  Late the same evening the Wheeler family and their guests were gathered in the living-room. Much had been done in the past few hours. The family doctor had been there, the medical examiner had been called and had given his report, and the police had come and were still present. Samuel Appleby, junior—though no longer to be called by that designation—was expected at any moment. Two detectives were there, but one, Hallen by name, said almost nothing, seeming content to listen, while his colleague conducted the questioning of the household. Burdon, the talkative one, was a quick-thinking, clear-headed chap, decided of manner and short of speech. “Now, look here,” he was saying, “this was an inside job, of course. Might have been one of the servants, or might have been any of you folks. How many of you are ready to help me in my investigations by telling all you know?” “I thought we had to do that, whether we’re ready to or not,” spoke up Genevieve, who was not at all abashed by the presence of the authorities. “Of course, we’ll all tell all we know—we want to find the murderer just as much as you do.” Keefe looked at her with a slight frown of reproof, but said nothing. The others paid no attention to the girl’s rather forward speech. In fact, everybody seemed dazed and dumb. The thing was so sudden and so awful—the possibilities so many and so terrible—that each was aghast at the situation. The three Wheelers said nothing. Now and then they looked at one another, but quickly looked away, and preserved their unbroken silence. Jeffrey Allen became the spokesman for them. It seemed inevitable—for some one must answer the first leading questions; and though Curtis Keefe and Miss Lane were in Appleby’s employ, the detective seemed more concerned with the Wheeler family. “Bad blood, wasn’t there, between Mr. Appleby and Mr. Wheeler?” Burdon inquired. “They had not been friends for years,” Allen replied, straightforwardly, for he felt sure there was nothing to be gained by misrepresentation. “Huh! What was the trouble, Mr. Wheeler?” Daniel Wheeler gave a start. Then, pulling himself together, he answered slowly: “The trouble was that Mr. Appleby and myself belonged to different political parties, and when I opposed his election as governor, he resented it, and a mutual enmity followed which lasted ever since.” “Did you kill Mr. Appleby?” Wheeler looked at his questioner steadily, and replied: “I have nothing to say.” “That’s all right, you don’t have to incriminate yourself.” “He didn’t kill him!” cried Maida, unable to keep still. “I was there, in the room—I could see that he didn’t kill him!” “Who did then?” and the detective turned to her. “I—I don’t know. I didn’t see who did it.” “Are you sure, Miss? Better tell the truth.” “I tell you I didn’t see—I didn’t see anything! I had heard an alarm of fire, and I was wondering where it was.” “You didn’t get up and go to find out?” “No—no, I stayed where I was.” “Where were you?” “In the window-seat—in the den.” “Meaning the room where the shooting occurred?” “Yes. My father’s study.” “And from where you sat, you could see the whole affair?” “I might have—if I had looked—but I didn’t. I was reading.” “Thought you were wondering about the fire?” “Yes,” Maida was quite composed now. “I raised my eyes from my book when I heard the fire excitement.” “What sort of excitement?” “I heard people shouting, and I heard men running. I was just about to go out toward the north veranda, where the sounds came from, when I—— I can’t go on!” and Maida broke down and wept. “You must tell your story—maybe it’d be easier now than later. Can’t you go on, Miss Wheeler?” “There’s little to tell. I saw Mr. Appleby fall over sideways——” “Didn’t you hear the shot?” “No—yes—I don’t know.” Maida looked at her father, as if to gain help from his expression, but his face showed only agonized concern for her. “Dear child,” he said, “tell the truth. Tell just what you saw—or heard.” “I didn’t hear anything—I mean the noise from the people running to the fire so distracted my attention, I heard no shot or any sound in the room. I just saw Mr. Appleby fall over——” “You’re not giving us a straight story, Miss Wheeler,” said the detective, bluntly. “Seems to me you’d better begin all over.” “Seems to me you’d better cease questioning Miss Wheeler,” said Curtis Keefe, looking sympathetically at Maida; “she’s just about all in, and I think she’s entitled to some consideration.” “H’m. Pretty hard to find the right one to question. Mrs. Wheeler, now—I’d rather not trouble her too much.” “Talk to me,” said Allen. “I can tell you the facts, and you can draw your deductions afterward.” “Me, too,” said Keefe. “Ask us the hard questions, and then when you need to, inquire