you."</p> + +<p>Sarbella hesitated.</p> + +<p>"At first," he replied slowly, "I had no other thought than that the +woman had ended her life—driven to suicide by fear, fear that I would +denounce her for what she was before her husband; but, when the butler +kept insisting that she had been murdered, I knew that I had a vitally +personal reason for keeping silent."</p> + +<p>"But little good it did you—thanks to this feller," exulted the +constable, jerking his thumb toward the newspaper man. "Victor +Sarbella, you're under arrest for——"</p> + +<p>"Be careful, sir—be careful," warned the guest of Greenacres, his face +gray. "The gun is not mine, and you will never be able to prove that it +was. If you subject me to false arrest——"</p> + +<p>Ham Griggs hesitated, glancing at Doctor Bushnell for encouragement.</p> + +<p>"I don't think you need worry about false arrest," advised the doctor. +"An officer has a perfect right to hold a man on suspicion. There need +not be positive proof, and there were but three persons on the second +floor when the shot was fired—Mrs. Gilmore, Miss Joan, and Sarbella."</p> + +<p>Victor Sarbella leaned forward in his chair, and he seemed on the verge +of saying something further in his own defense, but did not speak. It +may have been that he realized how useless it would be to say anything +further in his own behalf.</p> + +<p>The constable dragged from his pocket a pair of handcuffs. "Stick +out your mitts," he ordered, holding open the steel jaws to receive +Sarbella's wrists.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI</h2> +</div> + +<h3>THE FOUR CLEWS</h3> + + +<p>As Constable Griggs, proud as a pouter pigeon, departed with his +prisoner, Doctor Bushnell replaced the sheet over the face of the dead +woman, but not until he had looked again at the beautiful features, +shaking his head, as if he could not understand the anomaly of +countenance and character.</p> + +<p>"A—a woman of the underworld! It's just a little hard to believe that +a woman with that face——"</p> + +<p>"On the fringe of the underworld, I think I said," corrected Wiggly +Price. "Her associations were criminal, but I hardly imagine that she +had led a vicious life, for that <i>would</i> show." He paused for a moment. +"Sarbella told me something about her that I hadn't known before—that +it was her husband who came to Andrea Sarbella and told him the truth +about her. I was just wondering if—if she had gone to the trouble of +divorcing him. It's a difficult thing, getting a divorce in New York +State."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell looked grave. "Sarbella was right; she was a vampire. +She tricked Gilmore, fooled him with her pretty face, as she fooled the +other one—young Sarbella. I am apprehensive of the effect that this +is going to have on Kirklan; already he is on the verge of a nervous +breakdown, and when he learns the truth—well, I hope it can be +withheld from him until he has had a chance to pull together." He made +a move to depart, but Wiggly stopped him with a gesture.</p> + +<p>"Just a moment, doctor. You're satisfied that Sarbella did the +shooting?"</p> + +<p>The physician seemed surprised by the question.</p> + +<p>"Certainly," he answered promptly. "There were but five persons in the +house; two of them downstairs, three upstairs, when the fatal shot +was fired. You don't mean to tell me that you have any doubts——" He +broke off, disturbed by the recollection of Joan's evasiveness and +perturbation.</p> + +<p>"I'm not saying Sarbella isn't the guilty man," answered Wiggly; "but I +do say that it would be next to impossible to have a jury convict him +on such evidence."</p> + +<p>"But he was the only person in the house who could have any possible +motive for the crime," argued Doctor Bushnell. "Revenge, young man—a +trait that is strong with the Latins, particularly the Italian. You +don't for a moment entertain a notion that Mrs. Gilmore, the gentlest +soul I have ever known, or Miss Sheridan——"</p> + +<p>"I admit the motive," interrupted Wiggly; "I admit the opportunity, and +I admit that, on the face of things so far, he is the guilty man. But +where is the proof—the proof that will convict him before a jury?</p> + +<p>"The proof of guilt is somewhere—somewhere in this house; it may be +right in this room. I have been a newspaper reporter for ten years, and +a lot of my assignments have been crime stories. I did headquarters for +nearly five years; experience tells me that there are clews, definite +and convincing clews, that will convict. There are always clews."</p> + +<p>"Yes, so I have gathered; but the room here—there is no evidence of a +struggle—nothing visible——"</p> + +<p>"The same things, doctor, are not visible to all eyes; seeing a clew +is one thing, and observing it is quite another thing. A newspaper +reporter gets to be a sort of detective, sometimes he's a darn good +detective, and, if you have no objection, I'll look around a bit and +see what I can find to clinch the case against Sarbella."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell hesitated. "Kirklan Gilmore gave orders that no +newspaper men were to be admitted," he said; "still you have rendered +valuable assistance, and——"</p> + +<p>"And," added Wiggly with a faint smile, "I've already got my story. +Even if you pitch me out, it won't stop my paper from printing the +facts that I have gathered."</p> + +<p>"Yes, that's true," nodded the physician, "and personally I've a +profound respect for a good newspaper reporter. Gilmore naturally +shrinks from the thought of having this thing blazoned across the front +page; but, if he understood the situation, I feel sure that he would +give you every chance to fix the guilt where it belongs. He seemed +to resent the suggestion I made, that Sarbella was the most obvious +suspect, but he did not know the past which linked the lives of his +wife and his friend.</p> + +<p>"The constable is little better than helpless in a case like this; +his job is catching automobile speeders, and a murder is outside of +his experience. It was nothing short of luck for Ham Griggs that you +happened in and gave him the right tack. I intended urging Gilmore to +employ a private detective, but if you can make any progress—well, I +shan't stop you."</p> + +<p>"That's mighty decent of you, Doctor Bushnell, and, before I start in +Sherlocking, I'd like to ask you a question or two about the wound. The +bullet pierced her heart?"</p> + +<p>"No, it did not; I followed the course of the bullet with a probe, and +it missed the heart by a fraction of an inch."</p> + +<p>"Good Lord, you don't mean it! Then death was caused——"</p> + +<p>"From the best I can determine, a punctured artery."</p> + +<p>"In other words, she bled to death; isn't that what you mean, doctor?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Would she have bled to death so quickly?"</p> + +<p>"That is hard to say—evidently very quickly. Both Gilmore and the +butler are positive that she was dead when they reached the room here. +They rushed upstairs immediately after hearing her scream and the shot."</p> + +<p>"And that was a matter of less than minutes—seconds," mused Wiggly +Price. "The bullet must have pierced the aorta, or one of its main +branches."</p> + +<p>"So it would seem, and I see that you know the anatomical terms."</p> + +<p>"Some of them; a reporter has to know a little about everything. I was +just wondering if perhaps she wasn't still alive when her husband and +the butler reached the room."</p> + +<p>"Bates thought he saw the last breath leave her body, but I wouldn't +accept that with absolute finality. He is, of course, not a medical +man, and he might have easily imagined it."</p> + +<p>Wiggly Price's eyes searched the room with a slowly moving gaze, his +animated ears twitching faintly. He seemed to be studying the rug, +which was of a neutral shade; any discolorment, such as a bloodstain, +would have stood out glaringly, and there was none.</p> + +<p>"I've been thinking," he said, "that she might have been placed on the +couch there—after she was shot. Yet, with all the profuse bleeding, if +she had fallen to the floor there would be some signs of it. I wonder +if you noticed whether she was shot while reclining on the lounge, or +if the bullet was fired while she was standing?"</p> + +<p>The doctor looked bewildered. "Great Heavens, man, how could you expect +me to know that?" he exclaimed with a hint of asperity, suspecting that +the reporter was trying to "show off." But he was mistaken about that.</p> + +<p>"I feel that we may be able to determine that, if we take another look +at the dead woman's clothing," Wiggly told him. "There's the law of +gravity you know."</p> + +<p>"Gravity? What's the law of gravity got to do with it?" Puzzled, the +physician lifted the sheet to permit the reporter's examination. The +latter leaned forward for a moment and took note, also, that the silk +robe was powder burned—in fact, that the explosion had been so close +as to scorch the undergarments as well.</p> + +<p>Wiggly Price pointed to the meandering line of dried crimson which +dyed the expensive dressing gown almost to the fur-edged hem of the +garment. "Blood, like water," he said, "must obey the law of gravity +and flow downward; she had to be standing on her feet for the crimson +stream to seep down, almost level with her ankles. She was placed on +the lounge by whoever shot her; that is evident. Gad, but she was +a beautiful woman, wasn't she? It's no wonder that men lost their +heads over her. You know, doctor, I've always felt sorry for a truly +beautiful woman; so many of them end up in misery. But that's neither +here nor there. The wound is in the side, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell nodded slowly. "I understand now what you're getting +at. Yes, I can see that she must have been shot while standing on +her feet, and either she staggered back to the couch herself, or was +supported to the couch by the slayer. The wound—under the armpit?"</p> + +<p>"The weapon must have been pressed close to her body judging from the +evidence of burned powder. I see that the robe was set on fire, which +burned quite a hole before it smoldered out. Doctor, wouldn't you say +that it was a most unusual place for an intentionally mortal wound? Her +arm would have to have been raised away from her body."</p> + +<p>The doctor agreed with a tight-lipped "Yes."</p> + +<p>"Of course," went on the newspaper man, "she might have turned +suddenly, squirmed in the slayer's grip—I am taking it for granted +that he was close enough to have seized her—but that's only +speculation. What became of the gun?"</p> + +<p>"Ham Griggs took it with him. It was an automatic, a large-caliber .44, +I think."</p> + +<p>"Finger prints?"</p> + +<p>"The butt plates had a corrugated surface."</p> + +<p>"I see; in that case there would have been no finger prints on the gun. +Probably wouldn't have been, since the slayer deliberately left the gun +behind. Only a very stupid person would have neglected to wipe away +finger prints had there been any. Hello, what's this!"</p> + +<p>Wiggly's foot had crunched against a bit of porcelain, and he leaned +forward swiftly, picking it up; it was a rough-surfaced piece of +pottery, black in color and, as much as he could judge from the +fragment, had belonged to some convex object of which it was a +shattered part.</p> + +<p>"A broken piece of something—but what?" he murmured, holding it up for +the doctor's inspection.</p> + +<p>"I'm sure I couldn't say," answered Doctor Bushnell, who was not +greatly interested. He considered it a waste of time to speculate over +such an insignificant trifle, when there was murder evidence to be +looked for.</p> + +<p>"The Hitchcock murder last summer—remember that, doctor? It was solved +by nothing more noticeable than a black pin, a mourning pin, and the +widow of a man whom Hitchcock had ruined, confessed when she was faced +with that pin. This is larger than a pin, doctor, but, to be frank, I +doubt there's much value to it." He was near a small mahogany table by +the room's north wall; the light was not very good, the chamber being +lighted only by wall fixtures, and the incandescent rays were softened +by parchment shades; but his eyes pierced the shadows and saw, on the +floor beside the table, several other pieces like the one which he held +in his hand.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Here's the answer to it, doctor. It's a vase, a +black pottery vase; yes, here's the neck of it."</p> + +<p>"That might be evidence of a struggle," suggested Doctor Bushnell. +"The vase might have been knocked off the edge of the table, don't +you think, when the woman tried to escape Sarbella's vengeance? She +probably knew, the minute he got into the room, that his intention was +to kill her."</p> + +<p>Price's ears wiggled briefly, as he considered the matter of the broken +vase, and with a dismissing gesture tossed down the broken bit which he +held in his fingers.</p> + +<p>"You may be right," he agreed, "it doesn't seem important enough +to bother about, but——" His voice broke off sharply, as he stared +toward the window directly in front of him; he had noticed the sagging +curtain, where it had been ripped some two and a half hours earlier, +when Don Haskins had made his surprise entrance into Helen's room. But, +of course, Wiggly had no way of being aware of the fleeing crook's +existence.</p> + +<p>"Take a look at this, Doctor Bushnell," said the reporter; "this torn +curtain. Funny we didn't notice that before; it's mighty near jerked +off the rod."</p> + +<p>"And what do you make of that?"</p> + +<p>Wiggly's eyes were meditatively half closed, and his ears as well as +his mind were active.</p> + +<p>"I'd say one of three things," he answered slowly. "Either the murderer +barred Mrs. Gilmore's flight through the door, and she was trying to +get out the window—which somehow I don't take much stock in—or the +murderer himself came in through the window, or, thirdly, that he +got out through the window. In the last two cases it doesn't seem +reasonable that he would have taken the time to shut the window behind +him. It seems to me that the best thing to do is just store this away +for future reference. It doesn't seem to mean much in itself."</p> + +<p>"No, it doesn't," grunted the physician. "It might not have been torn +to-night."</p> + +<p>Wiggly glanced about the neat, precisely kept room. "She was particular +about the orderliness of things," he said. "I don't believe she would +have left a torn window curtain unrepaired for long. No, the curtain +was torn to-night; but, as I said, we'll just store that away for +future reference."</p> + +<p>And then Doctor Bushnell made a discovery of his own, a half-burned +cigarette that had been mashed down into the heavy nap of the rug, some +eight feet from the chaise longue and even a farther distance from the +door. He gave a brief exclamation, as he pointed to his find.</p> + +<p>"Sarbella is a cigarette smoker; if this is his brand——"</p> + +<p>Wiggly Price picked up the cigarette, which evidently had been +flattened out beneath the pressure of a shoe.</p> + +<p>"It's a little hard to believe, doctor, that a man with premeditated +murder in his mind, would walk into his victim's room smoking a +cigarette," he said quickly. "For that matter, it might be the murdered +woman's cigarette—so many women do smoke 'em these modern days." He +examined the flattened thing which, as it happened, bore the name of +the brand. "Cheap—ten cents a pack. Hardly a woman's cigarette, I'd +say. Perhaps Gilmore himself dropped it."</p> + +<p>"Not Gilmore; I happen to know that he doesn't smoke anything except +an occasional after-dinner cigar; but I do recall very clearly that +Sarbella was smoking a cigarette downstairs. If he smokes that kind, +it's clinching proof that he is the guilty man!" The doctor was +becoming quite excited over this clew. "Since Gilmore doesn't smoke +them, who else could have dropped it on the rug? Answer me that!"</p> + +<p>Wiggly took a piece of copy paper from his pocket, carefully wrapped +the cigarette butt in it, and tucked this important, or unimportant, +bit of evidence in his vest pocket.</p> + +<p>"As you say, doctor, if it's Sarbella's brand of cigarette it means +something—but it's rather difficult to imagine a chap like Sarbella +smoking this cheap fag; just about as hard as it is to imagine him +walking into this room, a gun in one hand and a cigarette in another, +ready to avenge his dead brother. However, when I get to the jail, I'll +see the constable and check up on this. I'll have a look at Sarbella's +cigarette case."</p> + +<p>Although, as he had just said, it hardly looked like the sort of +cigarette a woman might be expected to smoke, he was thorough enough to +look about the room, and he even went to the dressing table in search +of any proof that Helen Gilmore herself had been addicted to a little +puffing now and then. But there was no telltale flickings of ashes, not +so much as an ash receiver.</p> + +<p>Wiggly compressed his lips.</p> + +<p>"You know, doctor," he said slowly, "this cigarette thing bothers me +a little—quite a little, too. She isn't a smoker unless she does it +on the sly and——Oh, confound it, it just isn't reasonable that this +is Sarbella's cigarette butt. I've got a hunch that this business runs +deeper than we think."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell gave an impatient gesture. "Stuff! You're trying +to manufacture a mystery; the papers like mysteries so that they +can spread the story out over days and days. You're afraid that the +solution is going to be too easy, too tame."</p> + +<p>"Tame?" exploded Wiggly Price. "I can imagine nothing more dramatic +than Sarbella being the guilty man—beautiful vamp, handsome, talented +young foreigner, related to nobility, a suicide, a brother's vendetta, +an unexpected meeting, arranged by Fate, at the home of a friend who is +a popular novelist, and then—revenge!</p> + +<p>"Good Lord, I hope you don't call a yarn like that tame! Scoggins, my +city editor, will weep with joy if it pans out that way—and probably +give me a raise in salary, although it's his burning desire to fire me. +But I'm making the guess that the cigarette butt that we've picked up +out of the rug didn't belong to Victor Sarbella." He paused, looking +about the room again. "Electric lights are so tricky to the eyes; +it's so easy to overlook something, some little thing that might be +tremendously important. It still lacks some time of being daylight, and +I'm anxious to scoot over to the jail and check up on this cigarette +clew—make sure whether or not it's Sarbella's. Are you going to remain +here for a little while, doctor?"</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell glanced at his watch.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he answered; "at least until the undertaker arrives—probably +later. It's my official duty to remain, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"Your official duty?"</p> + +<p>"As it happens, I am a deputy coroner."</p> + +<p>Wiggly showed his surprise. "You hadn't mentioned that; I hardly think +that even the constable realized it. Of course you understand, doctor, +that, in a case like this, your authority exceeds that of any other +official. You are the commanding officer, so to speak."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell nodded. "In a way my position is somewhat embarrassing. +I have been the Gilmore family physician for a good many years."</p> + +<p>"I was wondering if I should be able to get inside the house again," +said the reporter; "but, if you are the——"</p> + +<p>"Deputy coroner," corrected the physician. "Doctor Whitestone, the +coroner, is vacationing at Saranac Lake."</p> + +<p>"Anyhow, doctor, you are in charge, and all I need is your permission."</p> + +<p>"Probably it can be arranged," Doctor Bushnell said after a moment +of hesitation. "Of course it will be rather difficult to admit one +reporter and bar the others, and there will be a regiment of them +swooping down on us; but you have rendered valuable assistance that +makes it very hard for me to refuse you. You will let me know, just as +soon as you have clinched the matter, whether the cigarette butt was +dropped by Sarbella." He was taking the door key from his pocket and +was starting to leave the room.</p> + +<p>"Certainly," answered Wiggly, moving to follow. "I came out from the +office in a taxi, and it's waiting downstairs. I shall come back +immediately after I have——" His voice trailed off, as he squinted at +the floor, where the chaise longue with its tragic burden cast a shadow +over the rug. Swiftly he bent forward and picked up something.</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell stared; it was nothing more startling than a hairpin, +and he was rather impatient that the newspaper man should subject it to +such an apparently interesting scrutiny.</p> + +<p>"As I said," murmured Wiggly, "artificial light is tricky. Either one +of us should have noticed this before."</p> + +<p>"It's nothing but a common, ordinary hairpin," grunted the physician; +"there's nothing in that—probably fell out of her hair."</p> + +<p>Price's forehead was wrinkled into a frown, and his ears were wiggling +again.</p> + +<p>"It dropped from some one's hair," he muttered. "Her hair? I wonder if +it did?"</p> + +<p>"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Doctor Bushnell.</p> + +<p>"Look at it!" the other commanded tersely. "What color is that hairpin?"</p> + +<p>"Black, of course," the doctor said impatiently.</p> + +<p>"Exactly—black! The dead woman's hair is blond. Step over to her +dressing table, and perhaps you'll be puzzled, too. See, she uses +bronze hairpins, doctor. Any woman with hair the color of hers, would. +A black hairpin! I wonder if this is a clew, a real clew?"</p> + +<p>"Rot!" retorted the physician. "Any one might have dropped it; the +maid——"</p> + +<p>"Where is the maid?"</p> + +<p>"Bates said that she went to Yonkers."</p> + +<p>"And has the maid black hair?"</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell considered for a moment, trying to remember. "Dark +hair," he nodded; "perhaps not black. I couldn't say as to the +identical shade."</p> + +<p>"The other Mrs. Gilmore?"</p> + +<p>"Quite gray."</p> + +<p>"And the other—what is her name?"</p> + +<p>The doctor frowned indignantly. "Such a suspicion is too ridiculous, +too absurd!" he protested. Yet with a vaguely uneasy feeling he +remembered Joan Sheridan's strange behavior, her anguished protest of +Victor Sarbella's innocence—and Joan's hair was black, jet black!</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII</h2> +</div> + +<h3>KIRKLAN PROTESTS</h3> + + +<p>Hint of the physician's disturbed thoughts must have shown in his +face, for Wiggly Price gave him a keen, curious look, which seemed +to increase the former's discomfiture; he dallied nervously with the +fraternal charm attached to his watch chain.</p> + +<p>"What color did you say, doctor?" pressed the newspaper man.</p> + +<p>"It's ridiculous, absurd!" Bushnell repeated explosively. "What if +Joan's hair is dark? Confound it, you make me downright angry, casting +an insinuation like that, just because of an inconsequential thing like +a hairpin."</p> + +<p>Wiggly gave a faint smile which was grim rather than humorous.</p> + +<p>"I haven't insinuated anything, doctor; just asked a question, that's +all. Oh, I admit there's nothing conclusive about a hairpin, and +yet—well, there was the Hitchcock case that I mentioned, solved by a +black mourning pin."</p> + +<p>"For murder there's got to be a motive," argued Doctor Bushnell; "no +one besides Sarbella had a motive. I don't care what you find, I'd +never believe that any one except Sarbella——"</p> + +<p>The door was flung open with a startling violence, and Kirklan Gilmore +lunged into the room, hair disheveled, eyes wide and staring.</p> + +<p>"What—what does this mean?" he cried hoarsely. "Bates tells me that +the constable has arrested Sarbella. Is that true? Come, answer me, +what does it mean?"</p> + +<p>Under his breath the doctor cursed the butler for adding this to the +man's nervous strain.</p> + +<p>"I thought I gave you a sleeping tablet, Kirklan. Bates should not have +excited you by——"</p> + +<p>"Certainly he should have," Gilmore broke in. "I've a right to know +what's going on in my own house. Bates was perfectly right; but what +does it mean? Bates says that Sarbella was taken away—handcuffed. It's +true, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell nodded. "Yes, Kirklan, it's true; Sarbella is +being—ah—detained, pending—well, at least pending further +investigation of your wife's murder. Certain things developed which +made it advisable and necessary."</p> + +<p>"Great Lord!" whispered Gilmore, his shaking fingers raking back a +tangled shock of hair that fell across his forehead. "You mean—you +mean that Sarbella has been arrested for—for that?" His other hand +went out, pointing to the couch.</p> + +<p>"Try and calm yourself, Kirklan," soothed the physician. "I hadn't +intended that you should know this until you had pulled yourself +together somewhat. I knew that it would be a tremendous shock for you +to know that your friend, a guest in your home——"</p> + +<p>"Why," broke in the novelist, "was Sarbella arrested?"</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell hesitated over the answer, and Wiggly Price drew back +to one side, making himself as inconspicuous as possible.</p> + +<p>"I demand to know," insisted Gilmore, and the doctor saw that there +could be no further evasion.</p> + +<p>"As I told you downstairs, Kirklan," said Bushnell, "we have +established beyond all question that it was murder. Since she was +killed, some one had to kill her."</p> + +<p>"But why Sarbella?" the author pressed impatiently.</p> + +<p>"Obviously," went on the doctor, "an effort has been made to make it +appear suicide, but the effort failed; such efforts usually do. It's +hard to destroy evidence, next to the impossible. There were but five +persons in the house; you and Bates downstairs, your stepmother, Joan +and Sarbella upstairs. Taking the list into consideration it was only +natural that suspicion should turn to Sarbella. And then——"</p> + +<p>"But that's not proof, doctor—that's only suspicion," broke in +Gilmore. "If you had no evidence, I don't see how you dared——"</p> + +<p>"We had a little more than that," said Doctor Bushnell with obvious +reluctance, realizing that circumstances had made it unavoidable that +Kirklan should know the terrible truth about Helen's past life. "You +see, Kirklan, we discovered that Sarbella had a motive."</p> + +<p>"A motive?" Gilmore muttered dully. "What do you mean by that? What +reason could he have had? Out with it! Why do you torture me with this +suspense?"</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell stepped forward and put a hand on the other's shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Heaven knows that I wish I could spare you this, Kirklan, but it's +bound to come out at the trial and in the newspapers. You were not +aware, I suppose, that there was a previous relationship between——" +He had phrased it clumsily and Gilmore started back with a shudder, a +look of anguished horror on his face.</p> + +<p>"You mean that Sarbella and my wife were——He lied to me—he lied to +me—gave me his word of honor that he had never seen her before. I knew +there was something wrong; I saw her face when she met him; I knew——"</p> + +<p>"No you misunderstand me, Kirklan. There was nothing like that. Perhaps +you did not know that Sarbella had a brother, a younger brother named +Andrea, who——"</p> + +<p>"Who shot himself," finished Gilmore. "Yes, I'd heard of it; that +happened before I knew Victor. But what has that got to do with this?"</p> + +<p>"Young Sarbella shot himself because of a woman," went on Doctor +Bushnell. "Because a woman, a very beautiful woman whom he loved +madly, had misled him about herself. She lied to him, tricked him, and +then—the woman's husband came to him and told him the truth."</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore stared dully; he seemed not to grasp the inference of +it all. The room was tensely quiet.</p> + +<p>"I—I don't understand," he muttered thickly, "what that has to do with +Sarbella and my wife."</p> + +<p>"Andrea Sarbella," the doctor went on gently, "was the idol of his +mother and his brother. Shock of the tragedy cost the mother's life, +and Victor, it seems, took an oath that he would avenge himself on the +woman responsible for his double bereavement."</p> + +<p>The dawning light of comprehension showed in Gilmore's horror-stricken +eyes; a cry arose in his throat, as he staggered back into a chair and +buried his head within his hands.</p> + +<p>"You mean," he choked, "that the woman was—was—my wife!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Kirklan, your wife was that woman. Now you can understand why +Sarbella has been placed under arrest."</p> + +<p>Again the room was silent, silent except for the choking sob which came +from the man huddled low in the chair. After a moment he staggered to +his feet and flung his arms wildly.