  The Medical Examiner, Doctor Marsh, the Detective Morton, and the Secretary of the late John Waring, Gordon Lockwood, looked at one another. Without any words having been spoken that might indicate a lack of harmony, there yet was a hint of discord in their attitudes. Doctor Marsh was sure the case was a suicide. “You’ll find the stiletto somewhere,” he shrugged, when held upon that point. “To find the weapon is not my business—but when a man is dead in a locked room, and dead from a wound that could have been self-administered, I can’t see a murder situation.” “Nor I,” said Lockwood. “Has the waste-basket been searched for the thing that killed him?” Acting quickly on his own suggestion, Gordon Lockwood dived beneath the great desk. Like a flash, Morton was after him, and though the detective was not sure, he thought he saw the secretary grasp a bit of crumpled paper and stuff it in his pocket. “Now, look here, I’ll make that search,” Morton exclaimed, and almost snatched the waste-basket from the other’s grasp. “Very well,” and Lockwood put his hands in his pockets and stood looking on, as Morton fumbled with the scraps. He emptied the basket on the floor, but there were only a few torn envelopes and memoranda, which were soon proved to be of no indicative value to the searchers. “I’ll save the stuff, anyway,” Morton declared, getting a newspaper and wrapping in it the few bits of waste paper. “Did you take a paper from this basket and put it in your pocket?” the detective suddenly demanded. Lockwood, without moving, gave Morton a cold stare that was more negative than any words could be, and was, moreover, exceedingly disconcerting. “Look here, Mr. Morton,” he said, “if you suspect me of killing my employer, come out and say so. I know, in story-books, the first one to be suspected is the confidential secretary. So, accuse me, and get it over with.” The very impassivity of Lockwood’s face seemed to put him far beyond and above suspicion, and the detective, hastily mumbled, “Not at all, Mr. Lockwood, not at all. But you don’t seem real frank, now, and you must know how important it is that we get all the first hand information we can.” “Of course, and I’m ready to tell all I know. Go on and ask questions.” “Well, then, what do you surmise has become of that five hundred dollars and that ruby stickpin? Doesn’t their disappearance rather argue against suicide?” Lockwood meditated. “Not necessarily. If they have been stolen—” “Stolen! Of course they’ve been stolen, since they aren’t here! I don’t see any safe.” “No, Doctor Waring had no safe. There has been little or no robbery in Corinth, and Doctor Waring rarely kept much money about.” “Five hundred dollars is quite a sum.” “That was for housekeeping purposes. Whenever necessary, I drew for him from the bank that amount, and he kept it in that drawer until it was used up. He always gave Mrs. Peyton cash to pay the servants and some other matters as well as her own salary. His tradesman’s bills were paid by check.” “Was the money in bills?” “I invariably brought it to him in the same denominations. Two hundred in five dollar bills, two hundred in ones, and a hundred in silver coins.” “In paper rolls?” “Yes; it may have been injudicious to keep so large a sum in his desk drawer, but he always did. Though, to be sure, he often paid out a great deal of it at once. Sometimes he would cash checks for some one or give some to the poor.” “Drawer never locked?” “Always locked. But both the Doctor and I carried a key. He was not so suspicious of me as you are, Mr. Morton.” The speaker gave his cold smile. “And as to the ruby pin, Mr. Lockwood?” Morton went on. “Are you willing we should search your effects?” Lockwood started and for a moment he almost lost his equipoise. “I am not willing,” he said, after an instant’s pause, “but if you say it is necessary, I suppose I shall have to submit.” Morton looked at him uneasily. He had no appearance of a criminal, he looked too proud and haughty to be a culprit, yet might that not be sheer bravado? Discontinuing the conversation, Morton turned his attention to the table in the window in the hall where the secretary so often sat. He examined the appurtenances, for the table was furnished almost like a desk, and he picked up a silver penholder. It was round and smooth and without chasing or marking of any sort, save for the initials G. L. “This yours?” he asked, and Lockwood nodded assent. “I ask you, Doctor Marsh,” Morton turned to the Examiner, “whether that wound which is in Doctor Waring’s neck could have been made with this