The Trigger of Conscience (Detective Story serial)/Part 2
[ PART II ]
SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS.
A Halloween dance is in progress at the Broadlawns Country Club. Among the assembled guests is Rutherford Sowerby, a gouty, middle-aged banker, who has brought his young wife, Maud, formerly his stenographer. Mrs. Sowerby consoles herself for her husband's lack of delicacy in reminding her of her former position, by spending much time in the company of Philip Dorrance. The latter is the husband of “Empress Josephine” and treasurer of the Farr Rubber Company. Mrs. Dorrance is a hard task master to her young husband. Young Alice Dare, niece of Mrs. de Forest, is in love with Gerald Landon, an impecunious clerk in Sowerby's bank, but her aunt has set her face against the match. Mrs. Carter, whose red hair and provocative beauty have not made her popular with the ladies of the club, has come to the dance as the guest of Ogden Bowles, a broker of forty. Samuel Estridge, a well-known criminal lawyer, Jack Fraser and his wife, his guest and brother, Ralph Fraser of Texas, and Mrs. de Forest, the grand lady of the club, are among those present. At twelve o'clock midnight the lights are lowered, and a simple song is sung in memory of club members who have died. The song is brought to a sudden end by a sharp report. There is a call for lights, and, beneath a dragon light on the veranda, a young man with a splotch of crimson on his chest is found on the floor. Beside him lie a coarse wig and a pair of twisted, heavy-rimmed glasses. The man is James Grant, the house secretary who has recently been installed to look after the club accounts.
CHAPTER IV.
The Glistening Strand
It was Murdock, the steward, whe first found his voice. “Grant's shot,” he said, and advanced excitedly, brandishing the golf stick which he had stooped behind his desk to pick up the instant before he vaulted over. “Who did it, sir? He's not”
Jack Fraser and Ogden Bowles were beside Estridge, who bent over the body, and the former replied briefly: “I'm afraid so, Ralph!”
But his brother, after hearing the alarm, seemed for the moment to have disappeared, and Estridge, rising, took command of the situation.
“Jack, jump in your car and drive as fast as you can for Doctor Fellowes.” He drew the younger man aside for a moment; then, as the latter nodded in comprehension and dashed headlong down the veranda steps, he returned to the terror-stricken group. “The rest of you go inside, please; let no one leave the club. Murdock, round up all the waiters and cooks and other attendants, and see that they are kept under guard in the billiard room. Bowles, would you mind going with Murdock to see that they are all detained? Landon, call Rutherford Sowerby, will you?”
“Who is this man, anyway?” Phil Dorrance's voice fairly squeaked in his excitement. “Why was he here disguised like that?”
No one paid any heed to him, however. Doctor Fellowes was the general practitioner for the Broadlawns colony, and he was the county coroner as well. There had been a grave significance in Estridge's manner after his examination of the body, and no doubt was left as to the grim capacity in which the physician's presence was required,
“I am here.” Rutherford Sowerby's deep growl sounded close at hand, and he limped painfully forward as the rest, in obedience to Estridge's command, retreated within doors. Here Mrs. Sowerby created a counter diversion by fainting.
“Well, Rutherford, somebody has done for our man.” The attorney turned to the other. “Jack Fraser is the only member of the house committee present to-night besides ourselves, and I've sent him for the coroner. I've also seen to it that no one—member, guest, or club attendant—leaves before they are officially permitted to do so.”
“Humph! Locked the stable door after the horse was stolen, have you?” Sowerby stood gazing grimly down at the body. “I heard the shot, but I thought it was a bursting automobile tire. I'm not surprised, though. I was fool enough to let you and the rest of the house committee overrule me, but, if you'll remember, when the idea of planting him here was first suggested, I warned you that he should have some associates at hand to work with him. This wasn't any one-man job. They've got onto him, and he must have discovered something at last. Or, suppose that Harvest Dance affair has been repeated to-night after all, and he's been gotten out of the way!”
At this moment Ralph Fraser reappeared and came quickly toward them.
“Mr. Estridge, you seem to be in charge,” he remarked. “I've had a little experience with affairs of this sort down where I come from, and, if I can be of any assistance, please command me. I take it that this Grant wasn't just what he was supposed to be.”
“He wasn't,” Estridge replied briefly. He was kneeling beside the body, rapidly going through the pockets, and now he rose with a long strip of paper in his hand. “You can help us if you will be so good, Fraser. Here is a list of all the members, guests, club attendants, and extra waiters hired from the caterers for this occasion. Your brother has gone for the coroner, but every one else must remain until they are officially permitted to leave by the authorities, Will you see to it? Bowles and Landon are attending to it, but they can't keep an eye on every one, and naturally all of us are technically under suspicion.”
“Where are all the chauffeurs and the watchman, anyway!” Sowerby glanced out at the semicircle of empty cars. “You slipped up there, Sam!”
Ralph smiled. “That's why I beat it indoors as soon as I saw what had happened, and that Grant had worn a wig and glasses, evidently for no other purpose than to make himself appear some one who he wasn't. I'm only a guest here, gentlemen, a stranger, and not in your confidence, but I surmised something of the truth. Seeing that the driveway was deserted I took it upon myself to corral those whom you might overlook in the first excitement. The chauffeurs and watchman were shooting crap in that room off the kitchen, and, if I'm any judge, they were all so intent that none of them even heard the shot. But I took care to explain to them that it wouldn't be healthy for any of them to leave the room until they were sent for. I had the brass to use your name, Mr. Estridge.”
“I'm glad you did, and you've rendered us all a service in acting so promptly,” the attorney responded cordially. “If Doctor Fellowes isn't out on a case, Jack ought to have him here in a few minutes now, but time is precious, and I'd like to have all the data available for him and the other county authorities that we can gather. Sorry I can't take you completely into our confidence now, but, besides Mr. Sowerby and your brother, no one present to-night, except myself, knows the real identity of Grant, nor why he has been here incognito.”