</p> + +<p>"It's a lie!" he shouted. "It's a lie! I don't believe it; I'll never +believe it. Why, if what you say is true, she——"</p> + +<p>"Calm yourself, Kirklan. Sarbella has admitted what I have told you. We +might have never known the truth except that this young man recognized +her and put us on the right track."</p> + +<p>Gilmore, for the first time, seemed aware of Wiggly Price's presence.</p> + +<p>"Who are you?" he demanded hoarsely. "What do you mean by coming here +with these lies—about my wife? Answer me—who are you?"</p> + +<p>"My name is Price, and I am a newspaper man."</p> + +<p>Gilmore wheeled accusingly upon the doctor. "Who let him in?" he +shouted. "Didn't I tell you——"</p> + +<p>"Easy, Kirklan, easy now. I can't answer as to how Price got into the +house, but I'll say it's a lucky thing for us that he did. Except for +him we might still be beating our heads against a stone wall. When +you've calmed down you'll thank him instead of berating him. It may be +that he is the agent who will bring your wife's murderer to justice. +No matter what the woman did, a murder has been done; Sarbella had no +right to take vengeance into his own hands."</p> + +<p>The novelist dropped limply back into the chair, his muscles twitching, +as he stared at the sheet-covered body.</p> + +<p>"Sarbella?" he muttered thickly. "What—what does Sarbella say?"</p> + +<p>"Naturally he denies it," answered the doctor. "We hope to find proof. +We must find proof; I doubt if he could be convicted on the purely +circumstantial evidence that we have so far. Unless we can establish +his ownership of the automatic pistol, we will have to find something +else. If he thought the gun could be traced he surely would not have +left it behind."</p> + +<p>Gilmore lifted his head slowly.</p> + +<p>"Then there is no proof—only—only suspicion?" He paused for a moment +and then added: "I can't believe it! I can't believe that Sarbella +killed her. And she—she was—that kind of a woman!"</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell touched his shoulder. "Try not to grieve, Kirklan," he +urged quietly. "You were in love with the woman you thought her to be, +and she did not exist. She wasn't worth a good man's grief. We do not +even know—in fact, I doubt—if her marriage was legal."</p> + +<p>"I can't believe that Sarbella did it," repeated Gilmore dully. +"She—she must have killed herself to escape the truth."</p> + +<p>"Did you happen to notice the brand of cigarettes that Sarbella +smokes?" asked Wiggly Price.</p> + +<p>Gilmore's resentment against the newspaper man seemed to have vanished; +he displayed no curiosity over this apparently idle question, only +shook his head absently, like a man in a daze.</p> + +<p>"And your wife," pressed Wiggly, "I don't suppose that she used a +cigarette now and then?"</p> + +<p>Again Gilmore shook his head, almost stupidly and without verbal +response, his hands dangling inertly across the arms of the chair.</p> + +<p>"Sarbella didn't do it," he muttered again, as if talking to +himself; "she did it to escape the truth. Nothing will ever convince +me—nothing!"</p> + +<p>Around the edges of the drawn curtain was creeping the light of a +graying dawn. Price moved toward the door.</p> + +<p>"I'm going down to the village," he said in an undertone to the doctor; +"I'll come back when I've talked with Sarbella about his brand of +cigarettes. Remember my hunch and the black hairpin."</p> + +<p>With that he hurried down the stairs and to the still waiting taxicab, +with its driver napping behind the wheel.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII</h2> +</div> + +<h3>TWO BRANDS OF CIGARETTES</h3> + + +<p>The Ardmore jail was located in the basement of Borough Hall, and, +since it was but a place of temporary detention until prisoners could +be removed to the county seat, it consisted of a single cell, a narrow +steel cage tucked away in one corner adjoining the furnace room. It was +here that Victor Sarbella, who had ceased his protests and had lapsed +into a stony silence, that took no cognizance of Constable Griggs' +persistent and exasperating questioning, had been lodged.</p> + +<p>Wiggly Price found Borough Hall locked, and the place was in darkness. +Griggs had decided to let the prisoner "cool his heels" for a while, +and he had gone home to freshen himself with a nap before continuing +the cross-examination. The village was still soundly asleep, and +Wiggly, thinking that the constable must return shortly, made himself +as comfortable as possible in the cab.</p> + +<p>Time dragged past, and the reporter considered the Greenacres tragedy +and its various angles. A great little rider of hunches was Wiggly, +and, in the face of the obvious, he was riding the hunch that Sarbella +hadn't shot Helen Gilmore. And the black hairpin, small a thing as it +was, occupied a conspicuous corner of his thoughts. The broken vase he +thought of only casually. The half-burned cigarette butt he admitted +might have some importance, but he much doubted that it had belonged +to Sarbella. As he had told Doctor Bushnell, he couldn't conceive a +murderer, smoking a cigarette, would walk in on his victim. It just +wasn't reasonable.</p> + +<p>The east was bright with the dawn of a brilliant day; the sun mounted +higher, and still Ham Griggs had not returned. Wiggly glanced at his +watch with a growl of impatience; he knew that it wouldn't be long +until other news hounds would be keen on the scent of the big story.</p> + +<p>"Confound that fellow!" he muttered. "Where's he gone to? More than +likely he considers the case solved and has gone home to tell his folks +what a great detective he is!"</p> + +<p>From far up the deserted street just one sound broke the stillness, +a particularly cheerful, but tuneless, whistle which, as it came +nearer, brought into view an elephantine youth who approached with a +flat-footed shuffle, his shoes flapping noisily, as if they might be +trying to mark time to their owner's musical efforts. The village fat +boy, drawing closer, left off whistling and turned to song, singing in +a shrill treble, "Yes, we have no bananas. We have no bananas to-day."</p> + +<p>Wiggly stepped from the cab to intercept him, and for no reason at all, +unless it were taken for granted that it was outward evidence of an +otherwise unexpressed mirth, Wiggly's ears twitched.</p> + +<p>"Say, son," Wiggly said briskly, "do you know where Constable Griggs +lives?"</p> + +<p>For the moment Master Frederick Throgmorton, as the local juvenile +heavyweight was named, was totally bereft of speech, completely +hypnotized by the amazing gymnastics of Jimmy Price's ears.</p> + +<p>"Huh?" he finally gulped. "Whatcha—whatcha say?"</p> + +<p>"I said: Do you know where Constable Griggs lives?"</p> + +<p>"Sure—sure thing," gasped Fatty Frederick. "Right—right down this +street—third block, second house from the corner. Say, mister, tell a +feller somethin'—how did you learn to do it?"</p> + +<p>Wiggly flushed, as he always did when reminded of his refractory +appendages, and he dived swiftly back into the cab, as he gave the +chauffeur further directions. The taxi shot forward with a jerk. Less +than a minute later they had negotiated the three blocks, and the New +York newspaper man was on the sidewalk and at the picket gate of the +Griggs cottage.</p> + +<p>Etta, the constable's daughter, was ambitious, but her ambition was +centered upon becoming a playwright and did not, as a rule, extend to +early rising. But this morning she was up, fully dressed, and, at +the moment of Wiggly Price's ring, pressing her father for further +details of the Greenacres murder. For once in her life she was actually +taking some pride in the fact that her parent was a constable. And Ham +Griggs willingly sacrificed his intended "forty winks" that he might +elaborate, none too modestly, on the part he had played; after all, it +was something to be a hero to the critical and exacting Etta.</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't be a lot surprised," he was saying, "that the reporter +feller will be wantin' my pitcher to put in the paper. There ain't no +use for me to deny, Etty, that I done a purty slick piece of work. I +knowed the minute I clapped eyes on the Eyetalian that he was the one +that done it. Wouldn't be surprised but what I'd better scoot down to +Jess Burnside's pitcher gallery an' have some new pitchers struck; I +ain't set for a pitcher since——" He was interrupted by the ringing of +the doorbell. Father and daughter had been so absorbed that they had +not heard the arrival of the taxi.</p> + +<p>"I'll answer it, fawther," said Etta, and for once Ham Griggs did not +correct the affectation which ordinarily so annoyed him. They had been +sitting in the kitchen, and Etta had put on a pot of coffee which, +entirely unnoticed, had boiled over. Ham tilted back in a chair, +uniform coat thrown open, snapping his suspenders smartly against his +chest.</p> + +<p>Etta frisked through the brief hallway to the front of the cottage. +As she opened the door, the upper portion of which was glass, with a +frosted design alleged to be artistic, she faced Wiggly Price, who +neglected the polite formality of removing his hat.</p> + +<p>"Constable Griggs live here?"</p> + +<p>"He does," admitted Etta, one hand resting upon her practically hipless +waist, chin slightly tilted. "Who shall I tell fawther is calling, +please?"</p> + +<p>"Price, of <i>The Morning Star</i>."</p> + +<p>"O—oh," gasped Etta, flustered. "Come—come right in; I'll tell him."</p> + +<p>But there was no need to tell him. Ham Griggs, the intervening doors +being open, had heard him and came striding out from the kitchen, +morally certain that his prediction was well founded, and that the +reporter had come for a photograph.</p> + +<p>"Come right on in, son," he boomed hospitably. "Etty's just fixin' me +up a cup of Java, an' I guess she can scare up a flock of eggs. Guess +you ain't had no breakfast, huh? Come right on into the kitchen an' +make yourself to home."</p> + +<p>"Fawther!" cried Etta in embarrassed indignation. "Ain't you—haven't +you forgotten your manners? In the kitchen? Why the very idea! I'll set +the table in the dining room, and——"</p> + +<p>"The kitchen for mine! Don't bother, Miss Griggs. I'm in pretty much +of a hurry, but I can't turn down a cup of coffee after being up all +night."</p> + +<p>"Sure," the constable nodded complacently and then added: "Guess +nothin' new turned up out at Greenacres, huh? I nailed the right man, +all right; not a bad piece of work for a hick constable, if I do +say so myself." With a laugh he led the way into the kitchen, while +the mortified Etta bit her lip in chagrin; but there was no choice +in accepting the situation. She recalled a line from her "Social +Etiquette" which told her, "When embarrassed by an unexpected caller, +the hostess should at once accept the situation in good grace and +make her guest feel welcome." But a guest in the kitchen! Her little +reference book was mute as to that.</p> + +<p>"I want to see Sarbella just as quickly as I can," said Wiggly, sitting +down and hitching his chair close to the table. He sniffed avidly. "Ah, +that coffee does smell good!"</p> + +<p>"Sure," agreed Ham Griggs. "But whatcha want to see him about? What's +happened?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing's happened—exactly," Wiggly answered cautiously, knowing +that the constable would in all probability resent any intimation of +Sarbella's possible innocence. Even a seasoned detective, once he has +made up his mind, does not relish the idea of being shown that he had +been wrong. In Griggs' case, it would be a hard blow to his exuberant +vanity. "But, as you may realize, our evidence against the man is so +far purely circumstantial."</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't you worry about that," the constable said complacently; +"he'll come through with a confession, after he's had a good taste of +jail. Stubborn as a mule he is so far, but he'll break down; they all +do."</p> + +<p>"Isn't it thrilling!" broke in Etta, pouring coffee. "It's what you +call a big story, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>Wiggly gave a smiling nod. "It's about the best murder story I've ever +worked on."</p> + +<p>Etta beamed. "It was I who called up your editor and told him about +it," she announced.</p> + +<p>"The thunder you did!" grunted Ham Griggs.</p> + +<p>"If it's a scoop," promised Wiggly; "I'll tell the city editor to have +the business office mail you a fat little check for the tip."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no! I didn't do it for any mercenary reasons. But, if the editor +wants to say something nice about my play——"</p> + +<p>"Eh—your play?"</p> + +<p>"I expect it to be produced this fall. It's nearly finished; I have +promised to let a New York producer stage it."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I see," murmured Wiggly gravely. He had the good sense not to +indulge in a smile, but his ears moved faintly. "And I'll certainly +speak to the dramatic critic about it—I certainly will." Under his +breath he added: "Lord, what the play bug does to people!"</p> + +<p>Etta was so excited by what she considered the total success of her +plan to establish a cordial personal relationship with the press that +she tipped a cup, spilling hot coffee over the back of her father's +hand.</p> + +<p>"The murder at Greenacres has given me the inspiration for another +play," she said. "It shall be a mystery play; they're so popular in New +York."</p> + +<p>"A good mystery is about the most interesting thing in the world," +declared Wiggly, dropping a spoonful of sugar and stirring vigorously.</p> + +<p>"And the Gilmore tragedy—fawther has just finished telling me all +about it—isn't it dramatic?"</p> + +<p>"It certainly is, Miss Griggs," agreed the reporter, wishing the girl +were in Halifax.</p> + +<p>"And to think," she rushed on, "that Kirklan Gilmore's new wife was +such an awful woman. So pretty, too; I saw her only the other day. You +know it was such a surprise when he married her. Mrs. Huggins—she's +a seamstress and used to sew for the Gilmores—thought it was certain +that he would marry Joan; such a sweet girl, Joan."</p> + +<p>Wiggly's wandering thoughts suddenly became centered upon what the +gushing Etta was saying.</p> + +<p>"Joan?" he murmured.</p> + +<p>"Young Mr. Gilmore's stepsister, you know. Didn't you see her? Such a +sweet girl! Oh, I suppose some people would consider it unusual for a +man to marry his stepsister, but Mrs. Huggins thought it would turn out +that way. She's got sharp eyes, Mrs. Huggins has, and she said that +Joan was simply in love with Mr. Gilmore; she used to help him so much +with his work, I understand. And then, while she was away in Europe, he +married the other one. It was such a terrible surprise to everybody. +And Mrs. Huggins said——" Her gossip broke off into a gasp, as she +stared at the reporter's ears which were now wiggling almost violently.</p> + +<p>So Joan was in love with her stepbrother; she had dark hair; and he +had found a black hairpin on the floor beside the slain woman's body! +This certainly was food for thought—not only food, but a feast! The +Greenacres story gave promise of being a live mystery.</p> + +<p>And there was the cigarette butt; the husband did not smoke cigarettes; +therefore it could not be explained by his dropping it there, and, if +it wasn't Sarbella's——There was another angle.</p> + +<p>During Etta's moment of speechlessness, Wiggly debated these matters +swiftly, as he gulped down his coffee, and Constable Griggs embraced +the opportunity to get back into the conversation.</p> + +<p>"Whatcha say you wanted to see Sarbella about?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>"As I said," answered Wiggly; "there's no proof against him except +that he might be considered to have a motive, and that he also had an +opportunity to commit the crime. Juries don't send men to the death +chair on that sort of evidence. Of course, if he makes a confession +or we can trace the murder gun to him, that automatically solves our +difficulty; but Sarbella is probably shrewd enough to realize what a +weak case you've got against him; if he does realize that, and if he is +guilty, he'll have sense enough to keep his mouth shut."</p> + +<p>"Whatcha hittin' at?" growled Ham Griggs.</p> + +<p>"After you left Greenacres, Doctor Bushnell and I looked around a +little, and we found a half-burned cigarette mashed down into the +rug of the room where the woman was killed. Since Gilmore doesn't +smoke——"</p> + +<p>"Sarbella smokes 'em," broke in the constable. "Sure he does; purty +near one right after the other. Regular cigarette fiend, the feller is. +That clinches the case on him, huh? Is that what you're drivin' at?"</p> + +<p>"If he smokes the same sort of cigarette as the one Doctor Bushnell +found on the rug, I'd say it was pretty much a clincher. It would be +evidence that he had been in the room."</p> + +<p>"Of course it's his cigarette!" exclaimed Ham Griggs, lumbering swiftly +to his feet. "I'd bet a hundred dollars on it. Come on, son, we'll get +right down to the jail and prove it."</p> + +<p>"Why, fawther!" came Etta's protest. "Won't you let Mr. Price wait +until I have cooked the eggs? I was going to put them on the fire this +minute."</p> + +<p>"Speaking for Mr. Price," said Wiggly, "the coffee is sufficient. +Thanks just the same." He pushed back his chair and moved to follow the +constable.</p> + +<p>"Like as not when we face 'im with this," suggested Griggs, "he'll +break down an' make a clean breast of it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Mr. Price," called Etta, "you won't forget to—to speak to the +dramatic critic about my play?"</p> + +<p>Wiggly promised, without committing himself as to just how he would +speak of it; there are some things, from a diplomatic standpoint, best +left unsaid.</p> + +<p>The constable clumped briskly out of the house with the reporter +following. As they got into the taxi, Ham Griggs wondered if he were +not to be asked for a photograph with which to adorn the first page of +<i>The Star</i>; already he had visualized the caption: "Figures in Gilmore +Murder Case—Local Officer Who Solved Baffling Mystery."</p> + +<p>"If you want my pitcher for the paper," he suggested, "I'd better see +about havin' one struck. Of course I ain't lookin' for no puff, but——"</p> + +<p>"No use going to that expense," Wiggly broke in; "we'll probably have +a staff photographer down during the day, and he can snap you on the +scene—examining the murder gun, you know, or something like that. +Action pictures always more interesting, Mr. Constable," he ended +emphatically.</p> + +<p>The brief trip was completed, and, as the machine again drew to a halt +in front of Borough Hall, the chauffeur entered a protest.</p> + +<p>"Say, boss," he exclaimed, "you don't expect a guy to sit at the wheel +forever, do you? A man's gotta sleep some time. Guess you'd better pay +what the meter reads an' let me skim back to the big town."</p> + +<p>Wiggly paid the charge, which was twenty-seven dollars, gave a +three-dollar tip, and let him go. Griggs entered the village's public +building and led the way down into the basement, where Sarbella was +lodged. At the sound of their footsteps, ringing on the concrete floor, +the prisoner left off his nervous pacing of the cell's narrow confines +and came to the steel door of the cage. His attitude was weary, +dejected.</p> + +<p>"Mebbe you're ready to speak up, huh?" grunted Ham Griggs, facing him +from the other side of the bars.</p> + +<p>"I have nothing to add," Victor Sarbella answered; "you already have +the only statement I care to make," he paused briefly and then added, +"for the present."</p> + +<p>"Silence ain't goin' to do you no good, for I aim to keep you right +where you are until you get ready to start talkin'," blustered the +constable. "We know you killed her; we've dug up some more evidence on +you—little matter of a cigarette that you dropped on the floor of that +room out to Greenacres."</p> + +<p>"Cigarette?" muttered Sarbella.</p> + +<p>"May I have your cigarette case for a moment, Mr. Sarbella?" requested +Wiggly.</p> + +<p>The prisoner hesitated, gave the newspaper man a wary glance, and, +evidently realizing that they would take it away from him by force, +if he refused, slid his hand into his pocket, producing a silver case +inlaid with gold stripes. He shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what it's all about, but you're welcome; please do not +destroy the smokes. I've only two left."</p> + +<p>Wiggly Price took the elaborate case, which Sarbella passed through +the bars, and snapped it open. One glance was sufficient to verify +his logical doubts that the butt of the cheap cigarette which Doctor +Bushnell had discovered on the floor of the tragedy chamber had not +been the artist's. The two cigarettes before him were of an expensive +imported brand, straw-tipped and monogrammed with the man's initials.</p> + +<p>The constable was looking over his shoulder, as Wiggly extracted from +his vest pocket the flattened bit of evidence upon which both Doctor +Bushnell and Ham Griggs had expressed so much faith. He unfolded the +strip of paper that enwrapped it.</p> + +<p>"They are not the same," he announced. "I didn't expect them to be. +The question now is—to whom did this belong? It looks very much like +another man—a man with cheap tastes in tobacco—was in that room last +night!"</p> + +<p>Victor Sarbella pressed his body tensely against the bars, but not so +much as a syllable passed his lips. Perhaps there was a look of relief +in his face.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX</h2> +</div> + +<h3>ENTER SERGEANT TISH</h3> + + +<p>The constable and Wiggly had left the basement, and Griggs was almost +apoplectic with anger. He glared at the reporter with indignant disgust +and, as they entered the room used for the sessions of the borough +council, flopped down in a chair.</p> + +<p>"Now if you ain't made a fine mess of things! An' I give you credit for +havin' some sense! I might have got a confession outta him except for +your meddlin'. Dog-gone you, anyhow! He'll think now that he's got a +chance to get out of it after you tellin' him that there must have been +another man in the room where the woman was killed."</p> + +<p>"You've got to admit that it isn't Sarbella's cigarette butt," defended +Wiggly.</p> + +<p>"If I'd have known you was goin' to pull a stunt like that, I'd never +have let you in to see him," raged Ham Griggs. "Next time I'll have +better gumption than to let some fool reporter gum the cards for +me—you just bet I will."</p> + +<p>"Let's talk it over," Wiggly urged placatingly. "Let's use a little +simple logic. You admit, don't you, that this isn't Sarbella's brand?"</p> + +<p>"I don't admit nothin' of the sort," raged the constable. "Chances are +that he dropped that cheap cigarette on the floor as a blind, tryin' to +leave a false scent to fool us."</p> + +<p>Wiggly shook his head. "That won't hold water, constable; you forget +that the murderer tried to make it appear suicide. And, as I tried +to impress on Doctor Bushnell, can you imagine a man set on murder +slipping in on his victim—smoking a cigarette?"</p> + +<p>But Ham Griggs was in no mood for logic; he considered that he had +solved the case in arresting Sarbella, and he wanted it to stay solved. +A re-opening of the facts led him into water over his head, and he +foresaw himself floundering helplessly beyond his depth.</p> + +<p>"Sarbella done it!" he shouted. "He killed the Gilmore woman; he shot +her to get even. He shot her—with this gun." Dramatically he dragged +forth the automatic pistol and waved it almost wildly. "And you've +gone and messed things up by lettin' him think he had a chance to get +off—darn your hide!"</p> + +<p>The outburst was checked by the opening of the door which led into the +council room from the outside entrance, and there entered a short, +rotund man who wore his hat perched upon a bandaged head.</p> + +<p>"Where's the chief of police?" was the stranger's greeting.</p> + +<p>"I'm the constable; it amounts to the same thing in Ardmore," Griggs +answered shortly, "but I ain't got no time to be bothered."</p> + +<p>The corpulent little visitor moved back the edge of his coat, revealing +a badge of the New York police department.</p> + +<p>"I'm Detective Sergeant Tish—New York headquarters," he announced. +"Your name Griggs? You telephoned last night to the Consolidated +Taxicab Company that you'd picked up an abandoned taxi on one of the +roads near Ardmore?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I did," grunted Constable Griggs, "but I ain't got no time to +bother about taxicabs now. I've got a murder on my hands."</p> + +<p>"And I want to get my hands on a murderer," shot back Sergeant John +Henry Tish. "That taxicab was stolen by——"</p> + +<p>"Don't give a hoot if it was!" shouted the constable. "The taxi's at +Presley's garage. Go get it, if you want it." He even forgot that he +had expected to receive a ten-dollar gift from the taxicab company.</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish, however, was not to be put off so easily. He projected +his short, portly form closer and occupied a chair beside the council +table, with the air of having something to say and being determined to +say it. He wasted no time.</p> + +<p>"Listen!" he commanded, wagging a pudgy forefinger with a forceful +gesture. "This is just as important to me as your case is to you. See +this?" He tapped his bandaged head. "The man I'm after did this to me, +and I'm going to get him. He knocked me cold—after I had the nippers +on him, see? I've got to get him.</p> + +<p>"There may be some time when you'll want a favor from the New York +department. I want a little information—and a little courtesy. I'm no +windbag, and I won't keep you long."</p> + +<p>"All right," grunted Constable Griggs. "What is it you want?"</p> + +<p>"Thanks," said Sergeant Tish. "First, where was it that you picked up +the machine?"</p> + +<p>"Out on the Hudson Road, 'bout half a mile from the village proper. I +called Presley's garage an' had 'em drive the bus into their shop—and +that's all I can tell you about it, every blessed thing. I notified +the taxicab company."</p> + +<p>"Sure, I know that, and they flashed it right to headquarters. +There was a general alarm out for that taxi. So it was run into the +garage—under its own power, huh? That means Haskins didn't ditch the +car because something went wrong with the engine. That may help some. +Pretty swell folks live out on the Hudson Road, eh?"</p> + +<p>Griggs nodded. "Most of 'em is rich," he agreed; "either rich or pretty +well fixed."</p> + +<p>"Sounds like it might be a warm trail," said Sergeant Tish, puffing out +his plump cheeks. "Y'see—well, I'll have to give you the inside for +you to understand just what the situation is."</p> + +<p>Despite his first impatience, Constable Griggs became interested and +offered no protest.</p> + +<p>"This bird I'm after," pursued Tish, "is named Don Haskins. He's got +a record as long as an income-tax report. Done a couple of short +stretches at Sing Sing, one out West—Illinois—and has been in the +line-up down at headquarters and in the Tombs. It would take an expert +accountant to keep the count. He used to be a slick crook, nifty +dresser and free spender, but he'd started slippin'. They all do. +Clever—and hard-boiled."</p> + +<p>Here Tish told the constable of his encounter with Haskins.</p> + +<p>"Humph!" grunted Constable Griggs. "I see. And you're looking for your +man in these parts. Sorry I ain't got the time to help, but——"</p> + +<p>"Just a minute," broke in Sergeant Tish. "I ain't quite through yet. +I'm right at the nub of it. Eighth Avenue Annie, I guess, wanted to +cover up; anyhow, she runs out on the street yellin' bloody murder, +and a couple of uniform men rushes in to find me laid out, dead to the +world. But they brings me around, and then—oh, the grillin' we did +give old Annie! We still got her locked up on a technical charge.</p> + +<p>"Before we got through with her, she comes through with a lot of dope +she didn't want to cough up. She hadda admit that Haskins had paid her +big for his hide-out, and that he was gettin' ready to make the big +jump out of town; that he had a rich sister, a real swell, who made him +a visit and give him some dough. She was goin' to come back with more.</p> + +<p>"Now, that's the funny part of it; one of the boys down at headquarters +knows Don Haskins from the first time he went to Elmira Reformatory, +and he says that Haskins did have a sister, but that she died eight or +nine years ago, and that she didn't fit the description which Annie +give us. No matter about that, it's a cinch that some swell jane did +bring him the money. Annie says she was the class.</p> + +<p>"Now, I was just wondering, gents—Haskins leaves the swiped taxi out +on Hudson Road. The engine was O. K. That's proof that he left it there +because he wanted to, and not because the car stopped on him. Where was +he headin' for? Mebbe this swell who calls herself his sister lives +around here. Now, you've got the whole works. I want somebody to help +me check up. See?"</p> + +<p>Ham Griggs' cap was on the desk which belonged officially to the +borough council's president, his honor, Mayor Ripley. The cap +accidentally—not from any design—covered the automatic pistol which +had killed Helen Gilmore.