penholder.” Startled, Marsh took the implement and carefully scrutinized it. Of usual length, it was tapering and ended in a point. The circumference at the larger end was just about the circumference of the wound in question. “I must say it could be possible,” Marsh replied, his eyes alternately on the penholder and on the dead man. “Yes, it is exactly the size.” “And it is strong enough and sharp enough, and it is round,” summed up Morton. “Now, Mr. Lockwood, I make no accusation. I’m no novice, and I know there’s a possibility that this might have been the weapon used, and yet it might not have been used by you. But I will say, that I have much to say to you yet, and I advise you not to try to leave town.” “I’ve no intention of leaving town or of trying to do so,” Lockwood asserted, “but,” he went on, “would you mind telling me, if I killed the man I was devoted to, how I left the room locked behind me?” “Those locked rooms bore me,” said Morton, “I’ve read lots of detective stories founded on that plot. Invariably the locked room proves to be vulnerable at some point. I haven’t finished examining the doors and windows myself as yet.” “Proceed with your examinations, then,” said Lockwood; “if you can find a secret or concealed entrance, it’s more than I can do.” “More than you will do, perhaps, but not necessarily more than you can do.” “Don’t forget that vanished Japanese,” prompted Marsh. “I’ve small faith in Orientals, and if there is a way to get in and out secretly, I’d question the Jap before I would Mr. Lockwood here.” “So should I,” declared the impassive secretary himself. “And another thing don’t forget, Morton, after the Private Secretary, the next person to be suspected is the butler—that is in fiction, which I gather you take as your manual of procedure.” Lockwood’s sarcasm drove Morton frantic, but he was too wise to show his annoyance. “I shall neglect no possible suspect,” he said, with dignity. And then two men came from the police, who said they were photographers and desired to take some pictures, at the Chief’s orders. Lockwood left them, and went to the living-room where the household and a few neighbors were assembled. “I’m glad to get out of that detective atmosphere,” he said, relaxing in an easy chair. “It’s bad enough to have the man dead, without seeing and hearing those cold-blooded police bungling over their ‘clues’ and ‘evidences.’” “Tell me a little of the circumstances,” asked Mrs. Bates, who was present. “I can bear it from you, Gordon, and I must know.” “Apparently, Doctor Waring was sitting at his desk, reading,” Lockwood began, with a faraway look, as if trying to reconstruct the scene. “He must have been reading Martial—for the volume was open on the desk—and the pages were blood-stained.” Mrs. Bates gave a little cry, and shuddered, but Lockwood went unmovably on. “There were other books about, some open, some closed, but Martial was nearest his hand—quite as if he were reading up to the last moment.” “When the murderer came!” Mrs. Bates breathed softly, her eyes wide with horror. “It couldn’t have been murder,” Lockwood said, in a positive way, “you see, Mrs. Bates, it just couldn’t have been. That Morton detective is trying to trump up a way the assassin could have entered that locked room—but he can’t find any way. I know he can’t. So it must have been suicide. Much as we dislike to admit it, it is the only possible theory.” “But they say there was robbery,” Mrs. Peyton put in. “The ruby pin is gone and the money from the drawer.” “But, perhaps,” Gordon said, “they were taken by a robber who did not also murder his victim. Nogi, now—” “Of course!” cried Helen Peyton, quickly; “I see it! I never could abide Nogi, with his stealthy ways. He stole the things, and then he ran away, and later, Doctor Waring killed himself!” “Because of the robbery!” exclaimed Emily Bates. “Oh, no!” Lockwood returned. “Certainly not for that. Indeed, the motive is the greatest mystery of all. We could perhaps imagine a motive for murder—whether it was robbery, or some brute of ‘the other faction’ or some old enemy of whom we know nothing. But for suicide, though I am sure it was that, I can think of no motive whatever.” “Nor I,” said Mrs. Bates. “I knew him better than any of you, and I know—I know for a certainty, that he was a happy man. That he looked forward eagerly to his marriage with me, that he was happy in the thought of his Presidency—that he hadn’t a real trouble in the world.” “The other faction,” began Mrs. Peyton. “No,” said Mrs. Bates, firmly. “He knew he was doing his duty, upholding