“No one but the person who fired the shot, Sam,” Sowerby interrupted dryly. “He must either have guessed the truth and been waiting for this occasion and the moment of darkness to rid himself of danger of retribution for what happened before, or planned another coup for to-night. How many cars brought people here this evening? Does anybody know? It would have been easy enough, in that minute before the lights were turned on again, for the murderer to have made off with anybody's car, or slipped away on foot through the shrubbery, for that matter. This thing has been bungled from start to finish, but no one would listen to me!”
“It has been bungled fatally as far as poor Grant is concerned, and I feel criminally responsible for not foreseeing the possibility of this crime, but as the rest—well” Estridge shrugged his shoulders. “Whoever got him is still in the clubhouse, Rutherford, you can depend upon that, or, if he is skulking about the grounds, he will soon be brought in. Do you remember our conversation yesterday? You were impatient that Grant had not accomplished the purpose for which we brought him here, and you predicted a repetition of the Harvest Dance affair. I didn't think it expedient to tell you then what I had arranged on my own initiative, but I happen to know our watchman's predilection for a congenial crap game, and Grant couldn't have been expected to keep an eye on everything to-night. I have some picked men scattered about the grounds and the roads leading to the club. They have orders not to close in before I them a certain signal, no matter what they hear, unless they catch some one trying to leave.”
“Suppose they've closed in on Jack Fraser!” Sowerby suggested.
“No fear of that! You saw me draw him aside before I sent him for the coroner; that was to give him a countersign which would be recognized if he were stopped,” replied Estridge. Whipping a large silk handkerchief from his pocket he stooped once more and laid it over the face of the dead man. Then he remarked: “We must not move the body, of course, and I have reasons of my own for preferring to remain beside it until the coroner arrives. In the meantime, Fraser, if you'll just go and see that Bowles and Landon keep the crowd in order and quieted.”
“Certainly.” Ralph Fraser paused in the doorway. “Have you examined the wound?”
“Only superficially,” the attorney responded. “It was caused by a bullet of small caliber, and it must have pierced the heart, but the autopsy will determine the details definitely. There were no powder marks, as you see, so it must have been fired from some distance.”
“'A bullet of small caliber,” repeated Fraser thoughtfully. “I don't know how highly you rate the capabilities of your local authorities, Mr. Estridge, nor what is back of this little affair, but it looks as though they would find their work cut out for them, doesn't it?”
He disappeared within, and Estridge turned to the bank president. “Rutherford, get rid of any one who may happen to be in the locker room and, when you're sure that you are alone, use the farthest booth from the door. Tell the operator to give you a clear wire, and be careful not to speak loud enough for the others to hear you.”
“Say, Sam, it seems to me there's enough darned mystery about this thing without your making more of it! I'm a member of the house committee, too, you know!” interrupted Sowerby. “Of course we deputized you to engage this fellow Grant, but what is the idea of stationing the guards about without taking us into your confidence? I suppose that notice on the bulletin board, which has set so many tongues wagging, meant that those who left early and didn't come to you for your fool, melodramatic countersign would be held up. What excuse would you have given?”
“None but the truth,” Estridge replied quietly. “That, in view of the fact that so many valuable jewels were worn by the ladies present this evening, it had been thought best to station extra watchmen about the grounds who would permit no one to pass out without proving their identity. As a matter of fact no one has attempted to leave.”
“'Thought best!'” snorted the other resentfully. “Who the deuce asked you to think for the whole club, Sam? Not but what the idea was a sensible one, but why didn't you tell, at least, young Fraser and me, as the only other members of the house committee who intended to be present? It was confoundedly irregular of you! What's this mysterious 'reason of your own' for hanging around the poor fellow's body till the coroner gets here, and who was he, anyway?”
“Your last question will be answered if you'll telephone, as I was about to ask you, Rutherford.” Estridge was unruffled by the outburst of his companion. “Call up O'Hare's Detective Agency in New York and tell them that Jim Doyle, the operative whom they assigned to the job out here, has been done in, and that the county authorities have been notified. Give them the barest details, say that you have got to be careful of an open wire, that you are speaking for me, and that I will communicate with them personally and at length in the morning.”
“So he was one of O'Hare's men, eh?” The bank president stared. “I presume you know what that kind of a message will do, don't you? It will bring more of O'Hare's private detectives out here to clash with the local authorities.”
“That is precisely what I want,” returned Estridge. “Not a clash with the local authorities, necessarily, but we can't avoid notoriety now in any case, and we need the most expert assistance we can obtain. O'Hare is not the sort to let an operative of his be killed in the line of duty without knowing why and by whom, and, if I'm not mistaken, he'll put his star man on the job as soon as he can get him here. We'll need him, Rutherford—we're in deep waters.”
“Not too deep for you to swim in, though!” Sowerby's small eyes crinkled at the corners. “I forgot your record in the courts, and I'll take back what I said; I guess you can do the thinking for the club, Sam. I'll phone O'Hare, and then, if you want me, you will find me with the rest.”
Estridge then reached inside the sash and pulled down the shade. Next he closed the window and stood for a minute staring down at the body of the dead detective. Doyle, or Grant, as the other club members had known him, had not been off duty on this night of all nights as the attorney very well realized. Why had he taken up his station at that particular window and never left it? Was it merely to watch the dancing, to carry out his impersonation of the house secretary, the employee who was yet accorded the privilege of looking on at that in which he might not share, or had he had some deeper motive for maintaining that point of vantage?
The opened window gave an unobstructed view of the huge entrance hall which was being used for the overflow from the ballroom: a view, also, of his own closed office door, of Murdock's desk, and the wide staircase between, as well as glimpses of the conservatory on one side, and the supper room on the other. Surely the detective could not have chosen a more central and, at the same time, unobtrusive position, yet there were other windows in the row on either side of the veranda door from which he could have looked in on precisely the same scene—windows above which no glowing lantern hung to make him so sure a mark in that moment of semidarkness!