of the Wheelers. Remember, they’re under great nervous strain.” “Well, then,” Burdon seemed willing to take the advice, “you start in, Mr. Keefe. You’re Mr. Appleby’s secretary, I believe?” “Yes; we were on our way back to his home in Stockfield—we expected to go there to-morrow.” “You got any theory of the shooting?” “I’ve nothing to found a theory on. I was out at the garage helping to put out a small fire that had started there.” “How’d it start?” “I don’t know. In the excitement that followed, I never thought to inquire.” “Tell your story of the excitement.” “I was at the garage with Mr. Allen, and two chauffeurs—the Wheelers’ man and Mr. Appleby’s man. Together, and with the help of a gardener or two, we put the fire out. Then Mr. Allen said: ‘Let’s go to the house and tell them there’s no danger. They may be worried.’ Mr. Allen started off and I followed. He preceded me into the den——” “Then you tell what you saw there, Mr. Allen.” “I saw, first of all,” began Jeffrey, “the figure of Mr. Appleby sitting in a chair, near the middle of the room. His head hung forward limply, and his whole attitude was unnatural. The thought flashed through my mind that he had had a stroke of some sort, and I went to him—and I saw he was dead.” “You knew that at once?” “I judged so, from the look on his face and the helpless attitude. Then I felt for his heart and found it was still.” “You a doctor?” “No; but I’ve had enough experience to know when a man is dead.” “All right. What was Mr. Wheeler doing?” “Nothing. He stood on the other side of the room, gazing at his old friend.” “And Miss Wheeler?” “She, too, was looking at the scene. She stood in the bay window.” “I see. Now, Mr. Keefe, I believe you followed close on Mr. Allen’s heels. Did you see the place—much as he has described it?” “Yes;” Keefe looked thoughtful. “Yes, I think I can corroborate every word of his description.” “All right. Now, Miss Lane, where were you?” “I was at the fire. I followed the two men in, and I saw the same situation they have told you of.” Genevieve’s quiet, composed air was a relief after the somewhat excited utterances of the others. “What did you do?” “I am accustomed to wait on Mr. Appleby, and it seemed quite within my province that I should telephone for help for him. I called the doctor—and then I called the police station.” “You don’t think you took a great deal on yourself?” Genevieve stared at him. “I do not think so. I only think that I did my duty as I saw it, and in similar circumstances I should do the same again.” At this point the other detective was heard from. “I would like to ask,” Hallen said, “what Mrs. Wheeler meant by crying out that it was the work of a ‘phantom burglar’?” “Not burglar—bugler,” said Mrs. Wheeler, suddenly alert. “Bugler!” Hallen stared. “Please explain, ma’am.” “There is a tradition in my family,” Mrs. Wheeler said, in a slow, sad voice, “that when a member of the family is about to die, a phantom bugler makes an appearance and sounds ‘taps’ on his bugle. This phenomenon occurred last night.” “Oh, no! Spooks! But Mr. Appleby is not a member of your family.” “No; but he was under our roof. And so I know the warning was meant for him.” “Well, well, we can’t waste time on such rubbish,” interposed Burdon, “the bugle call had nothing to do with the case.” “How do you explain it, then?” asked Mrs. Wheeler. “We all heard it, and there’s no bugler about here.” “Cut it out,” ordered Burdon. “Take up the bugler business some other time, if you like—but we must get down to brass tacks now.” His proceedings were interrupted, however, by the arrival of young Samuel Appleby. The big man came in and a sudden hush fell upon the group. Daniel Wheeler rose—and put out a tentative hand, then half withdrew it as if he feared it would not be accepted. Hallen watched this closely. He strongly suspected Wheeler was the murderer, but he had no intention of getting himself in bad by jumping at the conclusion. However, Appleby grasped the hand of his host as if he had no reason for not doing so. “I’m sorry, sir, you should have had this tragedy beneath your roof,” he said. Hallen listened curiously. It was strange he should adopt an apologetic tone, as if Wheeler had been imposed upon. “Our sorrow is all for you, Sam,” Dan Wheeler returned, and then as Appleby passed on to greet Maida and her mother, Wheeler sank back in his chair and was again lost in thought. The whole scene was one of constraint. Appleby merely nodded to Genevieve, and spoke a few words to Keefe, and then asked to see his father. On his return to the living-room, he had a slightly different air. He was a little more dictatorial, more ready to advise what to do. “The circumstances are distressing,” he