the principles and tradition of his College, and the other faction did not worry him. He was too big-minded, too broad-visioned to allow that to trouble him.” “I think you’re quite right, Mrs. Bates,” Lockwood agreed; “but granting it was suicide, what do you think was the cause?” “That’s just it,” she declared; “I don’t think it was suicide, I know it couldn’t have been. He was too happy, too good, too fine, to do such a thing, even if he had had a reason. And then, what did he do it with?” “Morton imagines a secret entrance of some sort,” said Lockwood. “If there is one, the robber could have come in afterward, and could have carried off the weapon—” “Hush, Gordon,” said Mrs. Bates, sternly. “That’s too absurd! If it had been suicide—which it wasn’t—why under heaven would a burglar coming in later, take away the weapon?” “To save himself,” said Lockwood, shortly. “So he wouldn’t be suspected of the greater crime.” “Nonsense!” said Mrs. Peyton, irately; “I never heard such rubbish! And, in the first place, there’s no secret entrance to the study. I haven’t swept and dusted and vacuum-cleaned that place all these years without knowing that! Yes, and had the room redecorated and refloored, and—Oh, I know every inch of it! There’s no possible chance of a secret entrance. Who built it and when and why? Not Doctor Waring. His life’s always been an open book. Never has he had any secret errands, any callers whom I didn’t know, any matters on which he was silent or uncommunicative. Until his engagement to Mrs. Bates, he hadn’t a ripple in his quiet life, and that he told me about as soon as it occurred.” Mrs. Peyton looked squarely at Doctor Waring’s fiancee, as if to imply a complete knowledge of the courtship, as well as an intimate knowledge of the Doctor’s life. “That’s true,” Lockwood said. “He was a man without secrets. He was always willing I should open his mail, and there was never a letter that I did not know about.” Yet even as he spoke, the man remembered the crumpled paper he had taken from the waste basket, and he felt it in his pocket, though he made no sign. “Oh, people, is my aunt here?” It was Pinky Payne, who, all excitement, came running in. “I’ve just heard, and I want to see Aunt Emily.” “Here I am, dear. Come here, my boy,” and she drew him down beside her on the sofa. “What do they say, Pinky? What’s the talk in town?” Lockwood asked. “Oh, the place is in a turmoil. There are the wildest reports. Some say it’s a—a—that he killed himself, you know, and some say—he didn’t. Which was it?” The boy’s lip quivered as he looked about at the silent people. “Tell him, Gordon,” begged Mrs. Bates, and Lockwood told the principal details of the mystery. “Never a suicide! never!” Pinckney Payne declared. “I know Doc Waring too well for that. Suicide means a coward—and he was never that! No, Aunt Emily, it was murder. Oh, how terrible,” and the boy almost lost control of himself. “You were at the bottom of it, Auntie. I’m sure it was either one of those men you refused when you took up with Doc Waring.” “Why, Pinckney! How dreadful of you! Don’t say such a thing!” “But I know it. If you’d heard Jim Haskell and Philip Leonard talk—I felt sure they meant to kill Doctor Waring.” “Pinky, I forbid you—” “But it’s true, Auntie. And if it’s true, you want them shown up, don’t you, whichever one it was?” “Hush, Pinky—hush!” “Yes, shut up, Pink,” Lockwood spoke sternly. “What you suggest is highly improbable, but even if there’s suspicion of such a thing, don’t babble about it. That’s the detective’s work.” “Yes—and who’s your detective? Old blind-as-a-bat Morton, I’ll bet, who can’t see a hole through a ladder! I’ll show him now—” “Pinky, I beg of you, hush,” said his Aunt, losing her self-control. “There, Auntie, dear, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to worry you, but something must be done—” “Something will be done, Pinky,” Lockwood assured him. “But I tell you right now, if you try to stick your inexperienced finger in this pie, you’ll make trouble for us all—from your aunt down. Now, behave yourself. Try to be a man, not a foolish boy.” “That’s what I’m doing! And I don’t propose to lie down on the job, either. I tell you, Gordon. I know a lot about detective work—” “Cut it out, Pink,” said Helen, and her words seemed to have an effect on the irrepressible youth. “To read detective stories is one thing—to solve a real, live mystery is quite another.” “That’s right, Helen,” and Lockwood nodded approval. “Many a person thinks he has a bit of detective instinct, when all he has is curiosity and