Estridge glanced involuntarily up at the grotesque dragon swaying above him, and he discovered that the light within it was flickering crazily. He knew that most of the lanterns had been strung on electric wires connected with the main switch, so that they, together with the brackets and chandeliers within doors, might be extinguished for that midnight moment of respect to “absent members,” but at stated intervals along the veranda some were to have been fitted with candles and left to give a slight glow of light. The dragon lantern must have been one of the latter, and now its short candle length was guttering; had the pseudo-secretary known of this arrangement?
While the attorney stood meditating the candle flared suddenly and went out, and the writhing dragon became merely a decoration in red and black, and the lantern itself suddenly collapsed and fell to the floor at his feet. Estridge started mechanically to pick it up when something within it caught his eye—something which gleamed in the electric lights like a coil of sparks.
With an exclamation he glanced about him at the deserted veranda, then, stooping swiftly beneath the line of the window ledge, lest his shadow show against the shade, he drew forth from the base of the lantern a strand which glittered in his hands like living fire.
Backing away from the window he straightened and looked down at the still form at his feet.
“I know, now.” His lips formed the words in a toneless whisper. “You turned the trick, Doyle, even though it cost you your life! You made good, and no man can do more!”
CHAPTER V.
Renwick Crane Arrives.
The shrill note of the siren, which cut the night air not many minutes after Estridge's discovery, was followed by the droning roar of an engine, and Jack Fraser's car swirled madly up the curving drive to stop with a jolt before the veranda steps.
“Is that you, Estridge?” the latter called cautiously. “We're in luck. I found the sheriff playing checkers with Doctor Fellowes and brought him along, too!”
“Good evening, doctor, or rather good morning, for it is past midnight.” Estridge advanced and held out his hand as a tall, slightly stoop-shouldered man with a trimly pointed gray beard mounted the steps, followed by a corpulent, but surprisingly active, figure. “Sheriff, I suppose Mr. Fraser has told you of the crime which has been committed here to-night. I am prepared to give you all the details in our possession and to assure you that no one has been permitted to leave the premises.”
They shook hands, and the coroner proceeded straightway to his investigation of the body, but Sheriff Coburn, after a more cursory glance at it, turned again to the attorney.
“I'll let the doc have his innings first, Mr. Estridge, but I'd like the truth about what Mr. Fraser tried to tell us while we were whizzing out here. I understand that the dead man has been acting as an employee of the club for the past few days, but he was actually a city detective, engaged on the quiet by some of you to find out who has been committing some robberies.” His usually good-natured eyes blinked resentfully in his round face. “I suppose our country methods weren't good enough for you city folks who have settled out our way, but that's neither here nor there. Your smart operative has let the thief get the drop on him, and now it's up to us after all. We'll want the whole story, sir, that we should have had in the beginning.”
“You'll have it, sheriff.” Estridge's tone was the blandly conciliatory one which many an assistant district attorney knew to the cost of his prestige and the loss of the State's case. “Some minor discrepancies appeared in the club's accounts after the departure of our former secretary, Mr. Martin, which we—the house committee—preferred to make up out of our own pockets rather than start a scandal.”
“Didn't strike you, as a lawyer, that you were pretty near compounding a felony, did it, Mr. Estridge?” The sheriff rubbed his chin reflectively.
“Hardly,” Estridge observed. “Martin could have had nothing to do with the crime which we employed this detective to investigate; the robbery took place after his departure for the West—on the night of our Harvest Dance, in fact. You would have been notified at once, but the victim herself objected to any stir being made about it in the neighborhood and preferred to call in a private detective from the city.”
“'Herself?'” repeated the sheriff. “One of the ladies was robbed? What was it, jewelry? Who was it?”
“It was Mrs. de Forest, and she was robbed of this.” As he spoke the attorney drew from his pocket the glistening strand, which he had found coiled about the base of the dragon lantern, and extended it to the county official who retreated a step, his eyes bulging.
“You don't say!” he exclaimed. “That's not Mrs. de Forest's necklace, the famous De Forest diamonds?”
Samuel Estridge nodded. “They dropped or were clipped from her neck some time during the Harvest Dance which was held late in September; as soon as she discovered her loss, with rare presence of mind, she made no scene, but reported the matter quietly to various members of the house committee, of which I was one. After the dance was over we held a special meeting, and the course, which we subsequently adopted, was decided upon,” he resumed. “I was deputized to engage a man from O'Hare's agency to come down here and pose as the new club secretary in order to get in touch with both members and attendants and discover, if he could, the identity of the thief. You see, sheriff, every one here that night was virtually open to possible suspicion of having stolen the string of diamonds, just as every one present this evening is a possible suspect of murder.”
“Then this man didn't find out who had taken the necklace?” demanded the sheriff as he took the strand of gleaming jewels from the attorney and ran it gingerly through his pudgy fingers. “Mr. Fraser didn't have time to tell us whether Grant had made an ante-mortem statement or not.”
“Grant—or Doyle, to give him his real name—must have died instantly, and I am afraid we shall never know the whole truth about to-night,” responded Estridge gravely. “We can only be certain that he discovered the hiding place of the diamonds and was keeping guard beneath it until such time as he might take possession of them without the knowledge of the thief; but the latter must have suspected his intention and fired the fatal shot when the lights were lowered for a few minutes at midnight.”
“What were the lights lowered for? You folks dance till all hours out here. You say that this fellow Doyle was keeping guard beneath the place where the diamonds were hidden; then, if the body hasn't been moved” The sheriff was not permitted to finish his question.