said, “and I know, Mr. Wheeler, you will agree with me that we should take my father back to his home as soon as possible. “That will be done to-morrow morning—as soon as the necessary formalities can be attended to. Now, anything I can do for you people, must be done to-night.” “You can do a lot,” said Burdon. “You can help us pick out the murderer—for, I take it, you want justice done?” “Yes—yes, of course.” Appleby looked surprised. “Of course I want this deed avenged. But I can’t help in the matter. I understand you suspect some one of the—the household. Now, I shall never be willing to accuse any one of this deed. If it can be proved the work of an outsider—a burglar or highwayman—or intruder of any sort, I am ready to prosecute—but if suspicion rests on—on anyone I know—I shall keep out of it.” “You can’t do that, Mr. Appleby,” said Hallen; “you’ve got to tell all you know.” “But I don’t know anything! I wasn’t here!” “You know about motives,” Hallen said, doggedly. “Tell us now, who bore your father any ill-will, and also had opportunity to do the shooting?” “I shan’t pretend I don’t know what you’re driving at,” and Appleby spoke sternly, “but I’ve no idea that Mr. Daniel Wheeler did this deed. I know he and my father were not on friendly terms, but you need more evidence than that to accuse a man of murder.” “We’ll look after the evidence,” Hallen assured him. “All you need tell about is the enmity between the two men.” “An enmity of fifteen years’ standing,” Appleby said, slowly, “is not apt to break out in sudden flame of crime. I am not a judge nor am I a detective, but until Mr. Wheeler himself confesses to the deed, I shall never believe he shot my father.” Wheeler looked at the speaker in a sort of dumb wonder. Maida gazed at him with eyes full of thankfulness, and the others were deeply impressed by the just, even noble, attitude of the son of the victim of the tragedy. But Hallen mused over this thing. He wondered why Appleby took such an unusual stand, and decided there was something back of it about which he knew nothing as yet. And he determined to find out. “We can get in touch with you at any time, Mr. Appleby?” he asked. “Oh, yes, of course. After a few days—after my father’s funeral, I will be at your disposal. But as I’ve said, I know nothing that would be of any use as evidence. Do you need to keep Mr. Keefe and Miss Lane for any reason?” “Why, I don’t think so,” the detective said. “Not longer than to-morrow, anyhow. I’ll take their depositions, but they have little testimony to give. However, you’re none of you very far away.” “No; you can always get us at Stockfield. Mr. Keefe will probably be willing to stay on and settle up my father’s affairs, and I know we shall be glad of Miss Lane’s services for a time.” Appleby glanced at the two as he spoke, and they nodded. “Well, we’re going to stay right here,” and Burdon spoke decidedly. “Whatever the truth of the matter may be, it’s clear to be seen that suspicion must naturally point toward the Wheeler family, or some intruder. Though how an intruder could get in the room, unseen by either Mr. Wheeler or his daughter, is pretty inexplicable. But those things we’re here to find out. And we’ll do it, Mr. Appleby. I’m taking it for granted you want the criminal found?” “Oh—I say, Mr.—er—Burdon, have a little common decency! Don’t come at me with questions of that sort, when I’m just about knocked out with this whole fearful occurrence! Have a heart, man, give me time to realize my loss, before you talk to me of avenging it!” “That’s right,” said Curt Keefe. “I think Mr. Appleby deserves more consideration. Suppose we excuse him for the night.” Somewhat reluctantly the detective was brought to consent, and then Daniel Wheeler asked that he and his wife and daughter also be excused from further grilling that night. “We’re not going to run away,” he said, pathetically. “We’ll meet you in the morning, Mr. Burdon, but please realize our stunned condition at present.” “My mother must be excused,” Maida put in. “I am sure she can stand no more,” and with a solicitous care, she assisted Mrs. Wheeler to rise from her chair. “Yes, I am ill,” the elder woman said, and so white and weak did she look that no one could doubt her word. The three Wheelers went to their room, and Genevieve Lane went off with them, leaving Allen and Keefe, with Sam Appleby, to face the two detectives’ fire of questions. “You vamoose, too, Sam,” Keefe advised. “There’s no use in your staying here and listening to harrowing details. Mr. Allen and I will have a talk with the detectives, and you can talk to-morrow morning, if you wish.” “All right,” and Appleby rose. “But, look here, Keefe. I loved and respected my father, and I