More Lives Than One/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV
AN UNKNOWN GUEST
Sobs were checked and hysterics forgotten in an intense and burning curiosity.
Mrs. Andrew Barham—here—at Tommy Locke’s party!
It could scarcely be believed.
They stared at the imperturbable chauffeur. It was plain to be seen that the man was deeply moved, but his training prevented any expression of grief or excitement.
“Does any one here know Mr. Barham?” Hutchins inquired.
He stood in the doorway between the studio and the den, or smoking room. Indeed, the interest had become so intense it was almost impossible to set a barrier to such as insisted on forcing a way.
But the detective had guards watching the places and people he was most interested in.
No one did—that was clear. And no one knew Mrs. Barham personally, though nearly all had heard her name.
“But to be here, she must have been somebody’s friend,” Hutchins persisted. “I find that there were perhaps fifty invited guests—and I’m told there were perhaps about sixty-five or seventy people here. So many invited guests brought friends or asked them. It may be that was the way Mrs. Barham came—so who brought her?”
It was impossible to get any other than negative replies.
The only conclusion to be drawn was that Mrs. Barham came to the party as the guest of some one who had already gone home. Which added a further inexplicable mystery. Why should the person or persons who brought Mrs. Barham run away in this emergency?
Why should Mrs. Barham have come at all, save as a happy guest in quest of pleasure? Could she have been trapped there?
No; for she came from her own home in her own car. Moreover, she wore a handsome and expensive costume, quite evidently in view of the masquerade festivity.
And, though no one could tell the exact time she arrived, several agreed that she had been at the house at least an hour before the tragedy was discovered.
Hutchins instructed his men to get from Miss Vallon a complete list of all the people invited, whether they had come or not.
Then he said, “Next, I suppose, we must notify Mr. Barham. How shall we best do it, Dickson?”
“Telephone, of course. Is Mr. Barham at home, Louis?”
“I don’t know, sir. I am only chauffeur of Madame’s car.”
“Who are in the family?”
“Only Mr. and Mrs. Barham, and Mrs. Selden, the mother of Madame.”
“What’s the number?”
Louis told, and then Dickson said, “You do it, Hutchins. Be as decent as you can. You’ve more natural tact than I have.”
“Is there any other telephone?” Hutchins asked, looking at the gaping crowd, in their carnival dress.
“Yes,” Post told him, “in Mr. Locke’s bedroom. I’ll show you.”
They went to the bedroom and Post stood by, while Hutchins called the Barham house.
A servant answered, and the detective asked for Mr. Barham.
“He’s in bed and asleep; shall I call his valet?”
“No; waken him. It’s an important matter.”
And in a few moments a voice said, “Andrew Barham speaking.”
“Is—is your wife at home, Mr. Barham?”
Hutchins hadn’t intended to begin that way, but he was a sensitive sort, and he dreaded making the bare announcement of his news.
“Who is this? Why do you ask?”
“It is a grave matter. Kindly reply.”
“No, then, she is not. It is now quarter of twelve. She is out with some friends.”
“I have bad news for you, Mr. Barham. This is the police speaking—Detective Hutchins. Your wife is here—at the friend’s house—injured, sir—fatally injured.”
Hutchins heard a slight gasp, and then a hurried, “I will get there as quickly as I can. At Mrs. Gardner’s?”
“Mrs. Gardner’s! No. At Mr. Locke’s!”
“Where?” The question rang out like a shot. “Who is Mr. Locke?”
“That’s where she is, sir. Mr. Thomas Locke, Washington Square.”
“My wife at Mr. Locke’s! I cannot understand—but never mind, man, I’ll be right down there. Give me the exact address—and stay—what is the injury—tell me a word or two”
“She hit her head—sir—really—I think you’d better come along at once. It’s a party—a masquerade party”
“Are you crazy? My wife isn’t at any masquerade party!”
“Yes, she is—come on, please.”
“I will. Wait a minute—must I face the whole crowd of revelers?”
“I understand. No, Mr. Barham. Come—let me see—come to the front door but ask the man in charge to bring you up the back stairway.”
“Oh, it needn’t be as secret as that—but—I can’t seem to think coherently. Washington Square! I’ll be there in record time.”