“It hasn't,” said Estridge. “They were inside that Chinese lantern which swung just above the window all this evening. I only discovered them myself by accident, a few minutes before your arrival. The lantern fell, and, if you will examine the diamonds, even in this light you will see that congealed candle grease is still adhering to them.”
Doctor Fellowes had concluded his preliminary examination of the body, and now he approached silently and listened while the attorney briefly, but concisely, summed up the events of the night.
“What do you make of it, doc?” Sheriff Coburn asked with the familiarity of lifelong association. “How far off was the shot fired?”
“A considerable distance, I should say; I don't want to commit myself before the autopsy, but I think a high-powered pistol of small caliber was used, and it might have been fired anywhere from twenty to forty feet away,” Doctor Fellowes replied cautiously. “The bullet penetrated or passed very close to the heart.”
The sheriff was obviously much impressed. “You've hit on a mighty valuable clew right there! It would take a pretty good shot” He broke off suddenly, remembering the presence of Samuel Estridge. While the sheriff walked over to examine the dead man for himself, the coroner asked: “You've got a light motor truck here belonging to the club, haven't you, Mr. Estridge? I've seen it going to the station with golf bags. I'd like to remove the body in that for the autopsy. Have you notified the detective agency of his death?”
“Yes; another member of the house committee, President Rutherford Sowerby of the Tradesmen's Bank, has done so.” Estridge paused. “I may add that only he, Mrs. de Forest, Mr. Jack Fraser, and myself were aware, until to-night's tragedy, that the necklace was stolen, or that Doyle was other than the club secretary he pretended to be. The other members of the house committee, who were present at the special meeting after the Harvest Dance, have been either ill or away since that night, and we had not then decided in what capacity we would introduce a private detective here. For reasons which are obvious, of course, we should like to keep this whole affair as quiet as possible and avoid all the scandal and notoriety that we can, at any rate, until the identity of the criminal has been discovered.”
Doctor Fellowes shook his head, “You won't find that very easy if every one rushed out here after the shot was fired and saw that the man had been palpably disguised,” he remarked. “The caterer's people and the orchestra from the city are bound to talk to reporters.”
“Oh, you'll have to stand for the notoriety, all right, Mr. Estridge!” The sheriff had hung the lightless lantern again on its hook and rejoined them in time to catch the drift of the coroner's words. “Even if Mrs. de Forest hasn't told them by now of the theft of her necklace, it's all bound to come out at the inquest. Here's Mr. Fraser.”
Jack Fraser had parked his car, stopped for a brief conversation with one of the special guards who had been stationed about the grounds, and now he ascended the veranda steps and came toward them. Arrangements were quickly made for him to take out the light motor truck and drive the coroner and his gruesome charge back to the village. The sheriff and Estridge entered the main hall of the clubhouse.
A strange sight met their gaze where so short a time before groups of light-hearted people had dominated the scene. The center of the floor was deserted and littered with gloves, handkerchiefs, and broken-plumed fans. Young Mrs. Sowerby was stretched upon a bench which had been hastily drawn from the conservatory. Jack Fraser's wife and Alice Dare were ministering to her, and, near the closed door of the late pseudo-secretary's little office, Phil Dorrance had buttonholed the reluctant Gerald Landon and appeared to be questioning him excitedly. At the foot of the stairs, where she had halted when the report of the shot came, Mrs. Carter had seated herself, and Ogden Bowles bent solicitously above her, but of Rutherford Sowerby, Ralph Fraser, and Murdock there was no sign,
Sounds of varying degrees of hysteria from the conservatory, ballroom, and supper rooms indicated where the rest of the women members and guests had taken refuge—all save two. Mrs. de Forest was once more in her chair in the corner, tacitly reserved for her at all club functions, but her usually erect figure was huddled, and her face seemed suddenly to have become lined and very old. She was staring straight before her, apparently oblivious to the soothing utterances of her one faithful satellite, Mrs. Dorrance, but she roused herself and glanced up as the attorney and the sheriff approached.
“I have been a proud old woman, Mr. Coburn, and indirectly that poor young man's death lies at my door!” she said brokenly. “If I had not insisted to the house committee on avoiding village gossip and the hounding of society reporters from town by having a private investigation conducted, he would never have come here to meet his end!”
The sheriff had always been secretly in awe of this grand lady of the fashionable colony which had invaded Broadlawns and, like most of the natives, had cloaked this feeling beneath an attitude of swaggering independence. But, before her disarming self-abasement, his good nature reasserted itself, and he replied with grim humor: “No, ma'am. You would probably have called in Constable Meeks, and he would have called in me, and then, if either of us had been as successful as that young man was in what he undertook, we'd most likely be lying where he is to-night; that is, if we'd been as careless as to stay in the light!”
“'Successful!'” Mrs. de Forest caught up the word with a sharp exclamation. She turned in bewilderment to the attorney. “Mr. Estridge, what does the sheriff mean?”
Mrs. Dorrance was staring from one to the other of them with avid interest, and Sheriff Coburn interposed bluntly: “I'll be glad to tell you, ma'am, if you will come where we can talk privately. I understand that this affair isn't to be known generally throughout the club, just yet.”
“Poor Mr. Grant's office is bolted, but why not try the ladies' locker room?” Mrs. Dorrance suggested, rising. “I know there must be some terrible mystery back of what has happened to-night, and I won't intrude, but, dear Mrs. de Forest, I am sure you will confide in me as soon as the opportunity offers.”
She bowed to the sheriff and Samuel Estridge, and, as she moved away, the attorney observed: “That was not a bad suggestion. Shall we adjourn to the ladies' locker room?”
Mrs. de Forest rose, masking her agitation from those in the hall who might be watching them. The three made their way to the room indicated, and here the sheriff, after carefully fastening the door, drew from his pocket the necklace and placed it in the lady's hands.