revere his memory—and, yes, I want justice done—of course, but, all the same, if Wheeler shot dad, I don’t want that poor old chap prosecuted. You know, I never fully sympathized with father’s treatment of him, and I’d like to make amends to Wheeler by giving him the benefit of the doubt—if it can be done.” “It can’t be done!” declared Burdon, unwilling to agree to this heresy. “The law can’t be set aside by personal sympathy, Mr. Appleby!” “Well, I only said, if it can be,” and the man wearily turned and left the room. “Now, then,” said Keefe, “let’s talk this thing out. I know your position, Allen, and I’m sorry for you. And I want to say, right now, if I can help in any way, I will. I like the Wheelers, and I must say I subscribe to the ideas of Sam Appleby. But all that’s up to the detectives. I’ve got to go away to-morrow, so I’m going to ask you, Mr. Burdon, to get through with me to-night. I’ve lots to do at the other end of the route, and I must get busy. But I do want to help here, too. So, at any rate, fire your questions at me—that is, if you know what you want to ask.” “I’ll ask one, right off, Mr. Keefe,” and Hallen spoke mildly but straightforwardly. “Can you give me any fact or suggest to me any theory that points toward any one but Mr. Daniel Wheeler as the murderer of Samuel Appleby?” Curtis Keefe was dismayed. What could he reply to this very definite question? A negative answer implicated Wheeler at once—while a “yes,” would necessitate the disclosure of another suspect. And Keefe was not blind to the fact that Hallen’s eyes had strayed more than once toward Maida Wheeler with a curious glance. Quickly making up his mind, Keefe returned: “No fact, but a theory based on my disbelief in Mr. Wheeler’s guilt, and implying the intrusion of some murderous-minded person.” “Meaning some marauder?” Hallen looked disdainful. “Some intruder,” Keefe said. “I don’t know who, or for what reason, but I don’t think it fair to accuse Mr. Wheeler without investigating every possible alternative.” “There are several alternatives,” Burdon declared; “I may as well say right out, that I’ve no more definite suspicion of Mr. Wheeler than I have of Mrs. Wheeler or Miss Wheeler.” “What!” and Jeffrey Allen looked almost murderous himself. “Don’t get excited, sir. It’s my business to suspect. Suspicion is not accusation. You must admit all three of the Wheeler family had a motive. That is, they would, one and all, have been glad to be released from the thrall in which Mr. Appleby held them. And no one else present had a motive! I might suspect you, Mr. Allen, but that you were at the fire at the time, according to the direct testimony of Mr. Keefe.” “Oh, yes, we were at the fire, all right,” Allen agreed, “and I’d knock you down for saying to me what you did, only you are justified. I would far rather be suspected of the murder of Mr. Appleby than to have any of the Wheelers suspected. But owing to Keefe’s being an eye-witness of me at the time, I can’t falsify about it. However, you may set it right down that none of the three Wheelers did do it, and I’ll prove it!” “Go to it, Allen,” Keefe cried. “I’ll help.” “You’re two loyal friends of the Wheeler family,” said Hallen in his quiet way, “but you can’t put anything over. There’s no way out. I know all about the governor’s pardon and all that. I know the feud between the two men was beyond all hope of patching up. And I know that to-night had brought about a climax that had to result in tragedy. If Wheeler hadn’t killed Appleby—Appleby would have killed Wheeler.” “Self-defence?” asked Allen. “No, sir, not that. But one or the other had to be out of the running. I know the whole story, and I know what men will do in a political crisis that they wouldn’t dream of at any other time. Wheeler’s the guilty party—unless—well, unless that daughter of his——” “Hush!” cried Allen. “I won’t stand for it!” “I only meant that the girl’s great love and loyalty to her father might have made her lose her head——” “No; she didn’t do it,” said Allen, more quietly. “Oh, I say, man, let’s try to find this intruder that Mr. Keefe has——” “Has invented!” put in Burdon. “No, gentlemen, they ain’t no such animile! Now, you tell me over again, while I take it down, just what you two saw when you came to the door of that den, as they call it.” And so Allen and Keefe reluctantly, but truthfully, again detailed the scene that met their eyes as they returned from the fire they had put out. “The case is only too plain,” declared Burdon, as he snapped a rubber band over his notebook. “Sorry, gentlemen, but your story leaves no loophole for any other suspect than one of the three Wheelers. Good-night.” |
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