</p> + +<p>"As I told you," reiterated the constable, "I'm too busy this mornin' +to do anything for you. Mebbe this afternoon, when I've got a +confession outta the prisoner I got downstairs, I'll have more time." +He reached for his uniform cap with a gesture of unshakable finality.</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish suddenly strained forward, his eyes bulging from out of +his plump round face, staring in open-mouthed and bewildered amazement +at the .44 on the desk.</p> + +<p>"Where did you get that gun?" he gasped, lunging out of the chair and +making a dive for it, getting his hands on it before Griggs could stop +him. "Where did you get my gun?"</p> + +<p>Ham Griggs snorted derisively. "Your gun? This here ain't your gun. It +belongs to that prisoner I got downstairs, and he shot a woman with it +last night. That's the murder case I'm workin' on."</p> + +<p>Tish's face was a strange study of emotion. "It's my gun!" he shouted. +"Here's a little place chipped off one of the butt plates. Sure it's my +gun. Police department issue—you can tell that by the serial number. +Sure, it's my gun—the one Don Haskins took off of me yesterday when he +knocked me out. And you say that a woman was shot with it—murdered? +You say that you took it off a prisoner, and that you've got him here? +You mean that you've got Haskins locked up?"</p> + +<p>The questions all jerked out with no pause, leaving him breathless, +his fat cheeks quivering. Constable Griggs was speechless, and Wiggly +Price's ears seemed determined to work themselves loose from his head.</p> + +<p>"You're dead sure, sergeant, that it is your gun?" Wiggly demanded +tensely. "It—it's very important that there should be no mistake about +this."</p> + +<p>"Don't you suppose I know my own gun?" snapped Sergeant Tish. "That's a +funny question, askin' a cop if he knows his own gun. I want Haskins, +and I want him now."</p> + +<p>Constable Griggs found things happening just a little too fast for +his slow wits. "I think you must be plumb crazy," he sputtered. "The +prisoner we got is named Sarbella, an Eyetalian feller; he's the one +that shot the woman with the gun. Gimme it back."</p> + +<p>"Like thunder I'll give it back!" retorted Sergeant Tish.</p> + +<p>"Wait!" said Wiggly. "I—I think I'm beginning to see some daylight. +Haskins was a crook; some good-looking, swell-dressed woman brought him +money—posed as his rich sister. And the minute Haskins got nabbed he +made tracks for Ardmore. The cheap, ten-cents-a-pack cigarettes! Just +the kind that Haskins might be expected to smoke. Haskins had Sergeant +Tish's gun—and that's the gun that killed her. Don't you understand, +constable? We've made a bad mistake because we didn't know anything +about Haskins. The murderer was Haskins—the crook!"</p> + +<p>And for the moment Wiggly forgot all about the black hairpin.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX</h2> +</div> + +<h3>A QUEER JUMBLE</h3> + + +<p>"Haskins killed her!" Wiggly Price repeated excitedly. "We're on the +right trail; there doesn't seem to be any other explanation now. +Haskins, the crook, shot her—with that gun."</p> + +<p>While Sergeant Tish's identification of the murder gun, as the same +automatic pistol that Don Haskins had taken from his unconscious person +the previous afternoon, plus the certainty that Haskins had deserted +the stolen taxicab at no great distance from Greenacres, made it an +obvious theory that it might have been the crook who had murdered Helen +Gilmore, Constable Griggs sputtered protestingly. No man likes to admit +a mistake. For a moment he was too eternally flabbergasted for words; +this sudden development, the appearance of a new and unknown suspect, +floundered him helplessly in a sea of bewilderment.</p> + +<p>Possibility of Victor Sarbella's innocence endangered his triumph and +put the brakes on his ego, for, by that mental process which makes men +heroes in their own eyes, Ham Griggs had given himself a good deal more +credit than he was really entitled to. He forgot that it had been the +newspaper reporter's well-functioning memory, identifying the slain +woman as "the girl in the Sarbella case," which had supplied the vital +link, the possible motive, and that, except for Wiggly, there would +have been nothing upon which to have detained the artist.</p> + +<p>Not that Wiggly Price begrudged the constable feeding his vanity +fat; for Wiggly was interested only in the story and concerned not +at all with whatever transitory fame might attach to the solver of +the mystery. Give Wiggly the story, and he was willing that Constable +Griggs should monopolize the credit.</p> + +<p>Sergeant John Henry Tish, realizing the importance that attached to +a positive identification of the automatic, examined it still more +carefully, reaffirming an already firm conviction that it was his. His +own excitement, too, matched that of the newspaper reporter.</p> + +<p>"There's no doubt about it, gents," he declared. "It's my gun."</p> + +<p>"Huh!" grunted Constable Griggs, at last finding his tongue. "There +must be hundreds of guns like that, as much the same as peas in a pod." +His skepticism was, of course, backed by the wish that it be a mistake. +"Mebbe it looks like your gun, mebbe it <i>has</i> got a busted place on the +butt plates, but that don't prove——"</p> + +<p>"A cop gets pretty well acquainted with a gun when he's packed it as +long as I've packed this one. There's a lot of little marks on it that +I recognize. I know it's my gat, and the serial number will prove it; +the department keeps a record of the numbers."</p> + +<p>"It's a police regulation, all right," grunted Wiggly Price. "I ought +to have noticed that the first thing, but I didn't. I don't think +there's much chance of Sergeant Tish being mistaken, constable, +especially since the deserted taxi gives us proof that Haskins did come +to Ardmore last night."</p> + +<p>"Well, I ain't sayin' that it ain't, but at the same time I ain't +sayin' that it is," growled Ham Griggs. "Nor am I goin' to admit that +Sarbella didn't do the killin'; if he's so all-fired innocent, what +makes him keep his mouth shut so tight? If you think I'm goin' to turn +him loose just because somebody else <i>might</i> have done it——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm not trying to have you turn Sarbella out of jail, constable," +said Wiggly. "I've no interest in him, personal or otherwise, beyond +seeing you put hands on the guilty man. Detain him long as you like, so +far as I'm concerned."</p> + +<p>"You betcha life I'll detain him long as I like!" blustered the +constable with a glare.</p> + +<p>The rotund Sergeant Tish stood impatiently to his feet, shoving the +automatic into the empty holster, where it belonged.</p> + +<p>"It sure looks like Haskins is wanted now for two croaks instead of +one," he said gruffly. "Suppose we make tracks for the place where the +woman was killed. Just wasting time here."</p> + +<p>"Huh!" sneered Constable Griggs. "You don't think the feller you're +after will still be out to Greenacres?"</p> + +<p>"Hardly," answered Tish, "but we've got to start from there, anyhow. +Haskins won't get far, I guess; there's already a general alarm out for +him. When they do nab him, I aim to have the goods on him—right."</p> + +<p>"Yes, we've got to go back to the Gilmore place," agreed Wiggly. +"We've got an entirely new angle to work on now."</p> + +<p>Ham Griggs, still voicing a half-hearted protest, perhaps further +embittered that this New York detective was now upon the scene and +would probably try to take all the glory for himself, got grudgingly to +his feet. The three men left Borough Hall and went out to the street.</p> + +<p>"Confound it!" complained Wiggly. "It must be a two-mile walk out there +to Greenacres. Why didn't I keep that taxi? And there's a real hurry, +too. Where can we get a machine, constable?"</p> + +<p>"Presley's garage—if Presley has opened up," Ham Griggs answered +sourly. "It's right around the corner."</p> + +<p>"Ain't necessary," said Sergeant Tish. "I came out in one of the +department's flivvers. Got it parked just around the corner. It's only +a two-seater, but I guess we can manage it. The main thing is to get +out to that place quick as we can."</p> + +<p>He led the way around the corner, where stood the roadster with "Police +Dept." painted upon the sides. The New York plain-clothes man got in +first, wedging his portly form in behind the steering wheel. Constable +Griggs, too, was a man of considerable bulk so that, even without +Wiggly, all available seat room was occupied.</p> + +<p>"The running board for mine," Price said cheerfully and climbed up. +"Let 'er go, sergeant."</p> + +<p>Tish started the engine, manipulated the foot pedals somewhat +awkwardly, and the little car started forward with a violence that +almost jerked the newspaper man to the ground; to save himself what +might have been a bad spill, one arm encircled Ham Griggs' neck, adding +to the latter's ill humor.</p> + +<p>"I've always heard that you newspaper fellers was a pesky nuisance," he +muttered.</p> + +<p>If Wiggly was tempted to a retort, he gave no signs of it, merely +murmured an apology. There was a moment of silence, the constable +frowning deeply.</p> + +<p>"We do know why Sarbella would have killed her," he argued; "because +she vamped his brother and drove him to suicide, but why would this +Haskins feller have done it? Answer me that!"</p> + +<p>"Haskins is a hard guy," growled Sergeant Tish. "He wouldn't have +needed much motive, that bird. Look at the way he clouted me over the +head with his handcuffs. Like as not he had some sort of hold on her. +The murdered woman must of been the swell dame that Haskins told Eighth +Avenue Annie was his sister. See?"</p> + +<p>"That ain't nothin' but guessin'," said Constable Griggs. "How are you +goin' to know if she was?"</p> + +<p>"It may be guessing, but it's a darn' good guess," replied Tish. "And, +far as that's concerned, we can have Annie down to look at the body +and tell us whether or not it was the skirt who come to her place and +handed Haskins some dough."</p> + +<p>"But <i>why</i> would Haskins have killed her?" persisted Ham Griggs.</p> + +<p>"Well, I can't say positive as to that," answered Tish, "but it would +be a pretty safe bet to figure it out. When I dropped in on him at old +Annie's yesterday afternoon, he had to beat it in such a hurry that he +left his money under the mattress; perhaps he made tracks for this +Greenacres place to get money. Y'see, constable, she was going to bring +him some more jack Wednesday—which is to-day—but I spoiled that. +Since she couldn't come to him with the dough, he come to her. Like +as not she was a little slow in coming across with the money, and he +croaked her."</p> + +<p>"Robbery, huh?" demanded Ham Griggs. "Ain't that what you're drivin' +at?"</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish admitted that this was his tentative theory regarding the +murder at Greenacres. The constable's grim face broke into a triumphant +smile, for he had led the New York detective into a deliberate trap.</p> + +<p>"That ain't no good," he said with a grunt of satisfaction. "There +wasn't no robbery, Mr. Tish, for the Gilmore woman was still wearin' +her jewelry when we found her dead. There must have been diamonds and +the like worth a good many hundred dollars. Wouldn't he have taken the +jewelry? I ask you, wouldn't he?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I didn't know about that," answered Sergeant Tish, looking +not so crestfallen as Griggs would have liked. "That seemed the most +plausible, and it's still not impossible, for Haskins may have taken +money and have been too pressed for time—you haven't told me anything +about the facts, you know—to strip off the jewelry.</p> + +<p>"Anyhow what we <i>do</i> know is that Haskins did go to Greenacres, and +that murder was done with the gun which was in his possession. If +Haskins didn't kill her, then—how did the murderer get this automatic +pistol?"</p> + +<p>Constable Griggs could not, of course, answer this question. Wiggly +Price, his feet planted firmly upon the running board of the little +car, and his fingers wrapped tightly about the rods supporting the top, +thought of something which added, to his mind, a fresh puzzler to the +whole mysterious business.</p> + +<p>"There's something else, Sergeant Tish," he said, raising his voice so +that he might be heard above the sound of the motor and the rush of the +wind, as they hurried along. "If Haskins killed her, why did he leave +the gun behind? He is a desperate man, already in open flight to escape +one charge of murder, and a man in a position such as his would want to +be armed. Chances are that he would shoot it out before submitting to +capture. You say that Haskins is a clever crook, and——"</p> + +<p>"Used to be," broke in Tish. "Been going down grade for some time. +Booze—dope, too, likely as not."</p> + +<p>"If he had any head on him at all," continued Wiggly, "he would have +known that there was every chance in the world of that gun being +traced. There's something else. The gun was planted beside the dead +woman's body, an effort to give it every appearance of suicide. Why +should Haskins have done that?"</p> + +<p>"I wish you'd give me the low-down on the case," urged Sergeant Tish. +"How do you expect me to get anywhere when you gimme the facts in jerks +and starts like that?"</p> + +<p>Constable Griggs' face wore an elated expression as he listened to +Wiggly. The reporter had declared his positive conviction of Haskins' +guilt, and yet here he was shooting his own theory full of holes.</p> + +<p>"So you've come back to my way of thinkin', eh?" he crowed. "Come on +now and admit that I put the handcuffs on the right man. The Eyetalian +done it. Sure he did. I was right all the time."</p> + +<p>The reporter's ears twitched meditatively.</p> + +<p>"I'm not saying positively that Haskins didn't kill the woman," he +answered. "But I do say that I can't understand why <i>he</i> should have +been so anxious for it to appear suicide. It's very easy to understand +a possible link between this crook and Gilmore's wife; she began life, +I think I told you, on the fringe of the underworld. Oh, I admit that +I'm stumped—bad, but there must be a hidden something, somewhere, that +will put us right."</p> + +<p>The detective sergeant's car was now at that point of the road where it +ran in front of the Gilmore place.</p> + +<p>"Turn in here, Sergeant Tish," grunted the constable, as they neared +the driveway, and Tish turned the wheel sharply. Before they had quite +reached the house, Tish stopped the machine.</p> + +<p>"Listen, gents," he said crisply, "let's get down to cases. It looks +to me as if Haskins did the job here at this place, although, as our +reporter friend says, it <i>is</i> queer that he left the gat behind. I want +to put my mitts on Don Haskins, whether he did the croak or not. And +you wanna get hold of the same bird, for, if he didn't do it, you want +him to tell you how this gun of mine got away from him.</p> + +<p>"I want Haskins, and you want Haskins. Circumstances puts us in +the same boat, and we ought to work together on this business." He +suppressed a wise grin, as he saw the look of displeasure on Griggs' +face. "Aw, don't worry, constable, I'm not going to butt in on your +territory. I'm not tryin' to steal your thunder."</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish paused for a reply.</p> + +<p>"Humph!" grunted Ham Griggs, not finding any valid excuse for refusing +this offer of coöperation.</p> + +<p>"About all I know to date," pursued Sergeant Tish, "is that a woman +was bumped off with my gun, the one that Haskins lifted from me, when +he handed me a knock-out at Eighth Avenue Annie's, that the pistol was +left beside the body to make it look like suicide, and that you've +gathered in a guy named Sarbella. If I'm goin' to help you any, I've +got to have the low-down. See?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, constable, we'd better tell him," said Wiggly Price, as Griggs +remained silent. "If you've no objection, I'll give him a brief outline +of the facts."</p> + +<p>"All right," agreed Griggs, and Price related to Tish the facts in the +case.</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish listened thoughtfully to Wiggly Price's digest of the +tragedy, and, puffing out his plump cheeks to a balloonlike roundness, +nodded his head.</p> + +<p>"It's sure a queer jumble, ain't it?" he grunted. "I don't blame you, +Griggs, for thinkin' this Sarbella fellow pulled the job, but how would +Sarbella have got hold of the gun? No, it still looks like Don Haskins +to me. Nobody else to be suspected, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>Wiggly thought of the black hairpin and that germ of suspicion which +Etta Griggs had planted in his mind by telling him of the suspected +one-sided romance between Joan Sheridan and her stepbrother. He +hesitated a moment and decided to keep this to himself, at least for +the present. Let Sarbella and Don Haskins, walking so unexpectedly into +the mystery, be eliminated before other complications were added. He +sidestepped this question by ignoring it entirely.</p> + +<p>"Surely," he said, "if Bates had let Haskins into the house, he would +have mentioned it."</p> + +<p>"Why don't we ask him whether he did or not?" grunted Constable Griggs, +for at this moment the butler had stepped out of the house into the +warming sunlight of the wide porch.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI</h2> +</div> + +<h3>A CRY OF TERROR</h3> + + +<p>The three men left the little police car where it stood and walked the +remaining few yards to the house. Bates saw their coming; as a matter +of fact, he had from within noticed their approach, and he had come out +to meet them. Despite his evident weariness, he was patently eager for +any news. Constable Griggs, quickly forestalling any move that might +tend to crowd himself out of the major role, planted himself directly +in front of the butler, frowning sternly.</p> + +<p>"When was the last time you saw the dead woman alive?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>"Immediately after dinner," answered Bates; "she went directly +upstairs, and I did not see her again until—until she was dead."</p> + +<p>"How long had you been in bed when it happened?"</p> + +<p>"It was some time, sir; at least two hours, I am sure."</p> + +<p>"What I'm hittin' at is this," explained Griggs; "we've got some new +dope that may mean something, and then again it may not. Did you let a +strange man into the house last night, or did you see any strange man +prowlin' about the place?"</p> + +<p>"I—I don't believe I understand," murmured Bates. "A strange man, +sir—prowling about the house?"</p> + +<p>"That's what I said," grunted the constable, "and it's evident that you +didn't. Was the doors locked?"</p> + +<p>"Absolutely," Bates answered firmly. "I always lock up before turning +in for the night. I have been very careful about that, especially since +the burglar scare that we had last year."</p> + +<p>"Then the man couldn't have got into the house unless you had let him +in?" pressed Griggs.</p> + +<p>"The woman herself might have let him in, constable," interposed +Sergeant Tish. "If the butler had gone to bed she might have done it +without any one hearing her."</p> + +<p>"Huh!" retorted Ham Griggs, with a quicker flash of reasoning than +might have been expected. "How would she have known Haskins was about, +unless he rung the doorbell, or called her on the phone, or something +like that? Until you, Sergeant Tish, trapped 'im in that place in New +York, he didn't know his own self that he was comin' to Greenacres."</p> + +<p>"I am positive that there was no ring of any sort, either doorbell or +telephone, until Mr. Gilmore got me up to let him in—just before the +shot," offered Bates. "Any sort of ringing would have awakened me. But +this strange man—I do not understand. Who——"</p> + +<p>"Might as well tell you, I suppose," grunted the constable. "We've +found out that the murder gun most likely belongs to this man"—he +jerked his head toward Tish—"who is a detective from New York. The gun +was taken away from him by a feller named Haskins, who swiped a taxi in +New York to make his get-away, and that same taxi was found by myself +out on the road, 'bout one and a half or two miles from here. So——"</p> + +<p>"Then it isn't Mr. Sarbella's gun?" broke in Bates with a gasp of +surprise.</p> + +<p>"That don't mean I've turned Sarbella out of jail, not by a whole lot, +it don't," growled Ham Griggs. "He might have got hold of the gun +somehow; he might——" But, being unable to supply any further theory +of Sarbella's guilt, his voice stopped abruptly. There was a moment of +silence, broken by Bates.</p> + +<p>"Did I tell you about the letter?" he asked in his thin voice. "No, I +think not. It was Doctor Bushnell that I told about the letter."</p> + +<p>"What letter?" demanded Griggs.</p> + +<p>"The letter that came for Mrs. Gilmore on Monday," supplied the butler. +"I considered it most peculiar at the time, a very dirty envelope, +addressed with a lead pencil. She seemed much upset over it, although +she tried to pass it off."</p> + +<p>"It might have been from Haskins at that," spoke up Wiggly Price, +and he turned to Sergeant Tish. "It was yesterday—Tuesday—that you +cornered Haskins in the place you call Eighth Avenue Annie's. What day +was it that the swell-dressed woman called on the man at that place?"</p> + +<p>"Monday," answered Tish.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" exclaimed the newspaper man triumphantly, and his ears wiggled a +bit. "It was Monday that the murdered woman got this letter that Bates +tells about. Bates, did she go to New York on Monday?"</p> + +<p>"I don't think to New York, but she did drive somewhere in the +motor—out into the country, I believe she said."</p> + +<p>"Yes, so she said," nodded Wiggly with meaning emphasis. "That doesn't +make it true that she didn't go to New York. Any one accompany her on +this motor trip?"</p> + +<p>"She went alone; she returned late in the afternoon."</p> + +<p>"Say!" exploded Ham Griggs with a glare. "One would think <i>you</i> was the +officer in charge the way you're bustin' in with all these questions."</p> + +<p>"Just one question more, Constable Griggs," urged Wiggly. "I'm not +trying to be officious. Bates, let us suppose for a moment that this +man, Don Haskins, did get into the house in some way or another, would +he have had time to get down the stairs before you and Mr. Gilmore +rushed up—and then let himself out of the house, while you and Mr. +Gilmore were upstairs?"</p> + +<p>Bates debated this question for a moment and then shook his head +positively.</p> + +<p>"He would not," he replied; "but he might have easily found a place +to conceal himself in one of the rooms upstairs. There is one bit of +detail that I may have forgotten to mention. When Mr. Gilmore and I +were about halfway up the stairway, I am positive that I heard a door +slam very loudly—very loudly, indeed."</p> + +<p>"Huh!" grunted the constable. "That don't mean anything much. It might +just as well have been Sarbella rushin' back to his room after havin' +shot her." And then he indulged in another bit of reasoning which did +him credit. "If it was the Gilmore woman who went to see Haskins in +New York, we know she wasn't too afraid of him to go see him in that +cheap joint Sergeant Tish told us about. And yet she was afraid of the +one who come in on her last night—because she screamed. Why did she +scream? I'll tell you why she screamed; it was because she knowed that +Sarbella had come to kill her! Just put that in your pipe and smoke it +a while."</p> + +<p>"Not a bad deduction," nodded Sergeant Tish, "but the thing that +puzzles all of us is—how did Sarbella get the gun away from Haskins? +We're just wastin' good time arguing back and forth. Let's go upstairs +and see if we can't pick up something new."</p> + +<p>"The—the body has been removed," the butler informed them. "The +undertaker left an hour since. Doctor Bushnell was very careful that +nothing else should be disturbed, and the room is locked. Doctor +Bushnell——"</p> + +<p>"And took the key off with him, I suppose," growled Constable Griggs.</p> + +<p>"Doctor Bushnell, as I started to say," went on Bates, "is still here. +Mr. Gilmore seems to be in quite a bad way, and the doctor is looking +after him."</p> + +<p>"We'll go on upstairs," declared Griggs. "Tell the doc that we want him +to come right on up and let us into that room."</p> + +<p>Wiggly Price did not follow them immediately; he loitered downstairs +until Bates had delivered the message to the doctor and had returned. +The butler, luckily for Wiggly, had not been told the reporter's true +interest in the case, else he would have doubtless guarded his tongue +most carefully.</p> + +<p>"It's a bad business, Bates," said the newspaper man to begin the +conversation.</p> + +<p>"A terrible business," agreed the butler. "You don't think that Mr. +Sarbella killed her?"</p> + +<p>"You do?"</p> + +<p>"What else could I believe, with all the queer happenings? But I hope +not—as much for Mr. Gilmore's sake as anything, sir; he seems to take +Mr. Sarbella's arrest almost as hard as the murder."</p> + +<p>"She was a bad lot, your master's slain wife, Bates."</p> + +<p>"I am not surprised at that," murmured the servant. "I sensed that +she wasn't the right sort. I think we all realized that—except Mr. +Kirklan."</p> + +<p>"Of course he wouldn't; she was a remarkably beautiful woman, and he +was in love with her. Quite a sudden marriage, I understand."</p> + +<p>"Very sudden; a surprise and a shock to all of us."</p> + +<p>"It's much too bad, Bates, that Mr. Gilmore did not marry a woman +of the right kind—Miss Joan, say." Wiggly's tone was disarmingly +careless, and Bates did not understand that information was being +sought.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it certainly is," agreed the butler earnestly, falling +straightway into the little trap. "We were all hoping that it would +turn out that way. All of us, except Mr. Kirklan, could see with +half an eye that Miss Joan was in love with him, even if she is his +stepsister; it cut her up terribly when she came home from Europe and +found her here. Not only here, sir, but in Miss Joan's own room."</p> + +<p>"The room where the murder was committed?"</p> + +<p>"Exactly, sir; that was Miss Joan's old room—the one that she had +occupied since she was quite a small girl. When she came back I didn't +have the heart to tell her about the room. 'Bates,' she says to me, +'take the bags up to my room.' And I didn't have the heart to tell +her—knowing how much store she put by it."</p> + +<p>This information, verification of what Etta Griggs had told him, might +mean something or nothing, Wiggly knew; probably nothing. It was just +that he had that avidity of the trained newspaper reporter for all +the facts, because experience had taught him it is often the smallest +detail which, in the light of other things, achieves prime importance. +And there was the black hairpin; he was thinking of that again.</p> + +<p>That could not be overlooked.</p> + +<p>At this moment Doctor Bushnell appeared from the room on the first +floor, where he had placed Kirklan Gilmore, and whose bedside he was +just leaving.</p> + +<p>"Gilmore is in a bad, nervous state," he imparted after a nod to the +reporter. "You saw him upstairs before you left for the village; he was +bad enough then, but I'm afraid of a complete collapse—one of those +high-strung, emotional chaps, you know. If his thoughts are allowed to +torture him, they might even drive him to insanity; he must be kept +quiet. Poor devil! It's much too bad that a love like that should have +to be wasted on a woman like her. Then, to make matters worse, to make +the shock double, the man whom he considered his friend——"</p> + +<p>He paused, remembering the cigarette butt that Wiggly had taken down to +the village.</p> + +<p>"What did you discover?"</p> + +<p>"That it was not Victor Sarbella's cigarette that had been dropped upon +the rug. More than that, doctor, we've got another suspect now."</p> + +<p>"Another suspect? What other suspect could there be?"</p> + +<p>Briefly Wiggly Price told the physician of Sergeant Tish's appearance +at Borough Hall, his identification of the murder gun, and the other +matters which turned the finger of suspicion so strongly toward Don +Haskins, the crook who had already been in flight from one murder +charge. This information left Doctor Bushnell almost speechless.</p> + +<p>"It's astounding!" he gasped. "Positively astounding! It—it does have +a plausible sound, for a fact."</p> + +<p>"The thing that bothers us," Wiggly told him, "is why Haskins should +have been so careful to have it appear suicide. Surely no one besides +Helen Gilmore knew that he was inside the house. Obviously he came for +money—he had a hold of some kind on her; probably knew about her past +and was levying blackmail; but there's no evidence that he got any +money, and he didn't touch her jewelry."</p> + +<p>"You can't spend jewelry without first pawning or selling it," the +doctor said shrewdly; "possibly he realized that it would be too +dangerous for him to risk appearing in a pawnshop. Perhaps he did get +money."