“My diamonds!” she exclaimed. “But where”
“I'm sorry not to be able to explain now, ma'am, and I'll have to ask you to return them to me again as evidence. I only wanted you to know that they were safe, and I'll give you a receipt for them. You positively identify them don't you?”
“Unless this is a paste replica, which only an expert could detect, it is indeed my necklace,” Mrs. de Forest affirmed. “I would be overjoyed at recovering it if it were not for the fact that it cost that unfortunate young detective his life! Do you know who took it from me at the Harvest Dance, or who fired that shot to-night?”
“No, ma'am.” The sheriff, who had been laboriously writing a receipt, now held the paper out to her. “If you'll just give me back that necklace it will be produced at the inquest and then returned to you, provided nobody's held for trial. Till then I take it that Mr. Sowerby, Mr. Fraser, and Mr. Estridge will be glad if you'd keep as quiet about losing it at all as you have during the past month. Of course all the folks here to-night know that Grant was at the club in disguise, and that he was murdered, but no one knows why, and no one but the murderer himself knows yet who pulled the trigger.”
“Take it!” Mrs. de Forest extended the necklace with a gesture of repulsion. “I feel as though there were a stain upon it! But I don't in the least understand.”
“Mr. Estridge will have to explain to you later, ma'am; I've got other things to do now before the coroner gets back. You know that we work kind of independently in a case like this, and we can't keep the folks here up all night.” Sheriff Coburn wrapped the diamonds in his handkerchief and stowed them carefully in an inside pocket. “Got mighty near onto a hundred people here, counting extra help and all, I understand from Mr. Fraser, and it will be some job to weed them out. Mr. Estridge, can I see you for a minute?”
“Look here, sheriff, what was your idea in hanging that lantern back on the hook from which it fell when the candle guttered?” the attorney asked when they had taken their leave of the lady and started toward the billiard room.
The sheriff winked slyly. “Unless you yourself put that necklace there, Mr. Estridge, nobody but us and the coroner knows that it has been discovered. I put the lantern back in place before Mr. Fraser came up to the porch after parking his car, and I figured that, as soon as he dared, the thief would be looking for the jewels where he hid them,” he replied. “That wouldn't be right away—not within half an hour or so after the body was taken off—for fear of drawing attention to himself, but I'd like to swear you in as a special deputy, until I can get one of the boys out from the village, and have you kind of hang around where you can watch that lantern from now on and see who goes near it. As a club member you could do it in a natural sort of way that would scare the fellow off, whoever he is, without his actually suspecting that you knew anything. Got a revolver or pistol here at the club?”
“None that I know of, sheriff,” Estridge said. “Suppose, in spite of my presence near that lantern, either inside the window or out on the veranda, the murderer takes a chance and, on some plausible excuse attempts to remove it? He must be pretty desperate, you know, and he's playing for high stakes. I'm not as young as I was, but I'll tackle him if you say so.”
“I believe you would, sir!” the sheriff responded admiringly. “We've heard out here of a few fellows, whom you've had sent up, who threatened to get you when they came out, but none of them tried it yet! However, I'm not asking you to look for trouble; if nobody actually tries to touch the lantern don't bother 'em, just get a good look at anybody who hangs around so that you can identify 'em later. But, if anybody tries to tamper with it, don't stop to question 'em, cover 'em with this!”
They had paused in a deserted corner of the rear hall, and Sheriff Coburn thrust into the hands of his newly appointed deputy a short, but heavy, old-fashioned revolver, which Estridge inserted in the pocket of his dinner jacket. He rarely appeared at the club in more formal evening attire.
“I understand, sheriff.” With a nod he sauntered back across the rotunda. The return of Jack Fraser's car, bearing Doctor Fellowes and a third man on the spare seat, gave him an excuse for evading the eager questions which assailed him from all sides.
“The sheriff is interviewing the waiters and assistant stewards in the billiard room, I believe,” Estridge replied to the coroner's inquiry. “The watchman and the chauffeurs are in a room off the kitchen, and you'll find the members and guests scattered about within doors.”
“Good! This is Constable Meeks.” Doctor Fellowes indicated the tall, shambling, ungainly figure which had occupied the spare seat in the little runabout. “Any parties, club members, or extra help whom he conducts outside you'll know the sheriff and I have finished with for the time being. Mr. Fraser can give them the word that will let them past your special watchmen if they should be stopped in the grounds.”
Estridge nodded to the constable, and the three entered the hall. Estridge then took up his solitary vigil. Pacing the veranda he seemed lost in thought, but in reality he was watching keenly for a flitting shadow against the windows, or a stealthy movement among the branches of the shrubbery that swayed and rustled in the night wind upon the lawn,
The other candle-lit lanterns had long since gone out, and the one which had contained the necklace hung inert. Its once fiery dragon had become an indistinguishable design of inky black, but no one approached it either from within the house or without. Presently a club bus or two rattled up to the door and departed with the orchestra, jazz band, and extra waiters and cooks. Later the members and their guests began to depart in their various cars, each group escorted to the steps by the constable.
A distant village clock struck three, and still the attorney's vigil remained unrelieved and unrewarded. With the departure of Mr. and Mrs. Dorrance, bearing the still hysterical Mrs. Sowerby, the constable came toward the watcher and announced: “Sheriff Coburn told me why you were out here, Mr. Estridge. He and Doc Fellowes reckon they'd rather have you in there with them now, being as it was you hired that city detective that got killed, and I'm going to take your place. Ain't seen anything suspicious, have you?”
Estridge assured the constable that he had not, and, relinquishing his commission and the weapon which was sagging down his coat pocket, he returned to the hall of the clubhouse. Here he found Rutherford Sowerby holding forth.
“This is an outrage! You people are only trying to show your petty authority by keeping us here, but I have an important directors' meeting in town in the morning, and I need my rest!”