With his usual efficiency and avoidance of all waste motion, Andrew Barham had summoned his valet, and his chauffeur, and had ordered his car while he was getting into his clothes.
Prall, the valet, came in to find him already almost entirely dressed.
With a few quick, somewhat jerky words, he explained the situation to his trusted servant, saying, “Come with me, Prall, I think it’s very serious.”
Awed by the look on his master’s face, Prall bowed a silent assent, and in the shortest possible time, they were speeding down the Avenue, careful only to avoid a hold up by the traffic squad.
“Did you ever know of Mrs. Barham’s going to any place on Washington Square, Prall?”
“Never, sir.”
And Andrew Barham wondered.
Madeleine had said he was always wondering, but surely he had never before had such occasion for wonderment. Madeleine, at a fancy dress ball—in Washington Square, and—hurt—didn’t that man say fatally hurt?
To be sure, Madeleine went where she chose—she had her own friends—but Barham knew who they were, if he didn’t know them personally; and they were of her own circles, most certainly not of a Washington Square type.
So he wondered, blindly, and at last they were there.
Barham hurried up the steps, quite forgetting to ask for the back staircase.
In fact, the sight of several policemen about, so took away his wits, he thought of little else for the instant.
Before Barham arrived, Hutchins had arranged things to give the least possible shock. Henry Post had been put on duty downstairs to see that no one took advantage of the detective’s absence to get away. Pearl Jane had been ensconced in Locke’s bedroom with Kate Vallon to look after her.
In the room with Mrs. Barham’s body were only the members of the Police Force, Doctor Gannett and Rodman Jarvis, who still expressed his willingness to act for Locke in any way he could.
Chinese Charley was still missing, and the officer who admitted Barham took him at once to the back stairs.
“It’s very bad, sir, and there’s a horde of curiosity seekers in the studio. This way, sir.”
Barham had directed Prall to accompany him, as he might need service of some sort.
The officer stumbled a little on the narrow dark stairs, and Barham impatiently passed him, exclaiming, “Hurry, man—I must see for myself!”
The first time, Prall observed to himself, he had ever seen the master excited. “And small wonder,” he added, as he himself began to feel a sense of horror.
Knowing better than to try to break such news slowly, Hutchins merely greeted Andrew Barham with a grave nod, and said, “There she is, sir.”
And Andrew Barham looked down on the body of his wife—whom he had seen last at dinner that same night—now, in gaudy array, and cold in death.
The man seemed turned to stone. At first his face showed incredulity, stark unbelief—then as he realized the truth of what his eyes told him he seemed to paralyze—he was utterly incapable of speech or action.
A fine looking man, the detective saw. Straight, strong, vital. His hair was light brown—almost golden—and had a curly wave in it that gave charm to an otherwise stern cast of features.
His eyes were gray-blue, and now they were so blank, so dazed, as to have almost no expression whatever.
It was the man, Prall, who moved first.
He had stood beside his master, wondering, staring, and then all at once he broke into deep sobs and turned away to hide his face.
It seemed to galvanize the other, and Andrew Barham gave a strong shudder as he tried to pull himself together.
“It is my wife,” he said, turning to the detective. “What do you know about it? How came she here? We do not know this place.”
“Mrs. Barham must have known, sir. She came in her own car, with her own chauffeur.”
“Louis! Is he here?”
“Yes, Mr. Barham.”
“It is a mystery. I do not understand at all. But this is my wife—and—she is dead. Was she—was it an accident?”
“We do not think so.”
And then Doctor Gannett gave his account of the finding of the body on the floor
“On the floor?” Barham interrupted. “Just where?”
He was shown, and he wondered more than ever.
“With this book-end,” he mused, “this bronze Sphinx. You say it is not possible that it was an accident? That she fell on it—she was on the floor”
“No”; and Doctor Babcock added his own testimony to Gannett’s.
Barham drew a long sigh, and brushed his hand across
his eyes.
“Then,” he said, and he looked at the policemen in turn, as if arraigning them, “then you conclude it was—murder?”
“We do, sir,” Dickson answered.
“Then move heaven and earth to find out who did it! Spare no time, pains or expense. Who would—who could have reason to kill a woman like that? But, strangest of all is her presence in this place, that has yet to be ex plained. Everything has yet to be explained. Are any of her friends here—in the other room?”