</p> + +<p>"He wouldn't have had to kill her for that," countered Wiggly. "If +he did know of her past, this knowledge alone was sufficient to +extort money. He wouldn't have had to kill her. But let's be getting +upstairs. Griggs and Sergeant Tish are waiting for you to let them into +the murder room. Now that we're working from a new angle, it's best to +go over the ground again, and we've daylight now."</p> + +<p>The physician nodded and started for the stairs.</p> + +<p>"The crook's guilt would be the most satisfactory solution," he said, +"but it did look bad for Sarbella. Is he still being detained?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. You can't blame Griggs for holding him; the murder isn't solved +yet, and it won't be, to my notion, until a number of points are +cleared up," answered Wiggly.</p> + +<p>As they reached the second floor, Ham Griggs and Sergeant Tish were +waiting, the former with considerable impatience. Doctor Bushnell +unlocked the door of the murder chamber and threw it wide. The body of +Helen Gilmore, as the butler had informed them, had been removed, but +the chaise longue, its creton upholstering stained with dark splotches, +bore its mute testimony of the tragedy.</p> + +<p>"Here we are," grunted the constable, "but I dunno what you expect to +find more'n has already been found."</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish projected his rotund form to the center of the room, +glanced about briefly, and then went to the windows, raising the shades +to their full height so that all possible light would be admitted. At +the second window the ripped curtain dangled before him and drew his +attention.</p> + +<p>"It would be my guess," he said, pointing to the curtain, "that this +means one of two things: Either it was done in a struggle with the +murdered woman, or when the murderer beat it through the window." He +paused a moment and added: "Still, it doesn't look as if he'd have +taken the time to shut the window behind him."</p> + +<p>He peered through the glass to the roof of the porch, puffed out his +round cheeks, and quickly threw up the sash. There had been no rain in +weeks, and the porch shingles were covered with a coating of dust. This +film was broken where Don Haskins' body had wiggled upward from the +cornice in his careful approach to the window, and, in more places than +one, the imprint of the man's stockinged feet showed. At Tish's grunt +of elation, Constable Griggs dashed forward, with Doctor Bushnell and +Wiggly behind him.</p> + +<p>"Somebody either entered or left this room through the window!" +exclaimed Tish. "There's his trail in the dust on the shingles."</p> + +<p>"Entered!" said the newspaper reporter, his ears twitching. "You can +see that those footprints—and the man was in his stockings—are all +turned this way. Yes, he came in by the window, but he didn't leave by +the window. Another check in Sarbella's favor.</p> + +<p>"The man must have torn the curtain here, as he came into the room."</p> + +<p>Constable Griggs gulped, but said nothing. Sergeant Tish bent forward +and examined the pane of the raised sash. Clear and distinct there were +the prints of a man's fingers—on the inside of the glass. These prints +were punctuated with downward streaks, as if the fingers had slipped, +but the whorls had not been obliterated; in fact they were clear and +distinct.</p> + +<p>Tish reached his pudgy fingers to the breast pocket of his coat and +drew forth a Bertillon card which he had borrowed from headquarters, +and which bore, in addition to rogues' gallery photographs, full-face +and profile, of Don Haskins, the crook's finger prints.</p> + +<p>He bobbled his head back and forth, getting the light at the best +possible angle, and then he compared the finger prints on the window +glass with those upon the card. He gave a grunt of satisfaction and +nodded his head in affirmation.</p> + +<p>"Yep, this clinches it, gents. These are Haskins' finger prints on +the window. Good thing I brought this card along, huh?" It is hard +for a man with a chubby face like Tish's to look grim, but his voice +certainly was grim, as he added, "Haskins is wanted now for two +murders. The job now is—find Haskins."</p> + +<p>Wiggly Price leaned closer, and he, too, observed that the finger +prints were on the inside of the pane.</p> + +<p>"That means," he said, "that Haskins came in the window and closed +it behind him. Those smudges at the top of the prints show that his +fingers slipped a little on the glass, and that his pressure was +downward. And, had he been raising the window, the finger prints would +have been at the top of the sash rather than at the bottom."</p> + +<p>"That's true," Tish agreed absently, returning the Bertillon card to +his pocket and turning away from the window. "Haskins must have climbed +to the roof from the porch below. Guess we'll find evidence of that, +too, on the porch pillars, although it's not particularly important how +he got up; the thing that counts is that he did, that the man was in +the house, in this very room."</p> + +<p>Ham Griggs realized that this new evidence, the incontrovertible proof +of the finger prints, completely knocked the legs out from under +his persistent theory of Sarbella's guilt, and for the moment he +surrendered to a stunned and bewildered helplessness.</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell's eyes remained upon the windowpane, with an intent and +fascinated interest.</p> + +<p>"Most remarkable!" he murmured. "How much can be proven by such a small +thing as the touch of a man's finger! The one witness, I understand, +that cannot lie. But what is the next move?"</p> + +<p>"Find Don Haskins," Tish answered promptly.</p> + +<p>"And that's a big order," sighed Wiggly Price. "The man's probably +miles away from Greenacres by now. However there's nothing like being +thorough, and, if Constable Griggs can get a posse together——"</p> + +<p>"Huh!" snorted the constable. "You don't think he'd still be hangin' +anywhere around Ardmore?"</p> + +<p>"That depends on whether he got hold of any money," replied Sergeant +Tish. "He was broke when he left New York, y'know." He took a step +across the room and bent forward, as his foot crunched down upon a +piece of the broken vase on the floor beside the table. He picked it up +and held it in his fingers.</p> + +<p>"Haskins probably lurched against the table and knocked it off," said +Wiggly, explaining what it was. Tish glanced with slight interest at +the shattered bit of porcelain and tossed it down. It did, of course, +seem too trivial a thing for any serious consideration.</p> + +<p>"We've put in a pretty good quarter of an hour here," grunted Tish, +"and I guess we've done about all——Good Lord! What was that?"</p> + +<p>From out in the hallway there had come to the ears of the four men the +sound of a choking, terrified cry, a jarring, dull thud, a rending +crash of broken glass. And then—silence.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII</h2> +</div> + +<h3>WHAT THE COOK SAW</h3> + + +<p>There is no drama greater than the drama of life. The actors are more +than often thrust into rôles that are not of their choosing, and they +respond to cues that they do not recognize as cues, blindly obeying the +director as he plunges them into unsought situations.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bogart, the Gilmore cook, who came to Greenacres each morning and +returned to her home on the outskirts of Ardmore each evening, was in +the kitchen; and, although it was baking day, not so much as a cup of +flour had been sifted. She had arrived shortly after daybreak, to be +greeted with news of the murder, and immediately she gave herself over +to intermittent outbursts of weeping. Not that Mrs. Bogart, wide of +hips, ample of bosom and stolid of countenance, with straight, black +hair brushed severely back from her low and usually damp forehead, +had any great feeling of bereavement; but, for all of her phlegmatic +aspect, the cook was given to strong emotions. At the funeral of a +comparative stranger, for instance, it was the sound of her sobs which +arose above the muffled grief of the immediate family.</p> + +<p>So Mrs. Bogart, except for brewing a bit of breakfast tea and toasting +some slices of bread—badly burned, at that—neglected her kitchen +work and gave way to her emotional nature. From Bates she had learned +that the undertaker had arrived, and that "the new Mrs. Gilmore" had +been, as she phrased it, "laid out" in one of the spare bedrooms on the +second floor.</p> + +<p>Now, Mrs. Bogart, her attendance at funerals amounting to an obsession, +had gazed into the face of death innumerable times, but she had never +known the thrill of looking into the features of one who had been +murdered. People about Ardmore were in the habit of dying prosaically +in their beds. This was an opportunity that might never come to her +again; and well-to-do folks, she had observed, frequently had their +funerals conducted privately, turning back the pryingly curious.</p> + +<p>For some time Mrs. Bogart, whose place was strictly the kitchen, and +who had no other household duties, had been trying to think up an +excuse to visit the second floor, considering that this might offer her +an opportunity of viewing the dead woman. Not possessing a particularly +agile mind, it took her some little time to arrive at this bit of +pretense, and she wouldn't have thought of it then except for some +empty fruit jars. And, while the jars might have better gone to the +basement, Mrs. Bogart craftily decided to carry them upstairs to the +third floor and into the seldom-used storeroom.</p> + +<p>"Goodness knows," she murmured, "I've been threatenin' for days upon +days to get 'em out of the kitchen."</p> + +<p>Straightway she mounted to a chair, took the fruit jars from the +shelf where they had been temporarily placed, used a dish cloth in +improvising a sling which would carry the full ten of them, and +started for the third floor. At some time or another there had been +a back stairs to the Gilmore house, but this had been closed off in +making some modernizing alterations, so that Mrs. Bogart perforce +had to wend her way to the reception hall and up the wide front +stairway—hoping that Bates would not see her and order her back to her +own domain.</p> + +<p>Bates, however, did not appear to interrupt her little pilgrimage of +morbid curiosity. She reached the second floor and, having to pass the +room wherein Helen Gilmore had been shot to death, paused for a moment +outside the narrowly open door, as she sought in vain to get anything +like a good look inside. And, while she could not see much, her ears +certainly got her a thrill, for it was at this moment that Sergeant +Tish had said: "Yep, this clinches it, gents. These are Haskins' finger +prints on the window. Good thing I brought this card along, huh? +Haskins is wanted now for two murders. The job now is—find Haskins."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bogart's eyes bulged, and the empty fruit jars came perilously +near crashing to the floor. Two murders! What did they mean? Who else +had been murdered, and who was Haskins? Up to the moment of her last +talk with Bates about the tragedy all suspicion had been leveled at +Sarbella.</p> + +<p>She tarried a moment, but there was nothing of the conversation on the +other side of the door to enlighten her; not wishing to run the risk of +being caught at eavesdropping, she moved on down the hall toward the +stairs, the top of the house, and the seldom-used storeroom.</p> + +<p>The entrance to the third floor stairway was inclosed, and it was +reached by means of a door. Mrs. Bogart's hand went out to the knob; +her strong fingers closed about it with a muscular grip, and then a +startled gasp sounded on her lips, and a chill swept over her body. +The door had yielded a bare inch when she felt a retarding pressure, +holding it shut against her. Some one was on the other side!</p> + +<p>"Mebbe—mebbe it's just stuck a little," she muttered in a gulping +whisper. "Mebbe I imagined it." She braced her body, took a fresh and +determined grip on the knob, and tried it again. Under exertion of +this strong pull the door, still in the grasp of that opposing, unseen +force, came toward her a bare inch or so, revealing to her staring +eyes, indistinct in the shadows of the inclosed stairs, a bleary, +unshaven face—a face hideously haggard, terrifying.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bogart staggered back with a choking, frightened cry upon her +lips; the fruit jars crashed to the floor, with a thud and the sound of +splintering glass, and the woman herself toppled over in a dead faint. +From the side of her face there gushed a stream of blood, where the +ragged edge of a broken jar had slashed the flesh. After the woman's +cry, the four men in the room up the hall stood staring at each other +for a brief moment.</p> + +<p>"What's happened now?" gasped Wiggly Price, and Constable Griggs was +too utterly stupefied to make a sound.</p> + +<p>"It sounds like a woman's scream," said Doctor Bushnell, looking no +less dazed than the rest.</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish was the first to leap into motion, projecting his pudgy +body out into the hall with the other three at his heels. At the sight +of the prostrate Mrs. Bogart, surrounded by broken and unbroken fruit +jars, with the blood still streaming from her face, the New York +detective stopped dead in his tracks.</p> + +<p>"What's this?" he shouted. "Who is this woman, and what's happened to +her?"</p> + +<p>Constable Griggs edged forward and made a number of queer sounds before +he finally found voice.</p> + +<p>"It—it's Mrs. Bogart—she that does the cookin' for the Gilmores!" he +gulped. "She's all bloody. Do—do you reckon that she's been murdered, +too?"</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell brushed past and knelt quickly to the floor at the side +of the unconscious woman.</p> + +<p>"She's not dead!" exclaimed Wiggly Price, noting the rapid rise and +fall of Mrs. Bogart's bosom.</p> + +<p>"Nor badly hurt, I think," said the physician, as he made a rapid +examination. "The blood here is from a superficial wound; she's been +cut by this broken glass. I wonder what <i>has</i> happened to her?" He +jerked his head toward the newspaper man. "Get my medicine kit, Price," +he commanded. "You'll find it downstairs; I left it on the table in the +library."</p> + +<p>Wiggly dashed down the stairs in instant response. Yes, what had +happened to this woman whom Griggs identified as the Gilmore cook? Was +this another angle to complicate the Greenacres tangle?</p> + +<p>Passing through the hall into the library he heard a familiar +voice; it was "Tip" Gregory, a star reporter for a rival New York +newspaper, <i>The Transcript</i>, pleading with the butler for admittance +and information, and Bates was sternly refusing him either. Wouldn't +Gregory have gnashed his teeth in baffled rage if he had known that +Wiggly Price had things so sweetly to himself!</p> + +<p>But the situation was too tense for wasting any time or thoughts upon +what was, after all, only an accidental triumph. He had the silly Etta +Griggs to thank for being here, on the inside of a big story, instead +of spending the morning canvassing the other papers for a job. In the +library was Doctor Bushnell's medicine kit; he grabbed the handle of +the little bag, wheeled and raced up the stairway again.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bogart was stirring, a moan passed her lips, but she had not +returned to consciousness.</p> + +<p>"Is she badly hurt, doctor?" Wiggly asked, as he placed the kit upon +the floor.</p> + +<p>"No, this cut would not cause unconsciousness. She must either have +fainted and fallen, or fainted because she fell. Sometimes sudden and +profuse bleeding causes——"</p> + +<p>The physician's words broke off at the sound of a stifled cry coming +from the turn of the hall, where the corridor led off to the wing of +the house. Joan Sheridan, alarmed by Mrs. Bogart's scream of fright, +had hurriedly left her room to investigate. Her face told of a +sleepless, harrowed night, and now her eyes were wide and startled with +this threat of fresh terror.</p> + +<p>"Oh," she whispered, "it's Mrs. Bogart. In Heaven's name what—what has +happened now?"</p> + +<p>"That's what we are not exactly certain of, Miss Joan," answered Doctor +Bushnell, as he cut a dressing for the wound in the cook's face. "She +must have fallen. It is nothing serious; do not let it agitate you."</p> + +<p>Wiggly Price had looked up quickly at the name of "Joan," for this was +the first time that he had seen her, the stepsister who was so much in +love with Kirklan Gilmore. She was not aware of his scrutiny, so he had +ample opportunity to study her closely. His experience at reporting had +given him a sort of instinctive ability to gauge the human emotions, +and he had a feeling that there was more than horror in the girl's dark +eyes, and he read it with one brief word—fear.</p> + +<p>This look of fear was not dissipated by the physician's assurance that +Mrs. Bogart's injury was superficial. It remained, a peculiar, almost +indescribable expression.</p> + +<p>"Your mother, Miss Joan, is resting quietly after the shock?" murmured +Doctor Bushnell, stanching the flow of blood in the unconscious woman's +cheek. "I will see her again presently."</p> + +<p>"Y-yes," Joan Sheridan said faintly; "mother is sleeping, and Bates has +told me that Mr. Sarbella had been placed under arrest."</p> + +<p>"That's true," nodded the doctor, "but it looks now that he will +be released very shortly. You were right when you were so sure +that Sarbella was innocent, and I have a new respect for a woman's +intuition. I think you'd better go back to your room, please."</p> + +<p>But the doctor's reassuring words seemed to have other than a soothing +effect upon Joan; if possible, her face became a shade more pale. +Certainly she gave a violent start, and that smoldering light of fear +leaped into a wild light of terror.</p> + +<p>"You mean——" The shaking whisper that came from her lips was hardly +audible.</p> + +<p>"Please, Joan, please!" exclaimed the doctor. "This is no time for +questions. I've a fainting woman on my hands, and a new suspect +entirely, a crook who got in by the window. The gun was his. No more +questions now."</p> + +<p>A gasp that seemed to be at the same time amazement and relief came +from the girl; a look of bewilderment showed in her face. Her hands, +so tightly clenched at her sides, relaxed; swiftly she turned and +disappeared around the bend in the hall.</p> + +<p>Wiggly Price's ears twitched violently, for he, unlike the others—and +he, too, would have doubtless overlooked it but for the black hairpin +and the gossip Etta Griggs had given him—had observed her agitation +when told that Sarbella had practically been removed as a suspect, and +her surprise and the relaxing tenseness when she learned of the other.</p> + +<p>Did this mean that she had knowledge of the crime, which, for reasons +of her own, she had kept to herself? With this Wiggly linked still +another question: Why had Joan Sheridan been so positive of Victor +Sarbella's innocence? For Wiggly was of the opinion that "woman's +intuition" is something greatly exaggerated. The answer to the latter +question was in itself unimportant; for that matter, so had Kirklan +Gilmore been certain, to the point of vigorous protest, that the +artist had not fired the fatal shot.</p> + +<p>Wiggly made up his mind then and there that, while Constable Griggs was +searching for Don Haskins, he would be searching for the answer to Joan +Sheridan's puzzling behavior. He was certain there must be something +behind it, a vital something that would have an important bearing on +the crime.</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell had completed dressing Mrs. Bogart's wound, having +delayed restoratives until this was done. Now he was chafing her wrists +briskly, and the woman was showing signs of coming to her senses. With +startling suddenness her eyes flew open, and she sat erect; since +her first conscious thought was a return to the moment of her swoon, +a fresh cry of terror burst from her throat. It trailed off into a +gurgle, as she realized that she was not now alone.</p> + +<p>"It's all right, Mrs. Bogart," the physician told her soothingly. +"You've had a nasty fall and cut yourself a little on those broken +jars; but it's nothing to worry about."</p> + +<p>"That man!" cried Mrs. Bogart. "Where—where did he go? It's Heaven's +own blessing that he didn't murder me in my tracks. He was peering out +at me, and everything went dizzy black in front of me. I——"</p> + +<p>"Her head ain't right yet," grunted Constable Griggs. Mrs. Bogart, +letting her heavy fingers touch gingerly to her bandaged face, heard +the local officer's skeptical remark and bridled in indignation.</p> + +<p>"I tell you I seen him!" she shrilled, pointing to the door which +closed off the third-floor stairs. "I seen him behind there. He +was holdin' the door shut on me. I was takin' these jars up to the +storeroom. I seen him—lookin' out at me through the crack. He's there +now, if he didn't run out. I tell you I seen him!"</p> + +<p>All four of the men exchanged quick, startled, almost incredulous +glances. The same thought had leaped into all their minds. Sergeant +Tish, staring at the closed door, mechanically hitched his gun holster +within easier reach.</p> + +<p>"Do you think it's possible, men, that she did see a man, and that he +is——" began Doctor Bushnell.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it must be Haskins!" cried Wiggly. "Haskins is still in the +house! We dashed out into the hall when she screamed. The man's had no +chance of escape."</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish pursed his lips, frowned, and shook his head. "I can't +believe it," he muttered. "I can't believe Haskins would be such a +boob, hiding on the scene of the crime all these hours after the murder +has been committed. It's ridiculous."</p> + +<p>Constable Ham Griggs decided he had been in the background long +enough; events had been developing too fast for him to keep pace with +them, but here was a situation that he could cope with. It required +no deductions, only action. He took a decisive step forward, dragging +forth a somewhat ancient forty-five-caliber revolver, which he gave a +dramatic flourish.</p> + +<p>"Stand back!" he roared. "I'm the officer in charge here, and I'm goin' +up there to get my man!"</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII</h2> +</div> + +<h3>THE TRAPPED RAT</h3> + + +<p>With the breath wheezing noisily through his parted lips, which were +twisted back so that his clenched teeth were bared, Don Haskins leaned +tensely against the wall of the storeroom on the third floor of the +Gilmore house. Grim and desperate terror held him in its grip.</p> + +<p>"They've got me—they've got me now!" he groaned. "Caught like a rat in +a trap!"</p> + +<p>Half the night and all of the morning he had tried in vain to slip out +of the house—somewhere, anywhere. Each effort had been frustrated +by the danger of discovery; at each attempt there had been voices +or footsteps in the hall, or floating warningly up the stairs. Then +the coming of daylight had made the contemplated dash all the more +hazardous.</p> + +<p>He had about made up his mind to wait for another coming of darkness, +when he had heard the arrival of a car, and, peering down from the +narrow dormer window, he had seen the arrival of Detective Sergeant +Tish. The coming of Tish naturally filled him with wild terror, for +that could mean but one thing—the New York detective had trailed him +to Greenacres!</p> + +<p>So, after several minutes of tortured indecision, he had crept down the +inclosed stairs, determined to make a break for it.</p> + +<p>He could not put up a fight, for he had no weapon. While he had +crouched at the foot of the stairs, ears straining in an effort to +catch any sound of warning from the other side of the panel, Mrs. +Bogart had turned the knob, and Haskins had seized it from the inside, +holding the door fast. Then she had yanked it again, the eyes of the +two met through the narrow crack, and the woman had screamed.</p> + +<p>For Don Haskins there had been but one choice, that was to hurry back +to the storeroom and wait. There was no bolt on the door, but he +barricaded it with a packing box filled with non-descript odds and +ends, such as people relegate to the garret. There was no means of +escape except the stairs; the dormer window mocked him with its deep, +unbroken drop downward. And no weapon; even the clutter of stuff that +half filled the storeroom offered him nothing that would serve as a +cudgel. So, helpless, defenseless, muttering curses between his locked +teeth, he waited. He wondered why it was so long, why the New York +copper did not come pounding up the stairs to get him. His eyes were +upon the door, his gaze intent upon the knob—watching for it to turn. +And then he got an idea!</p> + +<p>The knob was held in place by a screw, and, for lack of a screw driver, +he went to the task with his finger nail. The screw was set fast, and +the nail tore down to the quick, but he did not notice the twinge of +pain, merely attacked the screw with the thumb nail of the other hand. +At last it turned, and the heavy metal knob was free.</p> + +<p>Haskins, that his shoes might make no alarming sound upon the bare +boards of the storeroom, was in his stockings. Hastily he tore one of +his socks free from his foot, dropped the doorknob into it and he had +a deadly slung shot that he could swing with telling effect. Not much +of a weapon, perhaps, but vastly better than no weapon at all. He put +on both shoes, the one over a bare foot, and again waited with tense, +twitching nervousness.</p> + +<p>It must have been another five minutes—to Haskins the minutes dragged +into the length of hours—before he heard a voice raised to a bellow +and the tramp of heavy feet upon the stairs. He flattened his body even +closer to the wall, at a point where he would be behind the door when +it opened, as he took a tighter grip about the weighted sock.</p> + +<p>There may have been some doubts as to Constable Griggs' nimbleness of +mind, but there could be no doubt as to his personal courage, as, yards +ahead of Sergeant Tish, he dashed, two and three steps at a time, to +the third floor.</p> + +<p>"Come on outta there an' surrender!" roared Ham Griggs. "Dead or alive, +Haskins—that goes for you!"</p> + +<p>But Don Haskins did not come out to surrender. He made not the +slightest sound. Griggs again shouted, but still there was no response, +and he began to share Tish's doubts of the wanted man being in the +house. Perhaps Mrs. Bogart's story had been purely a figment of the +imagination.</p> + +<p>Without, however, relaxing the vigilant position of his gun, he reached +forward and tried the door. It moved back a little, and he met the +obstruction of the barricading packing box. The constable applied the +pressure of his shoulder, and his free hand cautiously cocked the +hammer of the revolver. The door was forced back another few inches.</p> + +<p>The barred door, of course, was proof that the storeroom was occupied; +he paused a moment to peer through the narrow opening. No signs of +Haskins.</p> + +<p>"He's here," he yelled down the stairs to Tish, who was looking up from +the bottom. "He's got the door blocked. I'm goin' in, and I'm goin' in +a-shootin'." Again his body battered against the door.</p> + +<p>Don Haskins, his mouth parted into a terrible grimace, swung back his +arm. As the constable's head and shoulders appeared at the edge of the +door, the sock, the metal knob stuffed wickedly in the toe, described a +swift arc and caught Griggs a heavy blow on the skull.</p> + +<p>With a grunt he pitched forward to the floor in a senseless heap; the +convulsion of his body pulled the trigger of the revolver, and its +roaring, angry voice thundered through the upper part of the house. The +gun slid across the boards and bumped against the leg of the discarded +couch.</p> + +<p>Haskins dropped his improvised weapon and leaped for the gun; his body +had scarcely straightened when Sergeant Tish came pounding and panting +up the steps, drawn automatic in his hand. As Haskins whirled, he again +faced this Nemesis who had trapped him at Eighth Avenue Annie's. No +word was spoken; both knew it was one or the other.</p> + +<p>Haskins fired first, but only by the difference of a split second; +the two shots rang out almost as one. Sergeant Tish's shoulder became +suddenly numb, a searing numbness, as hot lead bored the flesh. His arm +dropped limply helpless to his side, and a sickening nausea paled the +chubby roundness of his cheeks.</p> + +<p>The other man reeled on his feet and steadied himself against the wall. +A gasping gurgle, that trailed off into a curse, burst through his +hideously parted lips, and his left hand, pressing to his waist, became +red with a trickle of crimson.</p> + +<p>But Haskins did not fire again; there was no need. Sergeant Tish's +fingers had lost all their strength, and the automatic clumped to the +floor. He could offer no resistance when Haskins stumbled forward, +cleared the body of the unconscious constable, and went plunging down +the stairs. In the doorway at the foot of the steps Wiggly Price and +Doctor Bushnell were staring upward. Haskins lifted the revolver +menacingly.