“That's all right, sir!” the sheriff retorted pugnaciously. “You folks don't mind cutting up and raising high jinks till morning when you're giving a party, but when it comes to a murder inquiry you're not to be kept out of your beds.”
“'High jinks!'” The irate bank president was ready to explode. “I'll have you know that I've had gout for the past ten years! As for this murder, I know no more about it than you! I was playing bridge with three other members in the card room when the lights dimmed at midnight, and we had barely risen when the sound of the shot came. Samuel Estridge had taken command of the situation by the time I reached the veranda, and he asked me to go and telephone to O'Hare's Detective Agency in town and tell them that their man had been killed. I did so and then went to see that none of the chauffeurs or waiters left the premises. Good heavens! My estate in this one-horse village of yours is worth over sixty thousand dollars; you don't think I am likely to run away, do you?”
“I guess we can trust you, Mr. Sowerby,” the coroner interposed smoothly. “We'll want you at the inquest, but you will be notified, and, if Sheriff Coburn agrees, we will excuse you now.”
“I should like to take my wife home, also,” Jack Fraser interrupted. “She was dancing with my brother, and I was dancing with Miss Dare when the signal came for the singing of 'Auld Lang Syne.' Neither of us left our partners' sides until the report of the shot. At least a score of people must have seen us.”
“It is an imposition to keep the rest of the ladies here, anyway, at this hour!” Ogden Bowles declared hotly. “I'm not a member of the house committee, and I don't know why Grant was killed or who killed him, but the ladies, at least, should be exempt from this all-night grilling! Mrs. Carter, for instance, is really ill, and Mrs. de Forest and her niece
“Thank you, Mr. Bowles.” From her chair, where by her very presence she seemed to dominate the group, Mrs. de Forest cast a withering glance upon him. “Neither my niece nor myself are of the weakly hysterical breed! I will speak for us both, and we will remain to see this inquiry through!”
Before any one could speak again the roar of a car with the muffler cut out sounded from the drive, and it drew up at the steps. Constable Meeks' slightly nasal tones came to them mingled with a quick, authoritative masculine voice, and then the door opened, and a slender, lithe young man strode into the room.
“I have motored out from the city in response to a telephone message from here,” he announced. “My name is Renwick Crane.”
CHAPTER VI.
“More Than One.”
As the newcomer mentioned his name, Sowerby and Bowles glanced at each other) and Estridge started eagerly forward. Even the sheriff uttered an exclamation beneath his breath. In the past year or two Renwick Crane had become celebrated for his success in the solving of more than one notoriously baffling crime, and the newspapers had sung his praises to the chagrin of the regular metropolitan police department, O'Hare had sent his star man to avenge the death of a lesser colleague.
“Mr. Crane, I believe we have met in court. I am Samuel Estridge.” The attorney spoke hastily and turned toward the local officials, “I am sure that Coroner Fellowes and Sheriff Coburn will be delighted to have so distinguished a consultant. You have come, of course, to inquire into the circumstances of the death of your friend who was known among us as the house secretary, James Grant. As the reason for his presence here has not been generally disclosed I propose that the coroner, the sheriff, Mr. Sowerby, and Mr. Fraser of the house committee, and you and I go into a brief, private session. If the rest of you will wait, I promise you that we shall not be long.”
He led those whom he had named to the billiard room and closed the door. The others divided themselves insensibly into couples. Mrs. Jack Fraser seated herself beside Mrs. de Forest, and Alice Dare, after hovering about her aunt for a moment, retired to a discreet distance behind her chair, where she indulged in a whispered conversation with Gerald Landon. Ralph Fraser and Ogden Bowles were talking by the fireplace, and only Mrs. Carter sat alone and a little apart.
Her pale, almost classic, face between the bands of rich red hair was as expressionless as ever, and her slim hands were folded in her lap, but her lids drooped over her tawny eyes, and it seemed with difficulty that she essayed a faint smile when Bowles at length crossed to her side.
“You are utterly worn out!” he said. “It is a shame to keep you here after the shock of the tragedy, particularly as you are not well. I blame myself for persuading you to come this evening.”
“Indeed you mustn't,” she replied softly. “I am unnerved, of course, but it is of that poor man I am thinking, and of the strange mystery of his presence here. He was a detective, we know that, but I have heard of no robbery at the club, have you?”
Bowles shook his head. “It's bound to come out at the inquest, anyway, so I can't understand why the house committee are so secretive now. I shouldn't be surprised if the matter turned out to be more of a domestic scandal than a criminal affair,” he said. “However, I'm not a he-gossip, and people don't kill for the mere sake of preserving a reputation!”
“Not without warning, even down where I came from,” Mrs. Carter agreed. “It really does seem rather silly not to tell the members of the club why a detective was employed to spy upon them, especially now that the poor man is dead.”
Behind locked doors in the billiard room, Rutherford Sowerby was voicing somewhat the same sentiment, but in less complimentary terms.
“As long as that old she-dragon's necklace has been recovered, I don't see why the whole story shouldn't be given to the boys of the press when they come swarming out in the morning!” he exclaimed. “I could have bought the thing for her twice over, and now it has created the worst scandal a country club ever endured, aside from causing the death of that poor fellow, Doyle. Doctor Fellowes says he'll hold the inquest on Monday at the latest, and that is only two days off. This is Saturday morning.”
“I want those two days.” Renwick Crane spoke quietly, but with an intensity of purpose which brooked no denial. “Since the coroner and the sheriff have been good enough to give me a free hand in my own investigation and have agreed to coöperate with me in every way compatible with their offices, may I suggest that, until it is needed as evidence at the inquest, the dragon lantern be taken down with the other lanterns and put away as is usual after an entertainment? I have brought some of my own operatives with me from the agency, and one of them will watch any one who approaches that lantern until it is put in evidence. Your constable can be released for more important duty.”