“No, Mr. Barham, everybody in the other room declares he or she never saw Mrs. Barham before.”
Again the man seemed so blankly bewildered as to be on the verge of losing his mind.
But he wasn’t. Andrew Barham was unutterably amazed, astounded—but he wasn’t yet dazed. His mind was thinking with lightning quickness.
“Who did it?” he demanded again. “You must have some suspicion—some slight clue!”
“We have no suspicion, Mr. Barham,” Hutchins told him, “and as to clues or evidence, we’ve not been able to go into those things yet. Think, it only happened less than two hours ago.”
“Less than two hours ago! Then why wasn’t I told sooner?”
“Because nobody knew who she was.”
“Nobody knew my wife! In a house where she had come as a guest!”
“No, nobody knew her.”
“The host? Didn’t he know her?”
“The host—Mr. Locke, cannot be found.”
Andrew Barham dropped into a chair.
“Do you know you are telling a very strange story to me?”
“It is a strange story, Mr. Barham. But it is all true. Mr. Locke cannot be found—nor can Charley.”
“Who is Charley?”
“A Chinese boy—Locke’s servant.”
“Do you think it might be, then, that my wife came to the wrong house? I have heard of such mistakes.”
“That might be. But this is the address she gave her own chauffeur.”
“May I see Louis?”
The chauffeur was brought in and told his tale with the same immovable calm he always displayed.
He addressed himself to Barham.
“Madame ordered her car for nine-thirty,” he said.
“She bade me drive her here. I did so. When she alighted, she told me to be here for her, a little before eleven, as she was then going to Madame Gardner’s. I was here shortly before eleven and waited a little distance away. While I was waiting, there seemed to be some commotion—several people left this house hurriedly, and some policemen came.”
“You sat still and waited?” put in Hutchins, hastily.
“Why not? It was the order. And I knew not but it was apartments and the police had naught to do with the home Madame visited. Yes, I waited, until maybe half after eleven, then the commotion grew more—and I began to feel fear. I came to the door and asked for Madame. The rest is known.”
Louis was the perfect French chauffeur. His manner and mien showed just the right shade of grief, without being unduly or presumptuously personal.
Hutchins watched him out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t always trust French chauffeurs.
Barham, who seemed to read the detective’s mind, said, “You may depend on Louis’s story. He is absolutely reliable.”
There was a silence. Andrew Barham was thinking deeply.
At last he said, “What must be the procedure? I am at a loss to know what I am to do.”
For the first time Rodman Jarvis spoke.
“It is a most unusual case—we all see that. But, speaking as a lawyer, I want to ask you. Doctor Babcock, as Medical Examiner, if you can’t waive certain technical considerations and let Mr. Barham remove his wife’s body to-night—if he wishes to do so.”
Barham gave the young man a grateful look.
“That is just what I do want,” he said, “but not unless it is a proper and legal proceeding. I am shocked and horrified enough as it is, without leaving her here any longer than is absolutely necessary. If she could be taken to the Funeral Director’s—or to my home—yet, stay, Mr. Dickson, nothing—no consideration of my feelings or anything else, shall be done that will put a straw in the way of finding the murderer. That must and shall be done!”
His voice almost rang out in this decision, and Hutchins reassured him quickly.
“No, Mr. Barham, that won’t matter, that way. It’s only that it’s a bit hasty to turn over the body to the relatives before a step has been taken to solve the mystery. Yet, it can be of no help to retain the body. The doctor’s reports are full and complete, and there is little or no evidence to be learned from the body itself. If necessary to see it again that can be done at the undertaker’s—better there than at your home. And if an autopsy is held”
Hutchins checked himself. He was expert in trying to carry on his detective work and yet spare the feelings of the bereaved ones, but he frequently fell into error.
However, Andrew Barham took it rationally.
“Yes, Mr. Hutchins, if an autopsy is indicated, it can be performed. May I then send for the funeral people? May my man Prall telephone for them? I have ahead of me the difficult task of breaking this news to my wife’s mother. And, as you can understand, it has shaken me terribly.”
One and all they admired him. As man to man, Barham had a fine, a sensible attitude. It was plain to be seen how shocked and grieved he was, it was clearly evident that he was holding on to his composure by mere will power, and every one present wanted to favor him in every possible way.