</p> + +<p>"Get outta my way!" he gritted. "I'll kill the first man that tries to +stop me."</p> + +<p>It would have been a foolhardy thing to have opposed the flight of this +armed, desperate man, wanted for murder, trying to beat the electric +chair. Doctor Bushnell, clutching Wiggly Price's arm, made haste to get +out of Haskins' path. Mrs. Bogart screamed shrilly and dashed wildly +for the first door. She hurled herself into the room and braced her +body against the panel.</p> + +<p>Haskins, as he reached the second floor, was reeling like a drunken +man. His left hand, still clutching his body near the top of his +trousers was hot and sticky with his own blood. He reached the top +of the second stairway which led down to the first floor—and what? +Even in his desperately chaotic state of mind, he knew that the odds +were against him. But anything was better than the chair, and it was +that—or this. He felt his strength swiftly ebbing from his body, +slipping away from him through that hot, burning hole in his abdomen.</p> + +<p>Downstairs, Bates, the butler, had heard the double shot and for a +moment was incapable of movement. It was only with supreme effort +that he got his frail old legs in motion and propelled himself toward +the stairs. Halfway up he faced Haskins, who held weavingly to the +bannister rail.</p> + +<p>"Out—out of my way!" ordered Haskins, but his voice was thick, +hoarsely unsteady. The revolver wabbled with the lurching of his body. +Before Bates, petrified with terror at the menace of the pointing gun, +could obey, the wounded man at the top of the stairs sagged forward and +went crashing down, sliding, bumping, clawing, and his body came to a +halt on the first landing at Bates' feet. He had just enough strength +to lift himself weakly to his elbow.</p> + +<p>"That dirty dick—got me—good!" he muttered. "I—I hope I +croaked—him. Curse the cops! The cops and the skirts—to hell with +both of 'em!" He coughed chokingly. "I'm dyin'," he screeched. "I'm +bleedin' to death—inside."</p> + +<p>His distorted mouth was flecked with red.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV</h2> +</div> + +<h3>HASKINS KEEPS HIS SECRET</h3> + + +<p>Stunned and sick from the paralyzing impact of Haskins' bullet, +Sergeant Tish did not realize that his own shot had found an even more +vital mark; he had failed to see the trickle of crimson that welled +from between the wanted man's fingers, as the latter had pressed his +hand hard against his body. In a daze the New York detective only +realized that the desperate fugitive was escaping from him a second +time, and that his flight must be stopped. As his thoughts cleared +a little, it occurred to him that Haskins might try to leave in the +police car out in front of the house, but he would have a hard job of +that, for the plain-clothes man had the key to the ignition switch in +his pocket.</p> + +<p>The local constable still lay in a huddled, grotesque heap on +the floor, and he had not moved. Despite his own haste to pursue +Haskins—his injury would not stop that—Tish leaned over Ham Griggs, +puzzled that there was no evidence of a terrible, lethal wound. He +had taken it for granted that Haskins must have had another weapon in +addition to the one left beside the body of the murdered Helen Gilmore, +and that he had shot down Griggs, as the latter had burst in upon him +in the attempted capture. All he could find was a purpling swelling at +the edge of Griggs' temple; and then he saw the improvised weapon, the +strangest that had ever come to his notice—the sock weighted with the +doorknob.</p> + +<p>"Huh!" said Sergeant Tish, with a grunt that was more than half a +groan. He saw what had happened. "Haskins beaned 'im with that thing, +handed him a knock-out, and then took his gun away from him." He bent +still a little lower and perceived that the constable's breathing was +reassuringly regular. "Don't look like he was goin' to croak."</p> + +<p>As Don Haskins collapsed and went crashing down the stairs, Wiggly +Price and Doctor Bushnell stood gaping at each other, both struggling +with indecision as to which direction they would turn as their first +move to follow this breathless race of happenings. What had happened +upstairs they did not know, only that to their ears had come the +ominous sound of three pistol shots, and that neither Constable Griggs +nor Sergeant Tish had come down.</p> + +<p>"What's happened to the two officers?" cried Doctor Bushnell. +"Perhaps——" Before he could finish the sentence, Tish appeared at the +head of the inclosed stairway, his right arm dangling limply, a trickle +of blood seeping down beneath the edge of his coat sleeve, twisting +into a fantastic crimson design about his wrist and the back of his +hand.</p> + +<p>"What's happened up there?" shouted the physician. "Heavens, man, +you're wounded! Griggs——"</p> + +<p>Tish had retrieved the automatic and held it in his left hand rather +awkwardly, but determined to use it if he could.</p> + +<p>"The constable is knocked cold," he said, as he came down the steps. +"You'd better look after him, doctor. Haskins has——"</p> + +<p>Wiggly Price had rushed to the head of the other stairs, from where +he could see Don Haskins sprawled upon the first landing, gasping for +breath and mopping the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand. +The revolver had slid several steps down and was safely out of the +man's reach.</p> + +<p>"Here he is, sergeant!" shouted the newspaper man. "He nicked you, but +you got him worse than that."</p> + +<p>Again Doctor Bushnell struggled with indecision. Three men wounded! +Which of them should have first call upon his professional services? +Don Haskins' choking wail, coming from down the front stairs, decided +him.</p> + +<p>"I'm dyin'!" he croaked. "I say I'm dyin'." And with the next breath +he muttered a vicious curse upon "the cops." But, before the doctor +could move out of his tracks, Joan Sheridan had again come flying from +the east wing of the house and clutched his arm. At the moment of her +appearance she saw Tish.</p> + +<p>"Those shots—what do they mean?" she panted. "What—what has happened +now?"</p> + +<p>"We have caught the murderer," answered Doctor Bushnell, gently +pushing her away. "The crook who killed Kirklan's wife was in hiding +on the third floor." Another groan came from Haskins. "There was some +shooting; the man's desperately wounded. I am going to see now. Go back +to your room, Joan; you've had enough horror."</p> + +<p>But the girl crept to the top of the stairs after him and stared down +with a shudder.</p> + +<p>"I—I can't understand!" she whispered. "They say that man killed her. +I—I can't understand!" she whispered. "They say that man killed her. +I can't understand!"</p> + +<p>Had Wiggly Price been privileged to hear those whispered words of +Joan's it would have added fresh fuel to his smoldering suspicion that +she knew more about the death of Helen Gilmore than she was willing +to tell. The newspaper man had hurried down the stairs and, elbowing +the butler out of the way, bent over Haskins. A moment later Doctor +Bushnell had joined him, Tish close behind. The doctor shook his head +gravely, as he saw the bloodstained saliva about Haskins' lips.</p> + +<p>"Internal hemorrhage," he murmured. "I don't think there's much chance +for him."</p> + +<p>As if to verify this diagnosis, Haskins gave a gasping cough, and the +crimson foam became a trickle.</p> + +<p>"Ain'tcha gonna call a priest?" he murmured. "I'm dyin', I tell +you—dyin'."</p> + +<p>"Keep him alive, doc, until I get a full confession out of him," urged +Sergeant Tish. "Haskins, come through; make a clean breast of——"</p> + +<p>"No questions for a moment," broke in the physician. "Let him be quiet +until I see what can be done for him. No matter what he's done, he's +entitled to the best a doctor can give him. It's barely possible that +an immediate operation——"</p> + +<p>Don Haskins made a half-sobbing, half-growling protest.</p> + +<p>"Nix on the—operation stuff. It wouldn't do me no good—anyhow; I tell +you that I'm bleedin' to death—inside of me."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell jerked his head toward Wiggly.</p> + +<p>"Help me with him," he ordered. "We'll have to get him somewhere, so +that I can see what can be done for him." And to the butler: "Bates, up +the stairs quick—get my bag. It's on the floor in the hall—near the +other stairs. And, Bates, where can we take this man?"</p> + +<p>"There are but two guest rooms, sir; one Mr. Sarbella occupied, and the +other—the body has been placed there."</p> + +<p>"Then it will have to be Sarbella's room," declared the doctor. "Help +me up with him, Mr. Price. Careful, Haskins; the more exertion the more +the bleeding and the slimmer your chances."</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish's bullet-punctured shoulder, now that the numbness of the +thudding impact was passing, throbbed with an excruciating agony, but +he clamped his teeth together, having no intention of making a demand +upon Doctor Bushnell's professional services until a statement was had +from the possibly dying prisoner. He could offer no assistance, but he +followed back up the stairs, as Bushnell and the newspaper reporter +supported Haskins to the second floor and along the hall to the guest +room which had been Sarbella's.</p> + +<p>Joan Sheridan tarried indecisively another moment or so and then +she returned to her own room, her mind in no way cleared of the +bewilderment. She longed for explanations, but knew this was no time to +ask questions.</p> + +<p>In the guest room Haskins was placed upon the bed where, as his first +act in an effort to save the mans' life, Doctor Bushnell quickly +prepared an internal astringent, a drug calculated to check the inward +bleeding. Then he examined the wound with the aid of a probe; Haskins' +slowing pulse warned the physician that life was ebbing, and that +there was no hope.</p> + +<p>"The nearest hospital is fifteen miles away, and the trip would be +fatal," he said. "And I have never specialized in surgery. I have tried +to check the internal blood flow, but there is nothing else I can do. +All that I can suggest is to call Doctor Hollis, who is a surgeon. If +the man is still alive when Hollis gets here——"</p> + +<p>"It—it ain't no use," gasped Don Haskins. "I'm gonna croak, and I know +I'm gonna croak."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Haskins, it looks that way," nodded Doctor Bushnell; "if you've +got any statement to make you'd better make it now. Anyhow I'll +telephone Doctor Hollis and then look after Ham Griggs. Unconscious, +didn't you say, Sergeant Tish? Lord, the house has suddenly become a +hospital! What about your own injury?"</p> + +<p>Tish shook his head. "I can wait—until Haskins has talked," he said. +"You'd better look after the constable first, anyhow. It may be worse +than it seemed to me."</p> + +<p>Don Haskins was breathing heavily, his eyes closed, his hands clenched. +As the doctor left the room, Tish leaned forward, but became dizzily +faint and had to seek the support of a chair.</p> + +<p>"You might as well talk, Haskins," he said. "What made you shoot +Gilmore's wife?"</p> + +<p>The prisoner's lips twisted. "You're gonna give me the rap for that?" +he muttered weakly. "Tryin' to hang two croaks onto me—and I never did +either one of 'em." His eyes opened slowly. "Dago Mike—did he tell the +cops that I did for the watchman—that loft job in the Bronx?"</p> + +<p>Tish nodded. "Yes, that's what he told the inspector," he answered.</p> + +<p>"It's a lie," said Haskins, but without any great emotion of +indignation; perhaps, being so sure that he was dying, he did not +care, or it might have been that he did not have the strength left for +vehemence. Still, again, it was possible that it sounded so flat and +colorless, this denial, because it lacked the ring of truth. "Dago Mike +done it. I knowed he'd squeal; he always was a dirty rat. I was a fool +to go into a job with that—that scum. Yeah, Dago Mike was the one that +did the watchman."</p> + +<p>Tish winced with a fresh throb of pain from his shoulder. "Why did you +shoot Gilmore's wife?" he repeated.</p> + +<p>Haskins turned his head, let his mouth twist into a harsh smile, and, +lifting his hand slowly, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. +There was again a little blood.</p> + +<p>"Gilmore's wife?" he retorted in a hoarse whisper. "She was—my wife!"</p> + +<p>Wiggly Price started forward with an exclamation of amazement, and his +ears danced with excitement.</p> + +<p>"W-what?" he gasped. "Y-your wife? You mean that? Great heavens, Tish, +I believe he's telling the truth!"</p> + +<p>The New York detective gestured for silence with his uninjured arm.</p> + +<p>"Shut up!" he commanded tersely.</p> + +<p>"Yeah, that's—that's what she was—my wife," went on Don Haskins in a +whisper, which, as he continued to talk, was at times hardly audible. +"She done bigamy when she married—Gilmore. She—she never got no +divorce—from me.</p> + +<p>"I'm gonna talk, see. What I'm tellin' you is strictly on the level. I +know I'm goin'—fast; there ain't no use for me to—cover up. Curse the +skirts! If it wasn't—for her——" His voice trailed off in a choking +excitement, his eyes closed momentarily, and the two eagerly listening +men were afraid that it was all over with him, but Haskins looked at +them again.</p> + +<p>"I—I guess she thought she'd shook me—after I busted up a mash she +had on a guy named Sarbella; but I kept cases on her—got a line on her +when I come back from Chi—parole from a long stretch at Joliet.</p> + +<p>"Then I gets into that Bronx job jam, and I needs dough—bad. And +quick. So I send for—for her, and she——" He had to stop again to +wipe his mouth free of that trickle of blood which oozed upward from +his punctured stomach.</p> + +<p>"And she came to Eighth Avenue Annie's," supplied Tish. "She gave you +some money. We know that much; go on, Haskins."</p> + +<p>"She was comin' back—to-day—with a thousand iron men," proceeded the +prisoner's weakening whisper. "Then Annie tipped off the cops. Curse +the old hag! I dunno why Annie——"</p> + +<p>"She did not," grunted Sergeant Tish; "I saw her buying some duds and +trailed her. Annie didn't double cross you."</p> + +<p>"When I lays you out—and beats it," went on Haskins, "I—I guess +you know part of it, how I swipes a taxi an' blows out here?" Tish +nodded. "I sneaks around the house an' spots—Helen's window, does a +porch-climber stunt to the roof, gets into her room, an'——"</p> + +<p>"And shot her—with my gun," prompted the detective. But, if Haskins +was the murderer, he did not fall into this trap of suggestion.</p> + +<p>"I'm givin' it to you—straight," his whisper went on. "I didn't croak +her; I—I grabbed her, and she—got the gat—outta my pocket, but +I didn't know that—then. We hears a door slam, an' we thinks it's +Gilmore—in the—next room. She sneaks me into the hall and tells me to +hide—third floor. Says she'll get me some dough and get me—away."</p> + +<p>The man's words were so faint and came from his lips in such a jerky +tumble that both Tish and Wiggly Price had to lean close in order to +hear the rest of his story.</p> + +<p>"When I gets up there—third floor, I knows it was her—took—the gun. +I—I guess she was afraid I was gonna—use it—on her. She knowed she'd +done me dirt. Curse her—she made a bum—outta me.</p> + +<p>"I—I wants that gun, see! After a while I sneaks back down to—second +floor—to make her—gimme the gat. As I gets to—to the foot of the +stairs I hears a scream. It comes from—from her room. Then—then +there's—a shot."</p> + +<p>Both Tish and Wiggly looked skeptical at this, but neither of them +spoke; both sensed that Don Haskins had something to add. They were +right; he had. After another moment of silence, Haskins' lips moved +again.</p> + +<p>"The—the door—was open; the—the light was burnin'—inside, an' I +seen—the one who did the job—comin' out—of the room."</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish snorted derisively.</p> + +<p>"Haskins," he flung out, "you're lying! Are you going to face your +Maker with that lie on your conscience? That stuff's the bunk. You +killed her, and you might as well come through."</p> + +<p>"Wait a minute, sergeant," whispered Wiggly; "ask him whom he saw +coming out of the room. There's a chance that he may be telling us the +truth!"</p> + +<p>Tish hesitated a moment, stirred in his chair, winced with the pain of +the movement, and then accepted the suggestion.</p> + +<p>"There's just one way that you can prove that you are giving us +straight goods, Haskins," he said, "and that's to tell us who came out +of the room."</p> + +<p>Don Haskins closed his eyes again, and a queer, crooked, mirthless +grimace caught up the corners of his mouth, a grimace all the more +horrible because a fresh trickle of crimson seeped across his lips +and trickled down his unshaven chin. Whether he had begun his story +with the intention of ending it at this most unsatisfactory point, or +whether the abrupt termination was a matter of sudden decision, can +never be known.</p> + +<p>"She—she was—no good," he told them in an almost inaudible whisper. +"She—she made a bum outta me when—when she gimme the go-by. She made +that Sarbella kid do a Dutch, and she handed Gilmore—a mean wallop. +She got—what was comin' to her. If I wasn't gonna croak—I'd have +to talk to save—my own self; but I ain't gonna make no trouble—for +nobody—on account—killin' her. That's all you get—from me."</p> + +<p>"He's lying!" gritted Tish. "Sure he's lying. He killed her."</p> + +<p>But Wiggly Price was not so sure. If Haskins, as it seemed, knew he was +dying, why should he lie? There was one possibility why he should; it +might have occurred to him that he still had a chance to cheat death, +and he had cunningly concocted this yarn out of the whole cloth.</p> + +<p>Thoughts and theories leaped through Wiggly's mind. If Haskins' story, +improbable as it sounded, were true, the Greenacres mystery had been +returned to its first status, and suspicion returned even more strongly +to Victor Sarbella. Guilt lay between the artist and Joan Sheridan. +Again the newspaper man thought of the girl's agitation when told +that suspicion had turned away from Sarbella, her relief and yet +bewilderment when she had heard that circumstances pointed to Haskins, +the crook; and he thought, too, of the black hairpin.</p> + +<p>"You're lying, Haskins," Tish said again; "but what gets me is that you +didn't make a break for it after the shooting."</p> + +<p>The wounded man stirred slightly. "I—I tried—to make—my get-away," +he whispered, "but there was two guys comin' up the front stairs, an' I +hadda dodge back—to—the attic."</p> + +<p>"Haskins," burst out Wiggly, "the person you saw coming out of that +room—was it a man or a woman?"</p> + +<p>But Don Haskins shook his head feebly. He made no other response. +A little later, while Tish still plied insistent and exasperated +questions, the man's body twitched and relaxed; then a gush of crimson +poured from his mouth.</p> + +<p>"He's dying!" cried Wiggly and made a leap toward the door to summon +Doctor Bushnell.</p> + +<p>It was too late. Haskins' eyes had opened and were fixed glassily upon +the ceiling. He was dying with his last, stubborn silence unbroken; and +the Gilmore tragedy was yet to be solved.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV</h2> +</div> + +<h3>THE SKEPTICISM OF SERGEANT TISH</h3> + + +<p>The doctor had found Constable Griggs' injury worse than he had +anticipated, for Haskins had struck a vicious blow with the doorknob +wickedly concealed within the toe of his sock; there was a bad skull +fracture that threatened fatal results. With Bates to help him, Doctor +Bushnell had placed Ham Griggs upon the discarded couch and had just +completed a painstaking examination, when Wiggly Price came pounding up +the third floor stairs to the storeroom.</p> + +<p>"Quick, doc!" panted the newspaper man. "Haskins is dying; he's got +another hemorrhage—a worse one. I'm afraid he's a goner."</p> + +<p>The doctor motioned to the butler.</p> + +<p>"You stay here with the constable, Bates," he ordered. "I'll be back in +a moment; we've got to get this man to the hospital. He's dangerously +hurt, Price; a bad skull fracture." As he spoke, he was following the +reporter back down the stairs. "I'm not surprised about Haskins. But +there was nothing more than I could do for him, and Griggs needed me, +too."</p> + +<p>"The other doctor, the surgeon, you telephoned for——"</p> + +<p>"Is operating at a hospital in New York this morning; I was unable to +reach him. But, for that matter, I do not believe any human agency +could have saved Haskins. Perhaps, after all, it's better this +way; circumstances are doing what the State would doubtless have +done—exacted his life in payment."</p> + +<p>They had reached the door of the guest room. Sergeant Tish still sat in +his chair beside the bed; he turned slowly, painfully.</p> + +<p>"You're too late," he said.</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell stepped forward, was silent for moment; then he +inclined his head.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he agreed. "I'm too late, but it doesn't matter; even an +operation was a forlorn hope. I could not have kept him alive; nothing +could have done that, I think." He stared down at the dead man's +contorted features. "An evil face," he murmured. "An evil end for an +evil life. Did he make a confession, sergeant?"</p> + +<p>"No, confound his stubbornness!" growled Sergeant Tish. "He gave us a +wild kind of yarn that explained his connection with the Gilmore woman, +his hold on her, and how he got into the house, but denied that he did +the shooting. Of course he was lying."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell nodded. "He killed her—certainly," he agreed. "The way +he knocked out Griggs and shot you is proof that he was a cold-blooded +killer. What was the hold that he had over the dead woman?"</p> + +<p>"She was Haskins' wife—his legal wife."</p> + +<p>The physician gasped and, thinking of the beautiful Helen Gilmore, +stared down at the hideous face of the dead criminal, with a look of +amazement that bordered upon incredulity.</p> + +<p>"What—the wife of that man? It seems absurd, absolutely preposterous! +I find it next to impossible to believe it. Then, when she married +Kirklan, she——"</p> + +<p>"Committed bigamy," finished Sergeant Tish with a jerk of his head that +sent another stab of pain through his wounded shoulder. "That's it, +doctor; and that is what gave him a hold on her—why he was able to +have her visit him at Eighth Avenue Annie's day before yesterday, give +him money and agree to give him still more; that was why he fled to her +for protection and was hiding when I stumbled onto him. I guess that +part of it is true, all right.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps not so amazing as it would seem. Haskins was not always the +bum he is now. They used to call him Nifty Don in his palmy days; he's +hit the skids since then. He blames her for slipping; she threw him +over, as I got it. I wish you'd take a look at this shoulder of mine, +doc; the wound is throbbing like a sixty-horse-power engine."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell murmured a hasty apology for neglecting him so long.</p> + +<p>"I'll have a look at that right now, Sergeant Tish. Three emergency +cases all at one time is a big order for a doctor. Price, will you +get my kit from the third floor? I'm hoping there's enough gauze and +bandages to do."</p> + +<p>"The constable come around all right?" asked Tish, as the newspaper man +hurried from the room.</p> + +<p>"A bad skull fracture, sergeant, where Haskins struck him a terrific +blow on the side of the head. I'm taking him to the hospital just as +quickly as I've got you patched up a bit. You, too, if there is need."</p> + +<p>"Don't think it'll be necessary, doc. Lord, what a wild morning it's +been!" He gritted his teeth, as the physician slipped down the coat +sleeve and began ripping away the shirt. "What's happened to Gilmore? +Strange that he didn't show up with all the racket."</p> + +<p>"Probably asleep under the influence of the opiate that I gave him +to relax his strain," answered Doctor Bushnell. "He's one of those +high-strung, emotional fellows, and I couldn't risk too much nervous +tension with him. He was on the verge of a collapse. Poor devil! He's a +good sort; doesn't deserve what that woman has done to him."</p> + +<p>Wiggly returned with the doctor's kit, and Bushnell began to work +swiftly; the wound in the detective's shoulder had bled but little. The +bullet, he found, had struck the collar bone at a deflecting angle, +plowing for a brief distance along the top of the clavicle, where it +was imbedded just beneath the skin.</p> + +<p>"You're a lucky man, Sergeant Tish," grunted the doctor. "If that had +been a little lower there would have been the very devil to pay. The +worst danger is that the bone has been cracked, and I do not think it +has been. This treatment, of course, is only temporary; I'll look after +you again later."</p> + +<p>It was the work of but a few minutes to make a shallow incision which +removed the bullet, cauterize the wound, and apply dressings.</p> + +<p>"I shall take Griggs to the hospital in my car," said Bushnell, as he +finished. "The butler can go along with me. We'll be back within an +hour or so—just as soon as I can manage it. I suppose Sarbella will +have to stay in jail until Griggs recovers consciousness and releases +him."</p> + +<p>Wiggly broke a considerable silence.</p> + +<p>"It's my notion," he said, "that Sarbella had better stay right where +he is until—well, until the case has been cleared up completely."</p> + +<p>The doctor stared in surprise. "What do you mean by that?" he +exclaimed. "Not that there's any doubt but Haskins killed the woman?"</p> + +<p>"Not the slightest doubt that Haskins did it," Tish declared in a +positive tone. "I don't take any stock in his story—that is, the part +of it in which he denied doing the shooting. I suppose the rest of it +is straight enough."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell looked reprovingly at the newspaper man. "I must say," +he said severely, "that you are a most perverse young man. When the +weight of all the evidence was strictly against Sarbella, you were +trying to prove his innocence. Yet now, when the discovery and capture +of this desperate criminal—the legal husband of the dead woman—makes +it practically certain that Haskins was the murderer, you suddenly +change front and——"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it's because I've got more faith in the truth of Haskins' +story than Sergeant Tish has," broke in Wiggly Price. "In my mind the +case against Sarbella is stronger than ever—circumstantially. But, +with what we've got, I don't think for a minute that a jury would ever +convict him. Haskins' account of things does explain how Sarbella, +or"—he hesitated cautiously—"or some other person might have got +possession of the gun."</p> + +<p>"Or some other person!" exclaimed the doctor impatiently. "Tut, Price, +don't be such an utter ass. I've something more important to do than +listen to a new crop of empty theories. What other person, pray, have +you in mind?"</p> + +<p>Wiggly felt that any mention of Joan Sheridan would arouse the +physician's antagonism; moreover it would serve no purpose. So he chose +the wise course of answering the question only with a shrug of the +shoulders.</p> + +<p>"The constable is a heavy man, and the butler old and rather feeble," +he said, abruptly switching the subject; "perhaps I'd better help you +get him downstairs and into your car."</p> + +<p>"Yes; please," grunted Doctor Bushnell.</p> + +<p>Tish trailed along behind the two and waited on the second floor, +while the physician and Wiggly went to the storeroom to carry down the +unconscious Ham Griggs.</p> + +<p>"He hasn't moved a muscle since you left, Doctor Bushnell," reported +the butler. "Except that I can see him breathing I'd think he was dead."</p> + +<p>The doctor issued brief, terse instructions, and he and Wiggly formed +a human packsaddle by grasping each other's wrists. In this way, their +heavy burden between them, they made their way down from the third +floor, while Bates hurried off to get a supply of pillows for padding +the tonneau of the doctor's car.</p> + +<p>"I was going to suggest that you come along," Bushnell suggested; but +Wiggly shook his head.</p> + +<p>"No, I'd like to stay here," he answered. "Bates will do as well as I +for your trip."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I see," the physician said shortly, "you want to gather some new +theories about the tragedy. You're making a fool of yourself, Price; +the case, thank Heaven, is solved."</p> + +<p>"Hope so, doctor, but that remains to be seen."</p> + +<p>"Certainly it's solved!" exclaimed Bushnell with asperity. "As deputy +coroner I shall convene a jury and hold an inquest as quickly as +possible—this afternoon. I'll bring the district attorney back with me +when I return from the hospital. The verdict will be a mere matter of +formality."</p> + +<p>"Yes," agreed Wiggly, "a mere matter of formality, unless we turn up +something new."</p> + +<p>The butler came hurrying out of the house with the pillows; the +doctor took them from him and arranged them supportingly behind the +unconscious constable's shoulders.</p> + +<p>"Get your hat, Bates," he instructed; "you'll have to go along."</p> + +<p>Three or four minutes later the physician's machine, Bushnell at the +wheel and Bates in the rear seat with the insensible Griggs, rolled +down the white-graveled driveway, and Wiggly returned to the house, +wondering a little what had happened to Tip Gregory, reporter for the +rival paper, <i>The Transcript</i>. Probably Tip, rebuffed at Greenacres, +had gone to the village in search of information.</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish had come down from the second floor and had established +himself in one of the library's roomy chairs, making himself as +comfortable as his twinging shoulder would permit. His roundish +face was still gray with the throbbing pain, but he endured it with +fortitude.</p> + +<p>"Well, young man," he grunted, "you've got a darn good story, and you +ought to be satisfied. Seems to me that it's good enough to suit your +paper without your trying to add anything imaginative."</p> + +<p>"Meaning," replied Wiggly, "that you'd have me quit thinking. Nope, I +stick to my hunch that Haskins' story was what he said it was—strictly +on the level."</p> + +<p>"Bunk!" snorted Tish.</p> + +<p>"Let's talk it over, sergeant," Wiggly urged earnestly as, hands +rammed deep into his pockets, he strode up and down the room, his ears +twitching slightly. "Does it seem reasonable to you that Haskins would +have left the automatic behind him after the shooting?"</p> + +<p>"Humph!" the New York detective grunted non-committally.</p> + +<p>"That gun," went on the newspaper man, "was his one friend, the only +hope that he had if he were cornered. Besides, leaving the gun behind +served no purpose—no purpose whatever. In fact, if he had the brains +to reason it out, he would have known that there was a chance—a +serious chance—of the automatic being identified as your gun. It's the +common thing to trace a gun by its serial number."</p> + +<p>"He might have dropped the gun accidentally and didn't have a chance to +get his hands on it again."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I say, sergeant, that's too thin!" exclaimed Wiggly. "It's taking +too much for granted to presume that the gun accidentally fell in a +position directly beneath the murdered woman's hand. No, that was done +with the deliberate intention of having her death appear suicide."</p> + +<p>"It's a good point, and it's reasonable," admitted Tish, "but it +doesn't prove anything. I got to admit it does seem a little queer that +Haskins would have left the gun behind."</p> + +<p>"And it hooks up with Haskins' story about missing the gun, realizing +that the Gilmore woman had lifted it out of his pocket, and his +determination to risk a trip downstairs again in an effort to get it +back."</p> + +<p>"Humph!" Tish said again.</p> + +<p>"When you identified the gun as yours—the one that Haskins took away +from you when he knocked you out at Eighth Avenue Annie's yesterday—it +did seem impossible that Sarbella, or any one else, could have done the +shooting. But let us suppose that Haskins' dying statement was true. +The Gilmore woman had the gun; maybe she took it because she was afraid +of her legal husband."</p> + +<p>"Whatcha mean—'or any one else?'" growled Tish. "You keep hinting +at something you haven't let me in on. If it wasn't Haskins or +Sarbella——Aw, you talk like a fool!"</p> + +<p>Wiggly hesitated for a moment. "Tish," he said slowly, "I don't know +that I'm exactly holding any aces, but I'm going to lay all my cards on +the table and let you have a look at 'em. We know why Sarbella might +have killed the woman."</p> + +<p>"Motive ain't strong enough," broke in the detective with a shake of +the head. "His kid brother lost his head over her and killed himself; +that's all."</p> + +<p>"Ordinarily I'd agree with you, but when we think of Sarbella's motive +we've got to think of a race that is credited with a passion for +personal vengeance. The Latins are hot-blooded, and their blood does +not cool quickly like ours. They nurse a grudge for years.</p> + +<p>"Let us suppose that Sarbella went to the Gilmore woman's room, not +with the intention of killing her, but to tell her that, unless she +made a full confession to her husband, he would tell Gilmore, himself. +The gun was there—the gun that she had taken away from Haskins—and +the man's hatred for this bronze-haired vampire who caused the suicide +of his brother and the ultimate death of their mother, mastered him."</p> + +<p>"Suppose anything you darn please," grunted Tish. "It's easy enough to +cook up stuff, but making it hold water is something else. Yeah, I'll +say it is."</p> + +<p>"But there's something else," persisted Wiggly. "You've missed the +hidden undercurrent that I've sensed. I tell you, Tish, there's +something beneath the surface of things in this house."</p> + +<p>"Meaning just what?" the detective asked skeptically.</p> + +<p>"Did you notice Gilmore's stepsister—Joan Sheridan her name is—when +she came out into the hall after the cook fainted?"</p> + +<p>Tish eyed the newspaper man half curiously, half disgustedly.</p> + +<p>"I saw her," he answered.</p> + +<p>"Yes, you saw her, but did you see the expressions of her face? Did you +notice how excited she became——"</p> + +<p>"Say, I guess any woman would be excited, after what had happened, to +hear a woman screaming like that cook did, and her face all bloody on +top of it."</p> + +<p>"When the doctor told her that Sarbella had been removed from +suspicion, and that some one else had done the shooting," Wiggly went +on, "well, I saw it, Tish; and I saw, too, what a look of relief +came into her face when Bushnell told her that it was Haskins, the +crook. The human emotions seldom lie, Tish, and, take it from me, that +Sheridan girl knows a lot more about this thing than she is willing to +tell."</p> + +<p>"Rave on!" growled Sergeant Tish. "I'd given you credit for having a +balance wheel, but that's nut stuff you're pulling now."</p> + +<p>"Wait a minute," Wiggly pressed on, not discouraged by the other's +derision. "Maybe you remember that Haskins refused to answer me when I +asked him if it was a man or a woman he saw coming out of the Gilmore +woman's room after he heard the shot."</p> + +<p>"I can answer it, even if Haskins didn't; it was a man come out of the +room, and it was Haskins himself. Whatcha trying to do now—hang it +onto the Sheridan girl? Think it would make a better story for you, +huh? Aw, forget it! Why would she have done it?" The question came in a +triumphant tone.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I've got you an answer for that, Tish," Wiggly replied. "So you +demand a motive; all right, I'll furnish that, too. The strongest and +most unreasoning of motives, the most deadly—jealousy!"</p> + +<p>"Huh?"</p> + +<p>"Joan Sheridan is in love with her stepbrother. I got that from the +constable's daughter this morning."</p> + +<p>"A woman's gossip!" snorted Tish. "I wouldn't go two cents on no kind +of talk like that."</p> + +<p>"And verified it by the butler," Wiggly added doggedly. "The +constable's daughter is a great little gabber, and I wouldn't take +her unsupported word; so I felt out Bates, and he admitted that the +household had rather hoped for a match between Gilmore and Miss +Sheridan. Yes, she's in love with her stepbrother; used to help him +with his work and that sort of thing. The butler told me that it was +a great shock to Miss Sheridan when she returned home from Europe and +found that he had married during her absence.</p> + +<p>"There's another little point; it might not seem so much, but I can +imagine how it must have added to the blow. Miss Sheridan also returned +home to find this strange woman—Gilmore's bride—had taken possession +of her own room, a room that she had occupied for years and had +formed a deep attachment for. I gather that a very strained situation +resulted; even the servants took a dislike to the new Mrs. Gilmore.</p> + +<p>"Man, I tell you there's something under the surface; I tell you that +we've only scratched the surface, so to speak, of the Gilmore mystery. +If Miss Sheridan would talk, we might learn something interesting." He +tossed up his hands in a helpless gesture. "It would be silly to try +and quiz her until we've got something to face her with; that would +only spoil whatever chances we may have of getting to the bottom of it."</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish frowned and puffed out his plump cheeks; he was thinking +things over now; then he shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Don't take much stock in it," he declared.</p> + +<p>"Jealousy is a primitive passion," argued Wiggly. "I'd consider it a +stronger motive than revenge. Between Sarbella and the girl——"</p> + +<p>"No," Tish corrected himself, "I don't take any stock in it at all. +Haskins did the murder; Haskins is dead, and the case is closed. Don't +bother me with any more of this stuff."</p> + +<p>"There's one more thing that I haven't told you," said the newspaper +man. "You remember the color of the murdered woman's hair?"</p> + +<p>"Sort of a dull gold, isn't it?" grunted Tish, interested in spite of +himself. "What's the color of her hair got to do with it?"</p> + +<p>"Bronze is the right color, Tish; naturally she uses bronze hairpins, +as I verified by a look at her dressing table. And yet on the floor +beside the chaise longue I found a black hairpin, and Miss Sheridan's +hair is dark."</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish puffed out his cheeks, looking up slowly. For a full +minute he debated this information before he stirred.</p> + +<p>"Women are always dropping hairpins outta their heads; might have +been a servant, or Miss Sheridan, for that matter, paying a perfectly +innocent visit to the room." Yet the detective's tone was deliberate, +thoughtful.</p> + +<p>"Remember the Hitchcock murder—solved by a black mourning pin?"</p> + +<p>Moving cautiously in an effort to keep any painful strain from his +shoulder muscles, Tish stood to his feet.</p> + +<p>"Mind you," he warned, "I don't say that I think you're within a +hundred miles of being right, but it'll do no harm to go upstairs and +have another look around."</p> + +<p>In the light of Tish's previously derisive skepticism, Wiggly felt that +he had achieved something of a victory.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI</h2> +</div> + +<h3>BITS OF TALLOW</h3> + + +<p>Presently Tish and Wiggly Price were once more within the room where +Helen Gilmore had met death, again seeking from the mute furnishings +some vital clew that previous examinations might have overlooked. The +newspaper man was all eagerness, but the interest of the detective had +already cooled. There was the window with Haskins' finger prints; he +had the sort of mind that readily accepts the obvious, and his police +experience had taught him that, nine chances to ten, the obvious is the +true.</p> + +<p>It was a little hard to think of this cheerful bed-chamber as a +place of dark deeds. The north windows looked out upon the wide and +shimmering bosom of the Hudson; a sailboat clipped daintily over the +water, and in its wake the sunlight made the ripples scintillate like +diamonds. Across the Tappan Zee the stern ruggedness of the New Jersey +Palisades was softened with a verdant touch and splash of summer +greenness.</p> + +<p>"The answer to it all is here," said Wiggly. "There must be something +more for us than just a woman's hairpin."</p> + +<p>"Sure," grunted Tish; "my gun and Haskins' finger prints on the glass." +He had returned even more positively to the conviction that he had been +right in the first place.</p> + +<p>"Ah, but what we're after now, Tish, is a clew that will outweigh the +finger prints and the gun. There must be something more than that; +there's got to be."</p> + +<p>"That stuff about there always being a clew is the bunk," said Tish. +"I've seen dozens of cases where there wasn't a thing for us cops to go +on. But this is different. All the evidence points straight at Haskins. +What else have you got? A hairpin and an imagination!"</p> + +<p>Wiggly was not discouraged; beginning at the side of the room, he began +to walk slowly, bent nearly double, his eyes searching, searching, +while Tish watched him in a half-amused, half-contemptuous silence. +Again the reporter came upon the shattered pieces of the broken vase +which lay on the rug near the little mahogany table, but he had +already rejected these fragments as things of no importance; proof, if +anything, that some one, probably the murderer, had struck against the +table, crashing the vase to the floor. Perhaps it was to his discredit +as an investigator that it did not occur to him as strange that the +vase should have been broken into as many pieces.</p> + +<p>Near the table, however, he did find something that he had overlooked +until now; it was a bit of whitish substance which, as he picked it up +from where it had been crushed flat into the rug, was moderately soft +between his fingers. He frowned over it, puzzled.</p> + +<p>"Tallow!" he exclaimed. "The sort of tallow they make candles of."</p> + +<p>"Huh!" grunted Tish.</p> + +<p>"People seldom use tallow candles these days, except for those +decorative candlesticks." His gaze roved swiftly about the room. +"No candlestick in this room, either. This piece is too chunky to be +candle drip; besides, why should any one have been walking around with +a lighted candle last night? If the lights had been out of commission, +some one would surely have mentioned it. Wouldn't you consider this +just a little queer, Tish?"</p> + +<p>"If you're asking me to speak my mind, I'd be more apt to say that +you're a little queer, always jumping at little things that don't +amount to anything. What if it is a piece of tallow? That don't prove +anything—any more than a hairpin does."</p> + +<p>Speculatively Wiggly turned the find over in his hand; it was grained +with black specks. He looked to the floor again and, some three or four +feet away, saw another bit of it.</p> + +<p>"No children in the house," he mused. "Children might explain it; when +I was a kid I used to take a candle and mold it into odd sorts of +shapes—a juvenile attempt at sculpture—human heads, animals, and the +like. Yes, Tish, this is queer—darned queer!" Completely baffled in +his effort to account for the presence of the tallow, he put it into +his pocket along with the black hairpin.</p> + +<p>"Something else to think about, anyhow," he told himself and continued +his literally inch-by-inch survey of the room. It was at the far end of +the chamber that, almost completely hidden in the thick nap of the rug, +he found another piece of the broken vase, this one little more than a +sliver, and still another bit of the tallow.</p> + +<p>"Tish!" he fairly shouted. "Come here! Here's a little mystery all in +itself."</p> + +<p>"What now?"</p> + +<p>Wiggly exhibited the fragment of porcelain and pointed dramatically to +the spot on the rug where he had discovered it.</p> + +<p>"We've been presuming all along, Tish," he said almost breathlessly, +"that the vase was broken when some one bumped into the table. It's a +dozen feet from the table to this spot; it isn't reasonable to think +that one of the pieces could have shattered for such a distance. As a +matter of fact, Tish, there's something that I've been a blockhead not +to think of before. This rug is pretty thick; it's only three feet from +the top of the table to the floor, and yet that vase is broken into a +hundred and one pieces. And here's a bit of it twelve feet away!"</p> + +<p>"Humph!" grunted Tish.</p> + +<p>"What do you make of it anyhow?"</p> + +<p>"Maybe the Gilmore woman threw it at Haskins," suggested the detective, +puffing out his cheeks and frowning; "maybe she saw what was coming, +picked up the vase, and flung it at his head—something like that, huh?"</p> + +<p>"Y-yes," Wiggly admitted hesitatingly; "that might explain it being +broken into so many pieces, but that doesn't explain the tallow. I've +got a feeling that those are the two things that are going to add up to +four."</p> + +<p>"Oh, forget the tallow!" Tish muttered peevishly. "What's a little +tallow got to do with a murder—or a smashed vase, for that matter? You +better stick to digging up news and let this Sherlock business alone."</p> + +<p>Wiggly shook his head stubbornly.</p> + +<p>"It's a puzzle, Tish, but I'm going to stick until these peculiar +little things you scoff at are explained." He again took up his +search, but further results were nil. Tish was growing impatient.</p> + +<p>"I'm going back downstairs," he announced.</p> + +<p>"Wonder where this door leads to?" murmured the reporter, as he reached +for the knob. It did not yield to his touch, but the key was in the +lock; a moment later he was looking within Kirklan Gilmore's sleeping +chamber.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" he mused. "She had the door locked against her husband. Wonder if +that means there was discord in the new love nest?"</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish snorted derisively. "Next," he said with withering +sarcasm, "you'll be trying to hang it onto the husband—and him +downstairs when the shot was fired."</p> + +<p>"Oh, not at all," Wiggly answered without resentment; "that was just +an aside." He entered the room, gave it a brief survey, and then, +satisfied that it had nothing to offer him, returned, closing the door +and relocking it behind him. "Nothing in there that could interest us, +Tish. The net result so far seems to be one black hairpin and a few +pieces of tallow candle—perhaps a broken vase. I'm not so sure but +that you've given a pretty logical explanation of the vase." He sighed +in discouragement. "Not much to go on, eh? Wish I could figure out the +tallow thing."</p> + +<p>"Forget it," advised Tish.</p> + +<p>"If we could only get Miss Sheridan to talk. Wish I had the authority +to put her through a sprout of questions!"</p> + +<p>Tish tenderly massaged the wrist of his injured arm; the bandages +interfered with his circulation.</p> + +<p>"Well, you haven't got the authority; neither have I. And I wouldn't +waste my time quizzing her, if I had. So far as I'm concerned, the case +is solved. Haskins did the killing. I've messed around here and let you +play at the detective business long enough; me for one of those comfy +chairs down in the library. Guess I'll stick around for the inquest. +Coming down?"</p> + +<p>Wiggly hesitated for a moment and then nodded. "Yes, I suppose I might +as well," he agreed; "I think I've exhausted the possibilities here."</p> + +<p>The two men went downstairs and into the library, Tish to take what +comfort he could in one of the easy-chairs, and the newspaper man +to speculate with discouraging futility on the puzzle of the candle +tallow. He felt as if he had told the New York detective sergeant that +the next move was to question Joan Sheridan. While he had no authority +in the matter, he was several times on the verge of taking this course +into his own hands.</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell, he felt very sure, would resent any hint that the +girl had a criminal knowledge of the murder; the physician would be +prejudiced in her favor and wave aside the suggestion indignantly. +It would be his natural inclination to consider Haskins guilty and +brush aside any other theory. A cross-examination of Miss Sheridan, +in the doctor's hands, was liable to be a perfunctory and negligible +proceeding.</p> + +<p>"Well, young un, got it figured out yet?" grunted Tish, breaking a +considerable silence.</p> + +<p>"Not yet," admitted Wiggly, "but I haven't given it up. I'm still +struggling with it."</p> + +<p>Again silence.</p> + +<p>"Where's Gilmore?" asked Tish presently. "I haven't had eyes on the +man since I've been here. Wasn't in his room when you opened that door, +huh?"</p> + +<p>"The doctor put him to bed somewhere here on the ground floor—gave him +a shot of dope, I believe, to quiet him. I saw him last night; he was +pretty well cut up over it, naturally. He'll get another jolt between +the eyes when he's told that the woman wasn't legally married to him. +It's pretty tough on a chap, losing illusions of the woman you're in +love with."</p> + +<p>"Uh-huh," grunted Tish. "A pretty woman sure can stir up a lot of hell +for a man—when she's the wrong sort."</p> + +<p>Wiggly turned in his chair, as there came to his ears the sound of a +step on the stairs outside the archway dividing the library from the +reception hall, the tap of a woman's high-heeled shoes.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps——" he murmured and leaped to his feet; he was thinking it +might be Joan Sheridan, and that he could manufacture some excuse to +get her in conversation. His hopeful guess was right; it was Joan. She +came slowly down the stairs, her face white and drawn. As the newspaper +man, although she had no knowledge of his profession, appeared before +her, she paused.</p> + +<p>"I am looking for Doctor Bushnell," she murmured; "I am anxious to +know——" Her voice trailed off.</p> + +<p>"Doctor Bushnell has taken the constable to the hospital," he +explained, "but, if there is anything I can do, I am at your service." +He stepped aside with a gesture that she was to come into the library +and, turning his head, gave Tish an entreating look. Now that the +opportunity had presented itself he decided to play a colossal game of +bluffing.</p> + +<p>"Miss Sheridan, this is Detective Sergeant Tish of the New York police +department. Sergeant Tish has been wounded—in the shooting on the +third floor, you know."</p> + +<p>"I—I am afraid I don't know exactly what has happened; everything has +been such a terrible, excited jumble."</p> + +<p>"One would hardly think so many things could happen in a quiet country +place like this," said Wiggly.</p> + +<p>Joan shuddered.</p> + +<p>"It's been horrible! The man—the wounded man I saw on the stairs——" +Her eyes were upon Tish; perhaps not so much upon Tish as his bandaged +shoulder, where brown stains had seeped through the bandages.</p> + +<p>"Haskins is dead, ma'am," Tish answered promptly, which was precisely +one of the things Wiggly had not wanted him to say—not just yet. "I +plugged him when he winged me with the constable's gun, up in the +storeroom."</p> + +<p>"Doctor Bushnell told me," Joan went on tremulously, "that it was this +man who—who killed Kirklan's wife."</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish caught Wiggly's pleading signal, hesitated a moment, and +then temporized.</p> + +<p>"W-well," he answered slowly, "I guess there's what you'd call a +division of opinion on that. Our newspaper friend don't think so." +Wiggly could have choked him. Why did he have to tell her that he was +a reporter! And why couldn't Tish have given him a square show? Under +his breath he cursed the headquarters man's stubbornness.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" exclaimed Joan. "So he's a newspaper reporter. I thought he must +be a detective, too."</p> + +<p>"Give 'im credit," grunted Tish; "he's trying hard enough to be one." +He chuckled at his little joke.</p> + +<p>"This—this man," pressed Joan Sheridan, now ignoring Wiggly entirely, +"what was he doing in the house—in the storeroom? Was he a—a burglar?"</p> + +<p>"As a matter of fact, Miss Sheridan, Haskins was the woman's husband."</p> + +<p>Joan gasped.</p> + +<p>"You don't mean—you can't mean Helen?"</p> + +<p>"That's it, ma'am; seems that she had not taken the trouble to get +herself a divorce before she married Gilmore." Briefly he recounted +Haskins' trouble with the New York police, his criminal record, his +flight from Eighth Avenue Annie's with the automatic, his coming to +Greenacres, and his method of gaining entrance to the house.</p> + +<p>Joan, leaning forward tensely, listened with wide eyes and parted lips.</p> + +<p>"It was the gun—the gun that this criminal took away from you in New +York that killed Helen?" she demanded breathlessly. Tish nodded.</p> + +<p>"Then," she rushed on, her voice sinking to a whisper, "there—there +doesn't seem to be much doubt that the man—Haskins—her—her legal +husband—killed her? Did he say anything before he died?"</p> + +<p>Wiggly Price leaped forward and stood in front of her, lest Tish spoil +whatever chance might be left.</p> + +<p>"Let me ask you something," he snapped out. "What made you so positive, +hours before any one else in the house knew that such a person as +Haskins existed, that Victor Sarbella was innocent of the murder?"</p> + +<p>Joan naturally was startled by this sudden verbal attack; all the blood +had drained from her already pale face, leaving her features ghastly. +Her eyes met his for a moment and then lowered.</p> + +<p>"Why—why, what a strange question!" she exclaimed, but there was +a noticeable nervous catch in her voice. "I—I never doubted Mr. +Sarbella's innocence."</p> + +<p>"I know you didn't, but what I want to know is—why?"</p> + +<p>Joan's head went still lower, but Wiggly could see that her lips were +quivering.</p> + +<p>"I—I just knew it."</p> + +<p>"Intuition, eh?"</p> + +<p>"Call it anything you like."</p> + +<p>"Was it intuition or knowledge?" Wiggly demanded sharply. The girl gave +a suppressed start, which Sergeant Tish missed entirely; in fact, Tish +had not quite recovered from his surprise at the way the newspaper +man had plunged in with these rapid-fire questions of his. Wiggly +had a thrill of elation; his hunch had been right, and the girl knew +something.</p> + +<p>His hand slid into his pocket, and his fingers closed about the bit of +tallow that he had found on the floor of Helen Gilmore's bedroom.</p> + +<p>"Look at this!" he commanded. Joan's head raised at the compelling +tone, but her gaze, as she stared at the misshapen, somewhat soiled +lump of white, was merely blankly inquiring. It was quite clear, even +to the suspicious reporter, that this meant nothing to her. Again his +hand went to his pocket.</p> + +<p>"And look at this!" he ordered again, opening his fingers, revealing +the black hairpin in his palm. "Look at it closely, Miss Sheridan, and +tell if it doesn't belong to you."</p> + +<p>"How—how could I know that?" she stammered. "All hairpins are so much +alike. What—what right have you to ask me all these questions in that +tone?" She turned appealingly to Sergeant Tish. "Has this newspaper +reporter a right to ask me these questions?"</p> + +<p>"I guess that's a reporter's main business, asking questions," grunted +Tish, with a slow grin; quite evidently he wasn't taking Wiggly's +cross-examination with any seriousness. "Might as well answer 'em, Miss +Sheridan; no harm in that."</p> + +<p>"This hairpin," went on Wiggly, "was found on the floor beside Helen +Gilmore's chaise longue. She didn't use black hairpins, and you do. Do +you deny, Miss Sheridan, that you were in the woman's sleeping room +last night?"</p> + +<p>For a moment, the barest instant, Joan hesitated. "Yes," she answered +slowly, "I do deny it."</p> + +<p>"Evidently you do not know," Wiggly went on mercilessly, resorting to +a trick in an effort to force the truth from her, "that just before +Haskins died he made a statement. He told us that Helen managed to get +the automatic out of his pocket before she sent him into hiding on the +third floor. He was in the storeroom when he realized that she had got +the gun away from him. He came back down the stairs with the intention +of forcing her to return it to him. He was in the hall when he heard +the scream and the shot.</p> + +<p>"The door was open, the light was burning inside, and Haskins saw the +person who came out of that room!" This much, of course, was true, +and for his purpose he did not consider it an unfair advantage, this +failure to add that Haskins had refused to tell more.</p> + +<p>Joan Sheridan's hands were frozen tightly about the arms of the chair; +her eyes met Wiggly's with a hunted, terrified look. She realized what +he meant—that he was virtually accusing her of the murder. But she +was a quick-witted girl, Joan Sheridan; she knew that Sergeant Tish's +attitude would not have been so jovially casual if he too had suspected +her of the shooting. She mastered herself wonderfully.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you proceed and say exactly what you mean?" she asked. "What +you mean is that you think I——"</p> + +<p>"Didn't you?" whipped out Wiggly, leaning slightly forward until their +eyes were level. This time her gaze did not falter; it met his without +flinching.</p> + +<p>"No!" she answered firmly. "I deny everything you have said and +intimated. If you have finished with your inquisition——"</p> + +<p>Price, realizing that his strategy had failed, offered no objection, +as she moved to leave the room. But when her steps had receded up the +stairs, he turned angrily upon Tish.</p> + +<p>"A nice mess you made of things!" he exclaimed hotly. "Why did you have +to tell her that I am a newspaper man?"</p> + +<p>"Well, ain't you?"</p> + +<p>"You didn't give me a square shake. You queered any chance that I might +have had to make her talk. You belittled me, and that took all the wind +out of my sails. If you'd backed me up a little, we'd have had her +dead to rights. If we could have made her believe that it was she whom +Haskins saw coming out of the room after the shot was fired——"</p> + +<p>"Aw, forget it," growled Tish; "she didn't croak the woman any more +than you did."</p> + +<p>"Probably not premeditatively, but there's one thing sure in my mind, +and you'll never convince me any different: Either Joan Sheridan did +the shooting, or she knows who did—and she knows it wasn't Haskins. +She was on the edge of a breakdown, but you braced her right up. And +you're called a detective!"</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish's face flushed. "See here, I'm not going to have any +newspaper scribbler talk that way to me! If I'd have let you have your +way, you'd have made a fool out of me as well as yourself. Hairpins, +tallow! Bah! I guess you think you are a detective—a real detective. +That's the way with you newspaper guys—always hunting for a chance to +make the police wrong, trying to make monkeys of the police department. +You make me sick!"</p> + +<p>Wiggly's ears moved violently.</p> + +<p>"You wait and see!" he retorted. "Sneer at hairpins and tallow, but I +know I'm on the right trail, and I'm going to stick on this job until +I've followed it to the end."</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII</h2> +</div> + +<h3>WIGGLY REMAINS UNCONVINCED</h3> + + +<p>For all of his asserted confidence, which bordered upon boasting, +Wiggly Price realized that he had a hard nut to crack. Swinging out +of the library and Sergeant Tish's presence, he went out to the porch +and sat down to indulge himself in logic, speculation, guessing. He +took the piece of tallow from his pocket again, staring at it fixedly; +his belief that it had some vital part in the mystery had become an +obsession; but there was one thing about it that discouraged him—Joan +Sheridan had shown no perturbation when he had produced it before her +eyes.</p> + +<p>Following a simple bit of logical reasoning, if the bit of tallow were +so important as he insistently imagined, and if the girl had done +the shooting, it was extremely strange that she had shown no signs +of agitation when faced with this evidence. He had been favorably +impressed with the girl's face; she seemed to be a sane, well-balanced +young person. Certainly, he argued, it was difficult to believe that +she would have committed the murder after cold premeditation; but +might she not have yielded to a suddenly and insanely jealous impulse, +suddenly overwhelmed by the proximity of the automatic pistol?</p> + +<p>No matter who did the murder, Wiggly reasoned, it had not been a +premeditated crime; the slayer had not gone to Helen Gilmore's room +with a weapon. The weapon was already there. These cogitations, of +course, took it for granted that Haskins' dying statement had been +entirely truthful; the reporter might have agreed with Tish that the +whole yarn was a lie, except that he could not imagine a desperate man +like Haskins deliberately leaving the gun behind. With the death of the +only person who knew of his presence in the house, Haskins had nothing +to gain by cloaking the crime under the guise of suicide.</p> + +<p>That Joan Sheridan knew more than she had told, Wiggly was flatly +certain; he had studied every changing expression of her face and he +had seen the emotions which Tish had missed. Either she had committed +the crime, or else she knew who did.</p> + +<p>Presuming her innocence, whom was she protecting with her silence? +Sarbella? That did not seem logical. Why should she go to such great +lengths to protect Sarbella? Yet, other than Sarbella, Joan, and +Haskins, there had been but one other person above the first floor when +the shot was fired, and that was the other Mrs. Gilmore, Joan's mother.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" thought Wiggly with a tingle of excitement, as his mind canvassed +this possibility. "There is the person that the girl would protect, her +mother. And the mother has kept closely to her room; the doctor had to +look after her. Now what could have been her motive?"</p> + +<p>That was a puzzler, particularly so since he had not so much as put +eyes on the woman. Perhaps—this was guessing merely—the older Mrs. +Gilmore had been mistress of Greenacres so long that she resented the +appearance of an interloper; possibly she had taken the frenzied +notion that she was to be dispossessed from this house which had been +her home.</p> + +<p>Both Bates and Kirklan Gilmore, downstairs in the butler's pantry when +the scream and the shot had sounded through the quiet house, had been +positive that they had got up the stairs before any one would have had +a chance to come down; even Haskins had verified that. Their coming +had been so swift as to cut off his chance of escape. Yes, decided +Wiggly, counting Haskins out of it, there remained just three possible +suspects. Joan, Sarbella, and the elder Mrs. Gilmore.</p> + +<p>But the piece of tallow—he was not getting the answer to that. He was +still considering it when Doctor Bushnell's automobile turned in at the +Greenacres driveway. The doctor was returning from the hospital with +the butler. A moment later the physician's touring car came to a pause +near the porch, and Wiggly got quickly to his feet.</p> + +<p>"How about Constable Griggs?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"He'll make the grade, but it was a close call for him," answered +Doctor Bushnell. "Mighty bad fracture. He'll have to spend a week or +better in the hospital. I've explained the whole situation, and he's +given me the jail keys and his permission to release Sarbella, which I +shall do immediately. Has the district attorney arrived yet?"</p> + +<p>"Haven't seen him," replied Wiggly, eager for an opening that he might +have a frank talk with the deputy coroner.</p> + +<p>"I telephoned him from the hospital and explained the situation in +detail. He agreed with me that there seemed to be no doubt that Haskins +killed the woman; said he'd come right over. I'll drum up enough men +for the coroner's jury when I get to the village and release Sarbella. +Whew! I'll bet it's a load off of his mind; it certainly looked bad for +that fellow—mighty bad."</p> + +<p>Bates had gone on into the house; the doctor had not got out of the +car, his purpose in stopping evidently being merely to let out the +butler. His hand was upon the gear lever, ready to start his car in +motion again, but Wiggly put detaining fingers on his arm.</p> + +<p>"Just a moment, Doctor Bushnell," he urged earnestly. "I know you've +made up your mind that Haskins did the shooting, and that, since +Haskins is dead, the case is virtually closed."</p> + +<p>"Certainly it is," nodded the physician. "I thought about it all the +way on the drive to the hospital and back. The evidence against Haskins +is all that any reasonable man would ask. Practically a matter of legal +formality, the inquest."</p> + +<p>"I'm going to ask that you listen to me, with an open mind," +Wiggly insisted. "I want to talk with you about the case in utmost +seriousness; I feel that you're on the verge of making a grave blunder. +I've found something——"</p> + +<p>"Not more hairpins?" broke in the doctor with a faint smile.</p> + +<p>"Doctor, I'm no novice in contact with crime; and, while I'm not +nursing any notion that I'm a born detective, I've got eyes in my head +and a logical sort of thinking apparatus. Without trying to toot my own +horn, I might add that I've helped my paper solve a puzzle or so, after +the police had fallen down on the job. I'm not saying that to boast; +just want you to take me seriously."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell gave him a quick, sharp glance. "I'll listen, as we +drive to the village," he said. "Hop in."</p> + +<p>Wiggly hopped in, and, as the car got into motion, so did his tongue. +Absolute conviction that he was right enabled him to give a forceful +presentation of his theories, and his short, punchy sentences were +punctuated by frequent twitchings of his ears.</p> + +<p>He began by repeating in substance Haskins' dying statement and +emphasizing the improbability of Haskins leaving the gun behind, the +utter uselessness of Haskins covering up the murder beneath the guise +of suicide. From there he switched to the piece of tallow, saving +any mention of Joan Sheridan until the last. The doctor, listening +patiently, gave him a fair hearing; but it is a difficult job to +convince a man who has already made up his mind to the contrary.</p> + +<p>"Now we come down to the nub of things," Wiggly went on; swiftly he +voiced his suspicions concerning Joan and his reasons for them. He told +of his effort to cross-examine the girl and the results.</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell had an uneasy feeling, as he himself recalled Joan's +perturbation of the previous night, but he brushed these thoughts aside.</p> + +<p>"Do you realize," he demanded sternly, "that you are intimating that +Joan Sheridan might have——Oh, it's absurd, preposterous! I refuse +even to consider such a ridiculous notion. Why, I've known Joan all +her life; a sweeter, finer young woman never lived."</p> + +<p>"Did you happen to know that she's in love with Gilmore?" Wiggly +demanded, and at this suggestion of a motive the doctor's eyes snapped +angrily.</p> + +<p>"So that's what you base all this wild talk on, eh? That reduces your +reasoning to further absurdity."</p> + +<p>"I'm not accusing her of the shooting, doctor, but I'm absolutely +certain that she's hiding something; if not to protect herself, then to +protect some one else. Her agitation——"</p> + +<p>"Humph!" broke in Doctor Bushnell. "What sort of a woman wouldn't be +agitated with all that's happened at Greenacres during the past few +hours. Whom would she be protecting? Answer me that!"</p> + +<p>"It would have to be some one who was on the second floor when the +shot was fired. Tell me something—does Gilmore or his stepmother own +Greenacres?"</p> + +<p>"Gilmore does," the doctor answered. "His stepmother's share of the +estate was in cash and other realty, but I'm afraid she managed it +poorly."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" murmured Wiggly. "Then she was virtually dependent upon her +stepson. If things had become so unpleasant for her at Greenacres after +the arrival of the house's new mistress that she could not stay——"</p> + +<p>The physician's indignation became more pronounced.</p> + +<p>"Gad, what a villainous imagination you've got!" he exploded. "You mean +now, I suppose, that Mrs. Gilmore did the shooting, and that Joan is +shielding her? Young man, I've lost all patience with such nonsense. +I refuse to listen to these ravings any longer. Any one, except a +hare-brained idiot, would know that Haskins did the shooting. No more +of this twaddle; I simply won't listen to you!"</p> + +<p>"Then you won't help me with a further investigation?"</p> + +<p>"I shall certainly have no hand in such foolishness," answered Doctor +Bushnell with a tone of absolute finality. "Talk to the district +attorney, if you insist, but I warn you that he'll take no stock in it."</p> + +<p>"Probably not," Wiggly agreed gloomily, "but just the same I know I'm +right."</p> + +<p>They had reached the village, and the doctor's car came to a halt in +front of Borough Hall.</p> + +<p>"I'll release Sarbella and then get busy drumming up my men for the +coroner's jury," said Bushnell. "You've got a sensational enough story +for your paper, as it is; forget that silly rubbish you've been talking +to me."</p> + +<p>Wiggly made no response, but followed the physician from the machine +into the village building and downstairs into the basement, where +Victor Sarbella was a prisoner. At the sound of their approach, +Sarbella came to the door of the narrow cage and peered out between +the rusting steel bars, but he uttered no word of protest, of outraged +innocence; only stared in a stony, narrow-eyed silence.</p> + +<p>"I've the best of news for you, Mr. Sarbella!" Doctor Bushnell +exclaimed heartily. "I've come to let you out."</p> + +<p>The prisoner's head jerked up, his fingers tightened their grip about +the bars of the cell door, his lips parted, and his eyes brightened +with the look of relief that flashed across his face.</p> + +<p>"You mean," he asked slowly, "that I am to be released +unconditionally—that I have been removed from suspicion?"</p> + +<p>The doctor, with the constable's keys, was struggling with the lock +that would unfasten the bolts; the mechanism was badly in need of +oiling, and it was giving him trouble.</p> + +<p>"Yes, unconditionally," he answered. "We find that we have done you +an injustice, although you must admit that we were within our rights, +everything considered. The murderer of the Gilmore woman——Oh, curse +this lock!"</p> + +<p>Sarbella pressed his body closer to the bars. "Yes?" he demanded with +an eager impatience. "The murderer—go on, man!"</p> + +<p>The lock finally yielded, enabling the physician to turn the handle +that slid the bolts, and the door opened. Victor Sarbella was a free +man.</p> + +<p>"Tell me," he commanded again. "Who——" The newspaper reporter sensed +his grave concern, his anxiety—and wondered.</p> + +<p>"Luckily for you," answered Doctor Bushnell, "the slayer was still in +the house—a criminal who, it developed, was the woman's undivorced +husband."</p> + +<p>"Thank Heaven!" breathed Sarbella, and it was apparent that this news +was a great relief to him.</p> + +<p>Briefly the doctor related the facts.</p> + +<p>"What a blessedly fortunate ending!" murmured the artist. "I was +afraid of other things—something more terrible."</p> + +<p>"I'm driving back to Greenacres after I get together a jury for the +inquest," went on the physician. "I'm anxious to get it over with as +quickly as possible, for my private practice has to wait until this +official business is disposed of, and my patients are liable to lose +their patience." He chuckled a little at his own pun. "You may ride +back to Greenacres with me, if you choose."</p> + +<p>"Thanks," nodded Sarbella, "I will."</p> + +<p>The three men made their way out of the basement cell room and to the +street, where the doctor said that they could wait in his car, if they +liked. A moment later he was hurrying along the village thoroughfare in +quest of his jurors, picking up practically the first citizens that he +encountered. Sarbella got into the rear of the touring car, and Wiggly +Price sat beside him.</p> + +<p>"You seem to be well out of a bad situation," said the newspaper man.</p> + +<p>The released suspect nodded soberly. "Yes," he agreed, "a bad +situation—an overwhelming situation. Circumstantial evidence can be a +damning thing. Perhaps I owe something to you; your attitude, when you +came to the cell about the cigarette——"</p> + +<p>"You do not owe your release to me, Sarbella; it was the appearance +of Sergeant Tish, his identification of the gun and the presence of +Haskins in the house." Wiggly paused for a moment with his eyes on the +other's face. "You were greatly relieved when you heard the doctor's +explanation of the tragedy?"</p> + +<p>Victor Sarbella inclined his head.</p> + +<p>"I was!" he exclaimed fervently. "Knowing my own innocence, I am afraid +that I was as much inclined to suspect other people as other people to +suspect me. I am afraid that I even suspected my friend Gilmore."</p> + +<p>"Why Gilmore?" asked Wiggly. "He had a perfect alibi—downstairs when +the shot was fired."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know," murmured Sarbella, "but the poor chap was so +overwrought, so beside himself, so obsessed with the suspicion that +there had been an—ah—affair between me and—and his wife—but let us +not talk of that."</p> + +<p>"I wonder," pressed Wiggly, but careful to make his tone carelessly +casual, "if you also suspected Miss Sheridan?"</p> + +<p>"Eh?" exclaimed Sarbella, turning quickly, and then he laughed briefly. +"Yes, I think I even suspected her. Her attitude it was—ah—very +strange, it seemed to me. Only excitement, of course, as we know the +facts now; but at the time—well, I hardly knew what to think."</p> + +<p>Wiggly's ears twitched slightly. Further confirmation of his theory! +Yet it convinced no one except himself.</p> + +<p>"I condemn myself for harboring any such suspicions," went on Sarbella +musingly, "but it was strange. She was up, had not retired, and yet she +had not heard the scream or the shot."</p> + +<p>"What!" exclaimed Wiggly; this was something new to him. He had not +known that. "You mean that she was up and dressed?"</p> + +<p>Sarbella shot him a quick, curious glance, saw his eagerness, and was +warned to sudden silence.</p> + +<p>"Let us talk of something else," he said. "Am I to understand that +there are still any doubts in your mind——"</p> + +<p>"Haskins made a dying statement in which he denied the murder," said +Wiggly; "he said, however, that he did see the murderer coming out of +the room after the shot was fired."</p> + +<p>Sarbella gave no guilty start, such as might have been expected, if +Haskins' story was true, and it had been himself that Haskins had seen +coming out of Helen Gilmore's room.</p> + +<p>"What could you expect but lies from the lips of such a man?" the +artist asked. "Thank Heaven that the ending is as it is. This man, +this Haskins, must have been the husband who went to my poor brother +with the story that unbalanced his reason and sent him to his death. +Poor Andrea! The hand of Fate has avenged him! There is a God of +retribution!"</p> + +<p>Wiggly Price made one more effort. His fingers went to his pocket for +that puzzling piece of tallow.</p> + +<p>"Had another look around that room this morning," he said. "On the +floor I found several pieces of this."</p> + +<p>Victor Sarbella turned and glanced at the white, black-flecked, +shapeless lump, but he betrayed no more visible signs of emotion than +had Joan Sheridan.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" he asked, frowning. "What of it?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing!" grunted Wiggly Price, as his arm raised in a disgustedly +impulsive gesture to toss it into the street. Even his own persistent +faith in this as a vital clew was being badly shaken. Yet his fingers +closed about the bit of tallow, and he returned it to his pocket again. +His mouth tightened.</p> + +<p>"Nothing—so far," he added. He was one of those chaps who just +naturally can't quit.</p> + +<p>Sarbella gave him a curious glance, shrugged his shoulders, and +dismissed both the man and the bit of tallow as of no further +importance; then he lapsed into a moody sort of silence. A moment later +Doctor Bushnell returned to the car; it had taken him no time at all to +drum his jury for the inquest.</p> + +<p>"All right," he announced, "we'll be getting back and having things +over with. Shouldn't take much longer than an hour: Presley, our local +garage man, will bring the jurors out in a bus, and they'll be no great +distance behind us."</p> + +<p>He took the wheel, started the motor, and the three men were on their +way back to Greenacres. Wiggly sat stiffly in the seat beside Sarbella, +trying in vain to drive his brain over the hurdles. Time with him was +short, for, as the doctor had just said, in another hour or so it would +be over. The law would have finished with the Gilmore affair and write +the easiest, most obvious ending to the dramatic business of the past +night, charging the whole tragic account to Don Haskins and, through +his death, mark the whole deed as "Paid."</p> + +<p>Once the verdict of the coroner's jury was in, Wiggly knew, it would +be next to the impossible to have the case reopened again. He had just +about sixty minutes longer to prove he was right, and that the rest of +them were wrong.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> +</div> + +<h3>THE BLACK SMUDGE</h3> + + +<p>Along the ribbon-smooth road Doctor Bushnell shot the car at a lively +clip; one couldn't blame him, of course, for thinking of his private +practice, and one of his patients had been telephoning for him all +morning. He would have been the last man to hurry the Gilmore case to +a legal finish, if he had thought there was anything to be gained by +prolonging the investigation; but he considered that the affair had +been solved to all reasonable satisfaction.</p> + +<p>In less than five minutes they arrived at Greenacres, and hardly had +the three men stepped from the machine to the porch of the house when +Kirklan Gilmore, evidently having seen them from a window, came rushing +out, both hands stretched out toward the artist. There were tears in +his eyes, and his voice was husky, trembling with emotion.</p> + +<p>"Thank God, Victor!" he cried. "I've just heard the whole inside +of things from a man, the New York detective, that you're cleared, +absolutely cleared! You don't know what a relief it has been to me, +although I never did think, even when things were the blackest, that +you did it."</p> + +<p>"And I appreciate your loyalty, Kirklan," answered Sarbella. The hands +of the two men remained clasped.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me, Victor, for thinking last night that you—that you and +Helen——"</p> + +<p>"That there had been an—ah—affair between your wife and me," finished +Sarbella. "Yes, I was afraid that my silence would put dark thoughts +into your head, but——"</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you tell me?" broke in Gilmore, and a peculiar expression +convulsed his features. "Why didn't you tell me last night, out in the +study, that she was the woman over whom your brother——"</p> + +<p>Sarbella shook his head.</p> + +<p>"No! I could not in honor do that," he protested. "You were my friend, +and the woman was your wife. My lips were sealed. She was your wife; +you loved her."</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore's face was still white, haggardly drawn, but he was +no longer the broken wreck of a man, tottering upon the brink of a +mental collapse, that he had been some hours before. He seemed to +have recovered from the first over-powering shock of horror; Doctor +Bushnell's course in placing him under the influence of a sedative had +apparently been a most wise one.</p> + +<p>At Sarbella's words his lips twitched piteously, but he managed to keep +control of himself.</p> + +<p>"No," he said slowly, huskily, "I was in love with—with the woman +I thought her to be—in love with an ideal, a creation of my own +imagination. The woman I thought her to be did not exist—except in +my own infatuated fancies. And she was not my wife. She——Oh, what a +nightmare it's been—what a nightmare!"</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell stepped swiftly to his side and, taking his arm, urged +him toward the house.</p> + +<p>"Keep a grip on yourself, Kirklan," he murmured in a kindly, paternal +tone. "It's been a pretty terrible business, old man, but that thing +we mortals call fate has cut a lot of the strings to the tangle for +you. It is better that things are as they are; it saves a vast number +of troublesome complications. It saves—well, trucking a lot of mire +through the courts."</p> + +<p>Gilmore compressed his lips and lowered his head. "Yes," he agreed +dully, "you're right about that; it saves the courts."</p> + +<p>"Buck up, Kirklan! As you say, the woman you thought her to be did not +exist."</p> + +<p>"Ah," murmured Victor Sarbella, "but losing an ideal is one of the +hardest things in life."</p> + +<p>The novelist, leaning a little on the doctor's friendly arm, made his +way slowly into the house. Sarbella and Wiggly Price followed.</p> + +<p>"Have all the legal details been satisfied?" asked Gilmore, as he +lowered himself into a chair. "There is, of course, no question but +that——"</p> + +<p>"But that Haskins killed her," finished Doctor Bushnell. "Absolutely +none, Kirklan. There remains now only the inquest—a double inquest in +this case. One jury will suffice for both; the verdict, of course, is a +foregone conclusion."</p> + +<p>There fell a brief silence, Gilmore's eyes staring straight in front of +him, with a dull, vacant expression. No doubt he was thinking of the +bronze-haired, beautiful woman who lay upstairs, cold in death—the +woman who might have been.</p> + +<p>"Everything has become quite clear to me," he said slowly, more as if +speaking to himself. "She was making a visit to this Haskins in New +York day before yesterday, when Atchinson saw her on the street. She +must have gone there in answer to a letter that my butler tells me she +received that morning."</p> + +<p>"Atchinson?" Doctor Bushnell asked inquiringly.</p> + +<p>"My publisher," Gilmore replied. "Since she was employed by the +publishing firm before our marriage, Atchinson knew her quite well. He +said it was she, but I thought he must be mistaken. She had told me +that she was going to motor into the country. I wonder how it would +have all come out if the man, Haskins, had not been trapped in the +storeroom?"</p> + +<p>No one responded to that musing question. Withdrawn unobtrusively +into one corner, Wiggly had again taken the lump of tallow from his +pocket and was meditatively rubbing his fingers over it. Suddenly +his attention centered upon those black specks that he had taken for +granted were dirt, caused, perhaps, by a soiled shoe sole pressing down +on it, as it had lain upon the floor of the room upstairs; he saw now +that those dark, almost pin-point discolorations were imbedded into the +substance. This, however, increased rather than solved the puzzle.</p> + +<p>"The district attorney has come, hasn't he?" asked Doctor Bushnell. +"I took it for granted that it was his car I saw at the side of the +driveway, as we came up."</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore nodded absently. "Yes," he said, "a young fellow—the +assistant district attorney, I believe. Lasker, I think his name is. +He's upstairs looking around with that detective fellow, Sergeant Fish."</p> + +<p>"Tish," corrected the physician. "Quite a game sort, Tish; it was he +who shot Haskins."</p> + +<p>Again Gilmore nodded. "So he told me," he said.</p> + +<p>"I think I'll go upstairs," added the physician. "It won't be long +now until the men who are to serve on the jury arrive." He glanced at +Wiggly with a patronizing sort of smile. "Are you coming up with me to +look for more—more hairpins, young man?"</p> + +<p>The newspaper man smiled grimly.</p> + +<p>"I'll go up with you," he said, "but it's not hairpins that I'm mainly +interested in right now; it's this confounded piece of tallow." He +turned his eyes toward the novelist and thought he saw a sudden +tightening of Gilmore's muscles, a suppressed start. He was not so sure +about it. "Tell me, Mr. Gilmore, were candles used frequently in the +house here?"</p> + +<p>Gilmore did not reply for a moment. "Candles?" he murmured. "Why, my +dear sir, what a peculiar question. I don't believe I understand."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell, moving toward the stairway, paused with a brief, +discounting laugh.</p> + +<p>"Our enthusiastic newspaper friend, Kirklan," he explained, "thinks we +haven't begun to get at the bottom of things. He's found a few pieces +of tallow candle on the floor of the room upstairs; he's trying to +attach some importance to it—just because he doesn't hit upon a ready +explanation to it, I suppose. I'm afraid we've humored him a little +too much, in gratitude for the first assistance that he gave us in +identifying your wife."</p> + +<p>Gilmore was frowning slightly.</p> + +<p>"And I'm afraid that I can't help him explain his little mystery, +doctor," he said. "So far as I can recall, there aren't any +candlesticks in Helen's room; nor in my room, which is adjoining. +Still"—he paused for a moment—"it does occur to me, gentlemen, that +the third floor has never been wired for electricity; the storeroom +is so seldom visited. If Haskins had wanted to have a light up there, +a candle would have afforded about the only possible illumination for +him."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" exclaimed the doctor. "See, Price, there's the explanation for +you! The woman must have got Haskins a candle, and he carried it down +with him when he shot her. He probably mashed it underfoot and——"</p> + +<p>"No, that will hardly do," Wiggly interrupted with a quick negative +jerk of his head. "In the first place, I can't believe that Haskins +would have been fool enough to have taken a light with him to the +storeroom; too much chance of the illuminated window attracting +attention. Secondly, this tallow was broken into a good many small +pieces; the trodding of a foot on a candle wouldn't do that; it would +only have mashed it, and it wouldn't have scattered it several places +about the room."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, what matter!" he exclaimed +impatiently. "Whatever explanation there is would probably be absurdly +simple."</p> + +<p>Before the physician could gain the stairs, Sergeant Tish and the +assistant district attorney were coming down. The latter was a +youngish, blond fellow, with rimless spectacles glistening in front of +pale-blue eyes; one could see that he appreciated the gravity of the +situation and the importance of his own official position, and that, +beneath his outward pretense of grim poise, he was a rather nervous and +inexperienced young man.</p> + +<p>One look at young Lasker told Wiggly how futile it would be to approach +him with any theory calculated to upset the accepted situation; the +lawyer's words confirmed this impression.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Doctor Bushnell!" he exclaimed, frowning his best official frown +and clearing his throat several times. "I have just been over the +ground with Sergeant Tish, who has been kind enough to lay all of the +facts before me—in quite a comprehensive manner. I have canvassed +the evidence thoroughly. I quite agree with you, doctor, that but +one sensible hypothesis can be drawn. I would even call it more than +an hypothesis. The evidence is quite clear-cut and incontrovertible. +Sergeant Tish's markmanship has—fortunately for him, however—cheated +the electric chair of its grim function. There can be no question of +Haskins' guilt; absolutely no question."</p> + +<p>"In spite of hairpins, tallow, and such stuff," grunted Tish, with a +grin at Wiggly, evidently taking a keen delight in belittling him. The +young assistant district attorney glanced at the newspaper man and +lifted his hands in a gesture of depreciation.</p> + +<p>"So this is the journalist you were telling me about. If positive +evidence were lacking, my dear sir, it might be very well to bear +these things in mind, but in a clear-cut case of this kind such minor +trifles become entirely irrelevant and immaterial. Any other theory +than that of Haskins' guilt is absolutely untenable. I am willing, +Doctor Bushnell, that the inquest shall proceed with the evidence in +hand."</p> + +<p>"I think I hear Presley's bus coming along the road now," nodded the +doctor. "He's bringing the men from the village."</p> + +<p>From outside there came the sound of the lumbering, noisy conveyance, +bearing the coroner's jury. All attention at the moment was focused in +this direction, and Wiggly, without a word to any one—he was playing +an absolutely lone hand now—made for the stairs. No one registered any +objection to his taking another visit to the second floor, but halfway +up he turned and saw Kirklan Gilmore's eyes fixed upon him in a sort of +set, expressionless stare. Was it expressionless? Wiggly had a feeling +that the blank look might be concealing a degree of—well, perhaps of +wary apprehension.</p> + +<p>"Humph!" Wiggly said under his breath. "Gilmore was downstairs when +his wife was killed; he couldn't have had a hand in it, and yet, dash +it all, I did get a reflex from him when it came to mentioning the +tallow. And he was pretty prompt in trying to find an explanation for +the stuff being in the room. I wonder——" But what he wondered was too +vague even for his thoughts. Passing on up the steps to the head of the +stairs, he let himself into the murdered woman's bed-chamber.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what I can expect to find more than I have," he told +himself discouragingly, "but the old line in the copy book used to tell +me: 'If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.' Here goes for +another try. Gilmore was startled when I mentioned tallow candles. Why?"</p> + +<p>Obviously that question could never be answered until he found out for +himself what part the tallow had played in the tragedy, until he had +explained its mysterious presence in the room. He walked about the room +slowly several times and then dropped to hands and knees, crawling back +and forth, his eyes close to the rug, picking up all of the tallow that +he could find. Presently he had quite a little accumulation of the +stuff, gathered from a surprisingly wide radius.</p> + +<p>The palm of his hand was pricked by a sharp surface hidden from view +in the nap of the rug—another fragment of the broken vase. The vase +hadn't impressed him greatly; for that was one thing that could be +explained. As Tish had suggested, if it hadn't been tipped from the +table, Helen Gilmore might have flung it at the murderer in a desperate +effort at self-defense.</p> + +<p>Yet, as he was about to toss aside the fragment of porcelain, his jaw +sagged, and a startled exclamation came from his parted lips, for there +clung to what had once been the inside of the vase, a small particle of +tallow!</p> + +<p>"Gosh!" breathed Wiggly, his ears twitching violently. "The tallow was +inside of the vase when it was broken! The two go together; I'd never +thought of that. By George, I've been missing something!"</p> + +<p>The shattered porcelain vase had, in light of this discovery, taken +on a real importance within Wiggly's mind. Hastily he began crawling +on hands and knees about the room, retrieving every piece of it that +he could find. When he had got together all of it he could find, he +placed all the pieces on the table, with the tallow in a separate +pile and, drawing up a chair, sat down and began to study it. Still +no inspirational solution flashed through his mind; he began at +nowhere and ended at the same place. Times without number he handled +the pieces, absently sorting and resorting them, and at last, with a +hopeless sigh of defeat, he realized that an explanation was beyond his +powers of either deduction or imagination; he was simply beating his +head against a stone wall.</p> + +<p>"Its no use!" he muttered under his breath. "Possibly I'm wrong after +all! Possibly——"</p> + +<p>Outside the closed door in the hall he heard voices. Bates had come +upstairs to call Joan Sheridan and her mother to attend the proceedings +down in the library. Wiggly wondered if they would ask him to testify; +probably not. Doctor Bushnell and the assistant district attorney would +not want him upsetting things and confusing the accepted explanation by +flinging his unproven theories at the jury.</p> + +<p>For a moment or so the newspaper man debated.</p> + +<p>"I know I've no authority to do it, and I will probably get thrown out +on my ear, if I'm caught at it; but I've got a notion to have one more +try."</p> + +<p>Leaving the piece of broken vase and the lumps of tallow on the table +where he had been studying them with so little result, he turned +toward the door, slipping quietly into the hall. The sound of voices +came up the open stairway; Doctor Bushnell, in his capacity as deputy +coroner, was swearing in the jury.</p> + +<p>Wiggly made for the wing of the house where he knew Joan Sheridan's +room to be. He had never rid himself of the notion that she knew +something about the murder that she would never tell unless it was +forced from her unwilling lips; and the only force to which she would +respond would be evidence.</p> + +<p>Her room was unlocked. He let himself in with the unconscious +stealthiness that overtakes a man who finds himself entering unbidden +places. Closing the door gently behind him, the reporter straightway +went about the business in hand, which was to determine whether or +not the room might not reveal something that would incriminate Joan +Sheridan.</p> + +<p>First, he went to the girl's dressing table; the top of it, except for +some silver-backed toilet articles, was barren; but in the right-hand +drawer he did find hairpins. Quickly he compared them with the one in +his pocket; they were of the same size, color, and pattern. As alike as +the proverbial two peas in a pod; yet that in itself was slim proof, +for, as Joan herself had said, all hairpins are so much alike. He had +to have more than that—a great deal more than that.</p> + +<p>Wiggly was closing the drawer when he noted for the first time the +black smudge on his finger—a smallish streak which flecked free from +the skin, as he rubbed at it with the ball of his thumb.</p> + +<p>"Hello!" he exclaimed under his breath. "What's that? Where did I get +it?" With a curious and puzzled frown he stared at the dark spot on his +finger, as he continued to fleck off the black, grainy particles. He +lifted his hand to his nose and sniffed, and, as he caught the faint, +but unmistakable, odor, his ears fairly did a dance at the sides of his +head.</p> + +<p>"Great guns," he whispered. "It's powder—burned gunpowder! Where did +I get that?" His bulging eyes swept the dressing table and the only +articles that he had touched since coming into Helen Gilmore's room. +And then he thought of the candle tallow and the black specks that had +mocked him with their enigma. Slowly, through a fog of bewilderment and +incredulity, there pierced a dawning light of understanding. He had +solved the murder!</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX</h2> +</div> + +<h3>"LET THE GUILTY MAN SPEAK!"</h3> + + +<p>The young assistant district attorney and Doctor Bushnell had indeed +reduced the double inquest to a cut-and-dried formality, and the +proceeding was heading swiftly toward its anticipated conclusion. Extra +chairs had been brought into the library, and it was here that the +hearing was in progress.</p> + +<p>In his capacity as deputy coroner, Bushnell presided at a small table, +and near him, at his right, was the young attorney, blinking with +official severity from behind his rimless glasses; at the doctor's left +was the witness chair which faced the jury. The latter were an assorted +lot of village types—Mr. Judson, the ordinarily genial grocer, with +his fat, stubby fingers locked tightly in front of his ample middle; +Henry Blackburn, a local fire-insurance agent, who was tall, lean and +hatchet faced; Jim Striker, local manager of the telephone company; and +so on down the list.</p> + +<p>There had been no move to bar any one from hearing the testimony of +the other witnesses. Behind the jury chairs Joan Sheridan murmured +soothingly in an effort to calm her mother's muffled, hysterical +sobbing; a little apart sat Kirklan Gilmore, slumped deep into a chair, +chin on his chest and his eyes half closed; but he was listening +carefully; not a syllable was escaping him. Victor Sarbella was seated +nearest the door; his dark eyes were roving restlessly about the room.</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish had been the first witness, identifying the gun which +had killed Helen Gilmore and recounting, for the benefit of the jury, +how it had got to Greenacres. Doctor Bushnell previously had given an +outline of the facts, as he had found them.</p> + +<p>Bates, the butler, followed Tish and did not forget to color his +account of the happenings with a none-too-modest tribute to his own +shrewd deductions that it had been murder and not suicide. He was proud +of that little achievement. He told how he had been fast asleep when +the ringing of the doorbell had awakened him, and he had got up to +admit Gilmore, who had been out at the studio and had forgotten his +keys; he described how he had been in the butler's pantry; that he had +just finished making Gilmore a toddy, which the latter was drinking, +when both of them had heard the scream, closely followed by the shot.</p> + +<p>Joan Sheridan suppressed a shiver, but no one noticed that.</p> + +<p>"After that, Bates?" urged Doctor Bushnell.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Gilmore and I hurried upstairs. When we was about halfway up we +heard a door slam shut—Haskins when he scooted back up to the attic, +I guess. The door to the younger Mrs. Gilmore's room was open, and the +light was burning. I went in first, and there she was—all covered with +blood, the gun on the floor beside the couch. It looked like suicide, +but I knew it wasn't, because she wouldn't have screamed before +shooting herself. She might have screamed after she did it, but the +shot was fired after she screamed. More than that; the door was open, +and, like I said, people don't shoot themselves with the door open."</p> + +<p>"A very good deduction, Bates," nodded the doctor.</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir; I rather thought so myself," agreed Bates.</p> + +<p>Other questions and answers followed, and the entire ground was covered +swiftly, but thoroughly. The jurors were then asked if they wished to +interrogate the witness. None of them did, and Bates was excused.</p> + +<p>"Miss Sheridan, merely as a matter of formality, will you please take +the witness chair?" murmured Doctor Bushnell, and Joan, her face +becoming a shade more pale with the ordeal, got slowly to her feet and +walked to the front of the room. Kirklan Gilmore's body tensed, and his +hand clenched, but he did not lift his eyes.</p> + +<p>"I want you to understand," the doctor told her gently, after taking +her oath as a witness, "that this is a mere formality. You will please +tell us, in your own words, just what you know about the tragedy."</p> + +<p>Joan Sheridan was plainly nervous; her fingers, resting in her lap, +were twisting about each other, and for a moment she did not answer.</p> + +<p>"There is nothing—nothing that I can tell," she answered in a +strained, muffled voice.</p> + +<p>"As I understand—in fact, from what you told me—you did not hear the +fatal shot."</p> + +<p>Joan's voice became a little clearer, as she answered: "No, I did not +hear the fatal shot."</p> + +<p>"I might explain to the jury," added the doctor, "that Miss Sheridan's +room is in another part of the house."</p> + +<p>From outside the library came the sound of hurrying feet, as Wiggly +Price came down the stairs, two steps at a time. Just outside the +library he paused, screened behind the portières. Across his arm was a +woman's silk dressing gown, and in his hand was a handkerchief, caught +up at the corners and sagging with the weight of the broken vase and +the particles of candle tallow.</p> + +<p>"Just the psychological moment!" he said under his breath. "It's made +to order."</p> + +<p>"And there is nothing more that you can add, Miss Sheridan?" asked +Doctor Bushnell.</p> + +<p>"There is nothing more that I can say," she answered.</p> + +<p>"That will be all," murmured the doctor.</p> + +<p>Wiggly Price entered the room, billowing aside the portières, as he +swept past them, and his ears were wiggling for all they were worth. +The silk dressing gown across his arm added to the dramatic effect of +his entrance.</p> + +<p>"Just a moment, Miss Sheridan!" he exclaimed. "What you really mean is +that there is nothing more you want to say. But I am very much afraid +that you will have to say something, whether you want to or not."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell leaped angrily to his feet, his eyes snapping.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean by this, Price?" he shouted. "I forbid——"</p> + +<p>"I demand," broke in Wiggly, "that Miss Sheridan be forced to explain +several things, including why she tried to clean spots from the sleeve +of this dressing gown that she was wearing last night." Joan had +started to her feet, but sank limply back in her chair, a moan upon her +lips.</p> + +<p>"Look at her face!" cried Wiggly. "Isn't that proof enough for you? +Don't look at me—look at her!"</p> + +<p>Joan's face was chalk white, and she swayed in her chair and would +have fallen, had not the assistant district attorney leaped forward to +support her.</p> + +<p>"Look at this dressing gown!" went on Wiggly in a rush of words. "Look +at the sleeve, here. I just took it out of her closet a minute ago; the +odor of a cleaning fluid, chloroform, can still be detected. And it +didn't take out the spots. She didn't know that cold water was the best +thing to remove bloodstains." He swung upon Joan. "Do you deny, Miss +Sheridan, that these are bloodstains? Do you deny that you attempted to +remove them after the murder?"</p> + +<p>Joan's mother screamed shrilly. "It's a lie!" she moaned. "It's a lie. +He's trying to make it appear that my little girl——" A merciful +unconsciousness gathered her in.</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell, dazed to a point of speechlessness, stared from the +accusing newspaper man to Joan. There could be no denying the wild +terror that gripped her.</p> + +<p>"If she does deny it," went on Wiggly, "a chemical analysis will +establish that it is blood—human blood."</p> + +<p>Doctor Bushnell at last found voice. "Joan," he cried, "do you +understand what this means? This man is virtually accusing you of +murder. In Heaven's name, say something!"</p> + +<p>But Joan Sheridan, her lips twitching, shook her head. "I—I +didn't—do it!" she whispered. "I didn't do it, but I have nothing to +say—absolutely nothing to say."</p> + +<p>"But, you've got to say something!" the doctor urged desperately. +"Silence like this——"</p> + +<p>Again she shook her head. "I've nothing to say," she repeated.</p> + +<p>In the excitement that had accompanied this sudden and amazing turn of +things, all attention had been centered upon the quivering, ashen-faced +girl in the witness chair, and no one—unless, perhaps, it was Wiggly +Price from the corner of his eye—had observed Kirklan Gilmore. The +novelist had leaped to his feet and clutched at the back of his chair +with palsied fingers. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.</p> + +<p>"Great God!" he whispered. "That she would make a sacrifice like that!" +His voice raised. "Tell them!" he commanded hoarsely. "Tell them, +Joan—the truth!"</p> + +<p>Joan sobbed wildly, uncontrollably. "Oh, Kirk!" she moaned. +"Kirk—don't! In Heaven's name—don't!"</p> + +<p>"Since Joan will not talk," said Kirklan Gilmore, "I will."</p> + +<p>Wiggly Price dropped his handkerchief to the table, and the loosened +corners fell back, revealing the little pile of broken porcelain and +the bits of tallow.</p> + +<p>"Let the guilty man speak!" he said. "If he does not—the evidence is +here."</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX</h2> +</div> + +<h3>WIGGLY MAKES A WAGER</h3> + + +<p>The room was tensely silent, as Kirklan Gilmore made his way slowly to +the front of the room and, with a shaking hand, took the glass of water +that rested upon the coroner's table. He gulped a drink nervously. He +put the glass down clumsily.</p> + +<p>"It's impossible—utterly impossible!" Doctor Bushnell muttered +helplessly. "Gilmore was downstairs—Bates was with him—when the shot +was fired on the second floor. I can't understand——"</p> + +<p>Kirklan Gilmore did not sit down, but stood there, leaning heavily +against the table, facing the coroner's jury.</p> + +<p>"The truth," he said huskily, "would have been best in the first place; +the truth is always best. I suppose any chance that I may have had +is gone now. Yes, I—I killed her—with that gun." He pointed to the +broken bits on Wiggly's handkerchief. "The evidence is there. I felt +that it was coming when—when this reporter started talking—about the +tallow."</p> + +<p>"Suffering cats!" This interruption came from Sergeant Tish, who gave +Wiggly Price an uncanny look of reluctant admiration.</p> + +<p>"It began," went on Gilmore in a heavy, toneless voice, "on Monday, +when Helen went to New York to meet Haskins, her—her husband." He +winced, as he said that. "That night she wanted money to pay the +blackmail of the man's silence. She lied to me, and I knew that she +lied, but she would not tell me the truth.</p> + +<p>"The next day Sarbella came, and I saw—we all saw—that there was +something—something that terrified her. I got Sarbella out to the +studio, tried to force him to tell. I suspected a—a love affair. I was +mad with jealousy. He gave me his word that he had never so much as +seen her before, but I thought that was a gentleman's lie. It was true.</p> + +<p>"That night—last night only, but it seems an eternity—I stayed for +a long time out at the studio, tortured by those black thoughts. It +was after eleven o'clock when I came back to the house. Everybody had +retired. I went upstairs to my room. It was next to Helen's. I was +trying to compose myself before I went in to her to demand the truth. I +had no weapon; there was no thought of violence.</p> + +<p>"The connecting door between our rooms was locked—from her side, but +through the panel I thought I heard hushed voices. I thought—what +could I think other than that Sarbella might be in there with her? +Somehow I hesitated, and it must have been while I debated, trying to +think, that she got Haskins out and to the third floor.</p> + +<p>"And then I went in to her. She was sitting in a chair, facing the +door. I didn't see the gun; it was on the floor at her feet. My mind +was in such a daze that I hardly think I can make it clear just how it +happened. I think I told her that there had been a man in her room, +that I had heard them talking.</p> + +<p>"I know that I was wild looking, disheveled, haggard. I had not slept +at all the night before. Perhaps she thought I meant to kill her. +Anyhow, she leaned over and picked up the gun swiftly. That was the +first time I had noticed it.</p> + +<p>"'Go away,' she told me. But I did not go away; I had come for the +truth, the truth from her own lips. I told her to put down the gun, and +when she did not, I did a very foolish thing; I attempted to take it +from her by force. I couldn't control myself.</p> + +<p>"That was when it happened—in the struggle for the gun. It was her own +hand that pulled the trigger. I swear before Heaven that is true." He +paused a moment, breathing heavily.</p> + +<p>"The muzzle must have been pressed close to her body," he went on; +"that was why there was scarcely any explosion; her body muffled the +shot. She collapsed, and I put her on the couch. She did not move or +speak. That is how it happened."</p> + +<p>The young assistant district attorney gulped, as if he were choking, +and Doctor Bushnell stared in dazed bewilderment.</p> + +<p>"But there—there was a shot!" he gasped. "A shot—and her scream. I +can't understand——"</p> + +<p>"He hasn't finished his story, doctor," said Wiggly Price. "He hasn't +told you how he worked the clever scheme of covering up the shooting, +trying to make it appear suicide." He pointed to the bits of porcelain +and the tallow. "There's the answer to that. He took the black +porcelain vase as his alibi, put gunpowder into it and tamped it in +with candle tallow, made a sort of firecracker. The wick of the candle, +from which he stripped the tallow, was his fuse. He lighted it and went +out of the house again, pretending that he'd forgotten his keys and +had been locked out; that was an excuse to get the butler up and to +have a witness to his alibi. Bates could truthfully swear that he was +downstairs when the explosion sounded.</p> + +<p>"Those black specks in the tallow that have been worrying me all +morning, were burned gunpowder. Don't think I'd have obtained the +answer to it, though, if I hadn't handled the pieces of the vase, and a +black smudge—burned powder again—came free on my fingers.</p> + +<p>"After that it was clear; the murderer was some one who wasn't on the +second floor; that could mean only one person—Gilmore himself."</p> + +<p>Lasker, the assistant district attorney, leaped to his feet.</p> + +<p>"But in that case," he demanded, "what about the scream and Joan +Sheridan's silk dressing gown and the bloodstains?"</p> + +<p>"I fancy," answered Wiggly, "that it was Miss Sheridan who screamed."</p> + +<p>Bates, the butler, gave a violent start.</p> + +<p>"It was!" he exclaimed. "I said at the time it sounded just like the +time she had screamed when Mr. Kirklan was thrown by his horse."</p> + +<p>Gilmore spoke again. "Yes," he said, "the shot that awakened the house +was not a shot, but the explosion of the powder in the vase. When I +thought Helen was dead, I was suddenly afraid.</p> + +<p>"Who would believe that was the way it had happened? They would arrest +me, send me to prison, and I was suddenly a coward. I—I don't know how +I happened to think of what I did; it just came to me suddenly, every +detail of it.</p> + +<p>"In my own room, in a closet, was a box of shotgun shells that I had +used for duck hunting last fall. It was a simple matter to remove the +wads and take out the powder from two shells and pour it into the vase. +I had to go downstairs for the candle. That is all; it would take ten +minutes or so for the candle wick to burn down to the powder. I went +out of the house, but returned almost immediately and rang the bell. +Bates let me in; I—I had to detain him downstairs until the explosion.</p> + +<p>"When the scream came, I was even more startled than Bates. I could not +understand that. And then when we got to the top of the stairs a door +slammed, and the door to her room was open. I had left it closed; also +I had turned off the lights, and they were burning.</p> + +<p>"You can imagine the torture I was in. I tried to make myself speak, +but I was a coward. I was afraid of the consequences. I would +have spoken, if the net had tightened about Sarbella; I want that +understood, that I should not have let an innocent man suffer.</p> + +<p>"Then Haskins in the house—dead—it seemed to make me safe, to solve +the whole terrible situation. And it was not murder. Believe me or not, +I have told the truth."</p> + +<p>Joan Sheridan lifted her head. "Yes," she said, "he has told the truth. +I had it from—from her own lips."</p> + +<p>"What!" cried Gilmore. "You can't mean that she—she was still alive. +Merciful Heaven, I let her die!"</p> + +<p>"I was unable to sleep," Joan went on slowly. "I had started downstairs +for a book. As I passed the door of her room I heard her moaning. I +opened the door and went in. I switched on the lights, bent over her; +that must have been when the hairpin fell from my hair, and I got the +blood on my sleeve. She was dying. She gasped out that Kirklan had shot +her by accident. And that was when I screamed. The vase exploded an +instant later." Her head lifted. "I realize that I am under oath; Helen +told me with her own lips that it was an accident."</p> + +<p>Wiggly Price wondered if this were true, or a superb falsehood to save +the man she loved.</p> + +<p>"If it was an accident, why didn't you talk?" Wiggly countered.</p> + +<p>"The vase, his effort to hide by a porcelain mask what had really +happened," she answered.</p> + +<p>"And that was why you were so sure that Sarbella was innocent?"</p> + +<p>Joan nodded.</p> + +<p>"But you stated on your oath," pressed Wiggly, "that you did not hear +the shot."</p> + +<p>"That was the technical truth," answered Joan. "It was not a shot."</p> + +<p>There fell silence; Doctor Bushnell fussed nervously with some papers +on the table, notes he had been taking of the testimony. The jurors, +although still dazed by it all, looked toward him expectantly.</p> + +<p>"Gentlemen," he said slowly, "you have heard the evidence and +the—er—confession. You have heard Miss Sheridan's statement of +the dying words from the Gilmore woman's lips. I might add, as the +examining physician, that the nature of the wound makes it plausible +that it could have been inflicted in such a struggle for possession +of the pistol as Mr. Gilmore has described. Mind you, gentlemen, I am +not trying to sway your verdict; I merely state that the nature of the +wound makes it plausible. Are there any questions that you wish to ask +of any witness?" There were no questions; perhaps the jury was still +too aghast to think of any. "Very well, the witnesses will retire, +while the coroner's jury considers the case."</p> + +<p>When Wiggly Price stepped out to the porch he found himself beside +Sergeant Tish.</p> + +<p>"Well, Tish," he said. "I told you that I was going to do it, and I +did."</p> + +<p>Sergeant Tish grinned feebly. "I gotta hand it to you, you did," he +admitted. "And to think it was Gilmore that did the croak! You didn't +have <i>that</i> doped out. Ain't it funny now that he didn't watch his +chance and make away with the evidence? Guess he thought it was so +clever nobody would get wise. I wonder if the girl was lying about the +Gilmore woman telling her it was an accident."</p> + +<p>Wiggly pursed his lips and toyed with something in his hand, the black +hairpin.</p> + +<p>"I wonder, too," he murmured. "But, whether she was or not, Gilmore's +story was straight, dead straight. It was an accident, but he got panic +and tried to cover it up by—what did Miss Sheridan call it?—the +porcelain mask."</p> + +<p>"Aw, g'wan!" grunted Tish derisively.</p> + +<p>"Tish, I'll lay you three wagers: First, that the coroner's jury brings +in a verdict of death by accident; second, that the district attorney's +office will never go behind that verdict and bring Gilmore to trial; +third, that Gilmore and Joan Sheridan are married within a year."</p> + +<p>Tish snorted, but did not accept; had he done so, Wiggly would have won +the first two and lost the third. It was almost two years before the +last prophecy was fulfilled.</p> + + +<p class="ph2">THE END.</p> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77022 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/77022-h/images/cover.jpg b/77022-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c123939 --- /dev/null +++ b/77022-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b5dba15 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this book outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..199cceb --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for book #77022 +(https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77022) |