“But what could be more important?” asked Jack Fraser in surprise. “Surely when you get the man who had a guilty knowledge of the whereabouts of that necklace, you will have caught the murderer of James Doyle!”
“Not if he can present an alibi, which you are unable to shake, for that minute of semidarkness during which the shot was fired!” Crane retorted, rumpling his curly brown hair. “Don't you see, gentlemen, that you've got merely the vaguest sort of circumstantial evidence as to why the murder was committed, but not even an idea of the possible identity of the murderer? I'm not out here to discover who stole the necklace or hid it in that lantern; I'm here to find out who killed Jim Doyle!”
His crisp, clear-cut tones broke slightly as he mentioned the name of his late associate, but his keen eyes flashed, and he set his jaw in uncertain lines. The dominating force of the man's personality, together with his peculiar insight and power of deduction, which had gained him his reputation, began to be manifest even to the local authorities, and the sheriff exclaimed: “I never thought of that! There might have been more than one of them in the plot!”
“Doctor”—Crane turned to the coroner—“the most superficial examination of the wound should have shown the general direction from which the shot came.”
“It did,” Doctor Fellowes responded. “I told you that I wouldn't commit myself before the autopsy, but I have already given you my unofficial opinion, as I had previously given it to Mr. Estridge and the sheriff, that the shot was fired from a distance of twenty to forty feet, straight in front of Doyle. Of course it might have come from a little to the left or right, which would depend on how he was standing. Only the autopsy will show the depth of penetration and the course of the bullet—whether it was slightly upward or downward—but it undoubtedly passed through the open window before which he stood.”
“That's good enough as a working basis,” Crane's glance darted to the attorney. “Mr. Estridge, what architect designed this club?”
The unexpected question made the others eye each other in surprise, but, as though following the detective's train of thought, Estridge smiled as he replied: “Peter van Horn, of Hopping & Van Horn, in the city. However, a copy of the plans of the club, drawn to scale, are filed in the secretary's office here, and I am sure that the rest of the house committee will be glad to place them at your disposal at any time.”
“Thanks. Then suppose we join those of your members who are still being detained?” Crane suggested. “I noticed several ladies present, and, as Mr. Sowerby remarked before, it is nearly morning.”
The cold light of dawn was indeed faintly streaking the east when they reëntered the hall to find the little groups much as they had left them, save that Alice Dare had fallen asleep on the bench that had been brought from the conservatory, Mrs. de Forest was nodding in her chair, and Mrs. Fraser pacing nervously back and forth. Of the women, only Mrs. Carter maintained her attitude of impassive, yet alert, calm. Crane, after discovering that the majority of the members and guests, who had been detained were not in line with the window, dismissed them summarily, The sheriff turned to Mrs. Carter.
“Mrs. Carter, this is Mr. Crane, a detective, who has come out from town to look into the death of Mr. Grant.”
Mrs. Carter bowed. “Mr. Crane's reputation has preceded him,” she said demurely. “We did not know until to-night, however, that the poor man, whom we had all grown to like and trust as the new house secretary, was a detective also.”
“You have no idea why he was here, Mrs. Carter?” asked Crane.
Her eyes widened. “I cannot imagine, but I suppose the house committee had some excellent reason. I have scarcely given that a thought. His death and the manner of it seem all a part of some horrible dream, and yet I stood right there!”
“Where?”
“At the foot of the staircase. I was coming down from the ladies' rest room on the second floor, where I had gone to remain until the singing was over.” She paused. “I had been out on the veranda and had seen and spoken to poor Mr. Grant—or whatever his name was—only a few minutes before. Oh, it is all too terrible to realize!”
“You were out on the veranda?” the detective repeated.
“Yes; I was waiting for Mr. Bowles to bring my cloak. I have not been well lately, and so much dancing had made me dizzy. I thought a breath of fresh air would do me good, but it was too cold out there, and I decided to go upstairs and rest until supper. I did go up and lie down during the final dance, but, when the lights were turned out and the orchestra commenced the first bars of 'Auld Lang Syne,' I started down to join in the singing with the rest. I could see nothing but shadowy groups of people standing about and just the faintest glow from the lanterns on the veranda, and I had to feel my way to keep from falling. I had just reached the foot of the stairs when the sound of the shot came!”
She paused again with a shudder, but the detective inexorably urged her on.
“What did you see then, Mrs. Carter? What did you hear? What were your impressions?”
“I don't know!” She passed a hand across her eyes. “It was all confused, like some hideous phase of delirium! I remember a dreadful, crumpling sound as of something heavy and soft, falling—some woman screamed—it may have been I, but I was unconscious of it I have a vague recollection of some man's voice calling for the lights to be turned on, and then they flashed suddenly in my eyes, and everybody rushed forward, but I couldn't move; I felt as though I had turned to stone! I don't know how long I stood there before Mr. Bowles came and told me that poor Mr. Grant had been shot—that he was dead! Then I collapsed, my limbs seemed to give way beneath me, and I sat down on the stairs. It was only gradually that I became aware that people were fainting and hysterical all about me, I was simply stunned. Really, that is all that I can tell you, Mr. Crane.”
In spite of the repression, which it evident that she had placed upon herself, her face appeared all at once haggard, and drawn and Renwick Crane, with a softening of his manner, said, “Well, with the permission of the sheriff and the coroner, we won't trouble you any further, Mrs. Carter. You live near here?”
“Yes, scarcely a mile away, at the Horton Cottage. I shall be glad to receive you there at any time and give you any assistance in my power, but I really know nothing more than I have told you.” She hesitated before she added: “But is Mr. Bowles going to take me home? He brought me to the dance last night in his car.”
The eyes of the others turned involuntarily to the fireplace, before which Bowles stood with Ralph Fraser and Gerald Landon, and an added tension made itself manifest in the air. As though conscious of it himself, the broker unconsciously squared his shoulders as he advanced, and, although he smiled with an assumption of ease, his eyes shifted slightly before he met the detective's gaze.