imagination.” Helen, pleased at this appreciation went on to lay down the law for Pinckney Payne. She was interrupted by the entrance of Morton who wanted to learn more of the departed Japanese, Nogi. “What other servants are there?” he asked Mrs. Peyton. “Only the two Japanese,” she replied. “They do all the cooking and serving at table; all the cleaning of the house; and the rest, my daughter and myself attend to.” “There is a chauffeur?” “Yes, but the garage is a few blocks away, and the chauffeur lives at home.” “You had Nogi but a short time?” “Only a few days.” “He came well recommended?” “He had very fine written recommendations, but from people I did not know, and too far away to inquire of. I took him on trial.” “He seemed honest and faithful?” “He seemed so—but he was silent and moody—a man one could scarcely understand.” “Can you imagine his killing his master—granting the opportunity?” Mrs. Peyton considered. “I can imagine it,” she said, “but I shouldn’t like to say I would suspect him of it. He was soft-footed, and went about with a sort of stealthy manner, but I’m not prepared to say he was wrong in any way.” “Call in Ito, the other one.” Ito came, and stood stolidly by. His impassive demeanor was not unlike that of Gordon Lockwood. Waring had sometimes remarked this in a chaffing way to his secretary. “You knew this Nogi?” asked Morton. “Only since he came here,” answered the butler, in perfect English. “You liked him?” “Neither yes nor no. He knew little of his duties, but he was willing to learn. He was respectful to me, and friendly enough. I had no reason to dislike him.” Morton didn’t seem to get anywhere with this man. “Well, what do you think of his character?” he said. “Would you say he was capable of killing his employer?” “All men are capable of crime,” said the Jap, in a low, even voice, “but he could not kill Doctor Waring and go away leaving the study locked on the inside.” “Why did he go away, then?” “That I do not know. It may be he tired of the place here.” “But there was money due him.” “Yes; that makes it hard to understand.” Morton had an uncomfortable feeling that the Japanese was scornful of him, and, worse still, that the other listeners were also. “You may go,” he told Ito, and then, turning to Lockwood, he said, a little belligerently, “Who is in charge here? To whom do I make my report?” The question was like a bombshell. All were silent, until Mrs. Bates said, “I suppose I am what might be called in charge. You may report to me.” “To you, ma’am?” Morton was, clearly, surprised. “Yes; as Doctor Waring’s affianced wife, and as his heir, I feel I am in authority. And also, I wish all reports made to me, as I am the one most deeply interested in learning the identity of the murderer.” “If he was murdered,” supplemented Mrs. Bates. And Mrs. Peyton broke in, “You needn’t think, Mr. Morton, that there’s such a thing as a secret entrance or secret passage in this house, for I know there is not.” “Yet there are other theories, other possibilities,” the detective said, his air a little less important than it had been. “Suppose, now, that Nogi had robbed and murdered his master, when he carried in the water tray. Just suppose that, and suppose that, with his Japanese cunning he had devised a way to lock the door behind him—or, say, he had gone out by the glass door, and had locked that behind him.” “How?” cried Pinckney, his eyes wide with excitement. “Say he had previously removed a pane of glass—they are not large panes. Say, he reached through, locked the door inside—the French window, I mean—and then had put in the pane, reputtied it, and gone away.” “Gee!” cried the boy. “That could be!” “Of course it could. And there are other ways it might have been accomplished. Now, we don’t say that did happen, but what I want to know is, who is at the head of this investigation?” “I can’t feel that Mrs. Bates is,” Mrs. Peyton said, a little sullenly. “She was not married yet, and therefore, as resident housekeeper, I feel rather in authority myself.” “But you say you are the heir, Mrs. Bates?” the detective inquired. “Perhaps I ought not to have told that,” Emily Bates spoke regretfully. “But Doctor Waring’s lawyer will tell you, it is true I am the principal heir. It is so designated in his will, which you will find in a secret drawer in his desk.” “You know where this drawer is?” “I do.” “Later on, I will ask you to show us. If you are the heir, there is no further question of your authority here.” And Detective Morton left the room. |
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