“You know where to find me,” he went on. “Here is my business card—I am a consulting engineer, and though I have several business engagements out of the city, for the immediate future, I shall, of course, cancel them all. Prall, call the funeral company, and ask them to come here as soon as may be.”
“There’s no use asking you any more about Mrs. Barham’s movements this evening,” Dickson said, “for you know even less than we do. You frequently spent your evenings in different places?”
“Yes,” and Barham showed no embarrassment at this query. “We had not altogether the same tastes, and Mrs. Barham had her own car and latchkey, as I have. So we came and went as we chose.”
“When did you see her last, Mr. Barham?”
“At dinner this evening. We dined alone—with only my mother-in-law. After dinner, Mrs. Barham went to her rooms to dress for some party, and I went to my Club.”
“What Club was that, sir?”
“The Players’. Don’t hesitate to ask all the direct questions you wish. I know how necessary they are.”
But this willingness seemed to take away Dickson’s desire to make inquiries, and he only said, “There’s plenty of time ahead for all that.”
“There will be an inquest?” Barham asked.
“Yes; but don’t feel obliged to attend, Mr. Barham, unless you like. I can arrange so that you needn’t.”
“Oh, yes—I propose to help with this search for the criminal. And I can do it better if I follow the course of the inquiries. But I can do it better yet, if I can sometimes follow them unobserved. I will, therefore, if I see fit, sit in the back of the room, or some obscure corner. You see—” he set his fine white teeth together in a determined way—“you see, somebody did this thing—you are sure—” he broke off suddenly to say to Doctor Babcock, “you are positive it could not have been an accident?”
“Positive.”
“I ask again, because I didn’t see the body when it was on the floor. And—I confess I would rather it had been an accident. Who could have wanted to put an end to the life of my young and beautiful Madeleine?”
It was the first time he had spoken thus—as if he were alone—but he quickly resumed his outer manner of composure.
“Then if you are sure, there was a murderer—find him!”
His tone was that of an ultimatum, his air one of finality, and rising, he began to pace the room.
Nor did he speak again until he was informed that the undertaker’s men had arrived.
Then he superintended the removal of the body himself, he went downstairs without so much as a glance at the few curious ones who were rude enough to peer out from the studio door at him, and after the box that held the wife he had loved was put in place, he went home in Madeleine’s car, leaving Prall to go with the undertaker in Barham’s own car.
“Don’t arrange for the funeral, of course, Prall,” he said, as a final order. “Just see that everything is done right, and when you can, go home and go to bed. I’ll look after myself.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Prall.
The police officers looked at each other.
“There’s a man for you!” Dickson said, and Hutchins heartily agreed.
“He’s a real man,” Jarvis put in. “He thanked me for what I had done, with tears in his eyes, and I haven’t done anything.”
“Yes, you did, Mr. Jarvis,” Babcock said; “I should have kept that woman here all night, if you hadn’t turned up. But it’s a relief to the poor man to get that part of it over with, I know. Now to get rid of the bunch in the next room and to get rid of them properly. They ought to be interrogated as well as just to get their home addresses.”
“They have been, mostly,” Jarvis said. “I slipped in there while you were talking with Mr. Barham, and the men were working fast. Mr. Barham was completely bowled over, wasn’t he? I can’t get his face out of my mind.”
“Yes, and he took it like a man,” Doctor Gannett said. “I have had to tell many a man that his wife was dead, and I never saw a braver attitude. And he loved her—you could tell that the way he looked at her. I could.”
Then the police, by rather slow degrees, dismissed the waiting guests, and the Clowns, the Knights, the Juliets and the Winters with their cloaks drawn about their gaudy array, went out into the quiet Square.
“Do you want to stay here all night, Miss Vallon?” Hutchins asked, kindly. “Would you rather keep the young lady here? I must tell you that I have to question her to-morrow morning—sorry, but it can’t be helped.”
“Oh, no, indeed!” Kate cried. “I wouldn’t stay here for anything! I never want to enter this house again! But I will take Miss Cutler home with me, and you may see her at my house whenever you wish.”
Hutchins agreed to this, and Henry Post, looking very weary, came to escort the two girls home.
“I’m about all in,” he admitted; “I never was so done up.”
“What do you think—” Kate began.
“I’m too tired to think at all,” he returned, and they went home in almost complete silence.