“By Jove, I believe Estridge, Landon, and myself are the only ones left who haven't given an account of ourselves yet for those fateful moments when the lights were out!” he exclaimed with a laugh. “Estridge, of course, is out of it.”
“I should think he was!” said Sowerby, glaring. “I've known Sam Estridge all my life, and, moreover, he was in the card room watching a bridge game when the shot was fired. I would have been out on the veranda myself as quick as he was if it hadn't been for my gout and the fact that some fool woman got in my way!”
“And I,” said Bowles, “can attest to Mr. Landon's presence here in the main hall. Doubtless a score of others can give the same testimony.” Bowles smile had become less strained. “I saw him, but whether he saw me or not I don't know. I was standing alone in the door leading to the smaller supper room—that one over there, to the right of the steward's desk. Mrs. Carter had promised me the final dance before the singing, and, when at the last moment she decided that she must go upstairs and rest until supper, I told her that I would be waiting for her at the foot of the stairs after the singing. She was to go in to supper with me. During the final dance I went into the smaller supper room to see that our table had been arranged, and, when the jazz music abruptly ceased and the string orchestra started up the introduction to 'Auld lang Syne,' I came to the door to add my voice to the general chorus. It was then that I saw Mr. Landon standing in the conservatory door opposite. I remained where I was until the sound of the shot came. Then I rushed out upon the veranda with the rest.”
There was a slight pause, and then, as it was broken by neither the sheriff nor the coroner, Renwick Crane asked: “You live here in Brooklands, Mr Bowles?”
“No, I merely run out occasionally and put up here at the club if there is room; if not, at the Brooklands Inn. I am a broker with offices in Wall Street and a bachelor apartment in town at the Margrave. I shall hold myself unreservedly at your service and that of the authorities here.” He paused and added with his old, easy manner: “As a member of this club, I feel as deeply as any of the rest can the fact that this poor fellow came to his death in the performance of his duty, even though I was not in the confidence of the house committee and I did not dream that he was other than he appeared.”
“Well,” the sheriff remarked after a glance at the coroner who nodded, “I guess, if Mr. Crane don't want to ask you any more questions just now, we won't keep you longer from taking Mrs. Carter home. Did you notice Mr. Bowles, Mr. Landon?”
“No, I was watching the dancers, but I'm mighty glad he saw me, for I, too, was alone,” the young man responded frankly. “I ran out on the veranda with the rest when Grant was shot, and Mr. Estridge, who had taken charge, asked me to call Mr. Sowerby. I am employed in town in the bank of which Mr. Sowerby is president. I am not a member of this club, but a guest of Mr. and Mrs. Fraser, with whom I am staying.
“Since every one now present has accounted for themselves or been accounted for, may I suggest that all may be permitted to leave?” Samuel Estridge remarked. “Mr. Crane will be accommodated, here at the club, of course, and it may be that you gentlemen would like to question the stewards and other attendants.”
He turned to the sheriff and coroner, and, after a brief consultation between them, the latter announced: “Mr. Estridge is right. All of you are well known to me, and most of you are my patients; I think I can depend upon your presence at the inquest. Sheriff Coburn and I represent the county authorities, and Mr. Crane is working with us. I know you'll give him all the assistance you can, and in the meantime we won't detain you any longer.”
During the bustle of departure which ensued, Crane observed that Mrs. de Forest made an almost imperceptible gesture toward him and then walked into the ladies' cloak room, imperiously waving back her niece. Mrs. Fraser was already wrapped in her cloak, and Bowles was solicitously assisting Mrs. Carter with hers in the foyer. The detective, as unobtrusively as possible, managed to slip away. He followed the elderly woman and found her alone.
“Shut the door!” she commanded without preamble, and, when he had complied, she faced him before the long mirror. “Young man, the sheriff is a good detective of chicken thieves, and as a coroner, Doctor Fellowes may be efficient in ordinary cases, but I've heard of you and some of the things which you have accomplished, and I'm going to trust you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. de Forest,” he responded with immense respect. “Do you mean that you heard or saw something which you have not mentioned? Have you a possible theory as to who shot my former associate?”
“I've lived too long to form theories about anything, and you needn't thank me until you learn how trivial a supposition I have to suggest to you!” she retorted. “I caught only a glimpse of he body on the veranda, The sound of the shooting had stunned me for a moment, and I was slow in rising from my chair; I had scarcely reached the door when Mr. Estridge ordered everybody back, and I was not sorry. I am not squeamish ordinarily, but neither have I any hysterically morbid tendencies, and I had no desire to look upon the result of a tragedy for which I felt indirectly responsible. It was on my behalf that your unfortunate colleague was engaged to come here.”
She paused, and the detective, who had not shifted his gaze from her face, seized quickly upon one salient phrase which she had used.
“You say 'the sound of the shooting,' Mrs. de Forest,” he repeated. “I understood that only one shot was fired.”
Mrs. de Forest's stately shoulders rose in a slight shrug.
“So they tell me,” she replied. “As I have just informed you, I did not catch more than a glimpse of poor Mr. Grant's body, but I gathered from the gruesome details imparted to me that there was but one wound. Nevertheless, although I am getting on in years, Mr. Crane, my senses are, I think, still unimpaired, and I fancied—I could most have sworn—that two distinct but practically simultaneous, detonations rang through the rotunda. It may have been merely the echo, of course the effect of the acoustics, or just an old woman's notion. I offer it to you for what it may be worth.”
“And I accept it most gratefully,” Renwick Crane assured her in a very sober tone. “I shall not betray your confidence, but I will give the possibility you have suggested my fullest attention. It may be that more than one person was concerned in the theft of your necklace, and more than one person in the murder of Jim Doyle!”
To be continued in next week's issue of DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE.