Читать книгу More Lives Than One - Carolyn Wells - Страница 8

Henderson admitted Doctor Gannett and stood nervously waiting as the physician stooped over the prostrate form.

Almost impatiently he pulled off the mask and tore away the filmy veil which still hid the lower portion of the face, and Henderson noticed with increased pain what a lovely face it was. Strangely enough, it was not highly colored artificially, indeed, it could scarcely be said to be made up at all.

Jack Henderson was impressionable and he turned his glance away as the doctor remorselessly, though gently, moved the wounded head and peered into the dead eyes.

Then the medical man looked up wonderingly and gazed around.

“What hit her?” he said, with a puzzled frown. “Unless she fell against something, she must have been—attacked—here, we have it!”

As he brushed aside the voluminous draperies of the Oriental costume he found that some folds of silk had covered what was without doubt the instrument of death.

It was a heavy bronze book-end, shaped like the head of a Sphinx. A quick glance showed the mate to it on the table near by.

“She was hit on the temple by this weight,” the doctor said, gravely. “It is highly improbable that the bronze was on the floor and she fell on it—it looks far more like——”

“Don’t say it!” Henderson cried. “Who could do such a thing? Here in Tommy’s place?”

“It is certain that she did not fall on it,” the doctor went on. “Had she done so, her head would be nearer the bronze. As you see, it was down by her knees—it was hidden by her tunic. It was used as a club——”

“Or as a missile,” Henderson added.

The doctor looked up quickly. “You’re sharp,” he said. “Yes, or as a missile. And if the latter, it was a strong arm and an angry man who flung it!”

“Who is she?”

“I’ve no idea. But I know few people here. I just ran in for a few minutes at the invitation of a friend.”

Doctor Gannett himself had worn a simple black domino, which he had already thrown aside, appearing in ordinary evening dress.

He turned from the body on the floor, and said, “We must notify the police. I think the best thing is to call in the officer on the beat and let him take charge. Where is Mr. Locke?”

“He will be here as soon as they can get hold of him,” Henderson returned, beginning to wonder himself why he, who knew Locke only slightly, was thrust into this prominent position.

Gannett opened the door, to find many anxious, horrified people crowding about.

“Where is Mr. Locke?” he spoke, commandingly. “Bring him here, somebody. And somebody else ask the policeman outside to come in. If you don’t see him promptly, telephone Headquarters. There has been a very serious accident. No one must leave the house until some investigation is made. And now, who knows the name of the lady who appeared in a very handsome Oriental costume, with many veils and scarves and jewels—and a turban with waving feathers?”

“White Paradise feathers?” asked an excited girl. “There was only one costume like that!”

“Yes,” and “I remember it!” and such assents fell from the lips of many.

The startled, huddled crowd, with ordinary human curiosity, strove to get nearer the door of the little smoking den, and the men who hurried to carry out the doctor’s orders pushed through as best they could.

Henry Post and Kate Vallon met these messengers in the hall downstairs.

“Where is Mr. Locke?” one said, as the other went for the policeman.

“I haven’t found him yet,” Post replied. “He must be about somewhere.”

“We must find him—they’ve called the police.”

“The police!” Kate exclaimed, “oh, what for?”

“I—I don’t know exactly—but nobody must leave the house.”

“Indeed we will leave the house!” Kate said. “Henry, I shall take Pearl Jane away at once. That child shan’t be mixed up in any police affair! You stay here, Henry, and find Tommy, and see the thing through. I’ll find Pearl Jane and take her home.”

“Better not,” the young man advised. He was a lawyer named Jarvis, and he seemed to speak with authority,

“Why?” asked Kate.

“It’s a pretty grave matter to leave a house where a mysterious death has occurred—after you’re ordered not to.”

“But that’s only Doctor Gannett’s order. Not the law.”

“You’d better stay,” Jarvis advised. “You’ll be interviewed even if you run away—so why not face the music here?”

“I don’t mind for myself,” Kate said, slowly, “I’m thinking of Pearl Jane.”

“Little Miss Cutler?” Jarvis asked. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know—I can’t seem to find anybody. It’s queer where Tommy can be. And Charley—where can he have gone to?”

“Perhaps they’ve gone up to the smoking room by the back stairs,” Post suggested. “They’re doubtless there—because—because they aren’t anywhere else,” he concluded a little lamely.

“I didn’t know there was a back stairs,” Kate exclaimed. “Let us go that way.”

“Do you want to go back to—to that room?” Post said.

“Yes, I do,” Kate returned. “I want to stand by Tommy if there’s going to be trouble. But more, I want to find that child.”

“Perhaps she’s up there,” Jarvis suggested.

“Let’s go and see.”

But before they could start, an officer came in at the front door.

“What’s up?” he inquired, not greatly disturbed at the fact that all the people he saw were in fantastic costumes. Washington Square policemen are not easily surprised.

They told him, and Kate suggested the back stairs.

“No,” he said, and strode up the main staircase.

He stormed his way through the shuddering crowd, who willingly fell back for his passing, and opened the door of the smoking room.

Crossing to where the still figure lay, he gave a brief but comprehending glance at it, then after a few low words to Doctor Gannett, he said, “I’ll telephone the Precinct Station—they’ll send men. Where’s the boss—the man of the house? Locke, isn’t he?”

“Yes, do you know him?” Gannett asked.

“By sight, I see him now and then. Nice quiet chap. Who’s the lady?”

“We don’t know. But she was one of Mr. Locke’s guests.”

“All right. Now, look here, nobody must leave this house. Nobody must touch the body. Nobody more must come into this room. I don’t say that woman was murdered—but it looks like that to me. So, doctor, go out and tell the people what I say—and hold them.”

But Doctor Gannett found this no easy task.

Heedless of the law’s commands, several insisted loudly that they were going home. Others slipped away stealthily. But many stayed because they were afraid to disobey orders, and some because they were held by curiosity.

Of course, all masks were removed, and some of those less interested in the “accident” as it was still called, began to drift toward the supper room.

Here they found the waiters had fled in terror, and they helped themselves to the viands.

“Shall I send the orchestra away?” Post asked the policeman, and he was permitted to do so.

“It’s too dreadful,” he said to Kate, “to have that jazz band sitting there silent.”

“Where’s Tommy?” was Kate’s only reply.

“I’m going to find him,” Post said, resolutely, and started on a systematic search of the premises.

And then the police came.

“I’m Inspector Dickson,” one said, apparently speaking to any one who would listen. “Who’s in charge here?”

No one answered, until Doctor Gannett said, “It’s Mr. Locke’s house, but we haven’t located him yet.”

Dickson gave him a sharp look, but asked no more questions.

Accompanied by two of his companions, a special detective and a deputy from the office of the Chief Medical Examiner, he went upstairs at once, while two plain clothes men took charge of the halls and stairway.

“Get busy, Doctor Babcock,” Dickson said, and the examiner proceeded to his duty.

Detective Hutchins joined in the examination, and in only a few minutes they announced that the victim had been killed by the bronze book-end, thrown by some one else.

“Here’s the other book-end on this table,” Hutchins said; “presumably, the assailant stood here and threw the thing. It may be, however, that he lifted it from the table and moved nearer to his victim and merely hit her with it——”

“No; it was thrown,” Doctor Babcock declared. “The nature of this abrasion on the temple proves that. It wasn’t such a very hard blow—as it must have been, if effected nearer by. Indeed, if it hadn’t struck just where it did, it would have made a bad bruise, but needn’t necessarily have been fatal.”

“But it was fatal,” pursued the detective, “and it was the work of another. Therefore, it is homicide, and we must proceed accordingly. Where’s the man of the house?”

Nobody answered, and the police all showed their surprise.

“Has he vamoosed?” asked Hutchins quickly. “Hunt for him, Briggs. You know him, don’t you?”

Briggs, the officer first called in, said that he did, and he went on his search.

“Now until he’s found, somebody must be at the head of things,” Hutchins went on. He went to the door of the studio and looked at the group of people remaining there.

Though the detective seemed unimpressed, it was a strange sight. The motley crowd, in the gay garments of the masquerade, yet all showing anxious, curious faces, was incongruous, even grotesque.

Young girls shuddered and drew nearer their escorts or the elder women. The men were deeply concerned—they understood better what must be before them.

“Until Mr. Locke appears,” Hutchins said, in a stern voice, “who is his nearest relative or friend? Who will represent him for the moment?”

For a minute no one replied, and then Jarvis, the lawyer, said, “Not in any legal way, but as a friend of Mr. Locke, you may report to me. I am Rodman Jarvis—here is my card.”

The man had come in the guise of a Troubadour. He had laid aside, with his mask, his feathered hat and his guitar. But he had brought his pocketbook and as he proffered the card, he seemed all conscious of his unusual costume. Nor was it unbecoming. A tall, well set-up young fellow, he was quite at ease, and deeply interested in the proceedings.

Hutchins looked at him steadily.

“You’re a friend of Mr. Locke?”

“Yes.”

“An intimate friend?”

“I shouldn’t put it that way. But a good pal, and ready to do anything I can for him.”

“Very well. Stay by me. Now, who of all you present can identify the lady who has been—injured? Surely some one here knows her.”

No one responded, except those who declared they did not know her.

“You saw her only when masked,” Hutchins said, reflectively.

“Yes,” put in a vivacious young woman, “and besides her mask she had about seven veils round her face and throat! I might know her if I saw her face.”

This was a new idea to the detective.

“True,” he said; “I shall have to ask you all to look at her. At least, until some one can identify her.”

It was soon arranged, and by permission of the examiner the body was laid on the divan in the smoking room. Hutchins took good care to shut off by chairs the part of the room where it had lain, for it seemed to his quick eye there was much to be learned from the conditions there. Already he had noted a cigarette end, and many spangles.

But he had much to do, and such investigation could wait.

Dickson and the detective directed the line of people that must pass by the divan and tell all they knew concerning the pathetic figure that lay there.

The scene was appalling. Girls became hysterical, women sobbed violently, and even the men were deeply agitated. The masquerade costumes only accented the horror, and like a strange, weird pageant the line filed by.

Toward the last came Kate Vallon and Henry Post.

They had not found Tommy, neither had they found Chinese Charley.

And, worst of all, they had not found Pearl Jane.

Post tried to comfort Kate by saying that he was sure the girl had run away home, but Kate was not so sure of this.

They could only wonder at the absence of all those they had searched for.

As these two reached the divan each looked long and earnestly at the dead woman.

They saw a sweet young face, pretty and natural. The contusion did not show, as the doctors had turned the head on that side.

The eyes were closed, and the cheeks showed a slight tinge of rouge. The lips were not made up at all, and were already pale.

The costume was exquisite. The finest type of Oriental magnificence, with full silk trousers, a voluminous tunic, dainty bodice and jacket, all of rich, soft silk, in gorgeous coloring and ornamented with glittering sequins and mock jewels.

On her hands beside a wedding ring, were several gaudy paste gems, quite evidently part of the costume. All of her head-gear had been removed and her hair, though disordered somewhat, was soft and plentiful.

On her feet were jeweled and embroidered Turkish slippers and fine silk stockings.

“How lovely!” was Kate’s involuntary exclamation. “But, who is she?”

“I’ve not the faintest idea,” Post said; “I’ve never seen her before, I’m sure of that. And I don’t believe Tommy ever did, either—she isn’t our sort, Kate. As to Tommy’s skipping—nonsense—he’s taken Pearl Jane home—that’s where he’s gone.”

And no one on the line of spectators knew the unfortunate woman.

Hutchins was shrewd and he watched eagerly to find some one who seemed to dissemble, or who seemed ill at ease beyond the natural horror of the occasion. But he found none such, and after the ordeal was over, he was convinced, that so far he had neither any clue to the identity of the criminal nor the victim.

Dickson sighed. He was up against a hard case, and the odds were against him. His men were searching high and low for the man of the house, and for his servant. He didn’t believe that Locke had merely gone to escort a guest home. If he were the right sort of a man he would have sent some one with her and remained himself at his own home.

Hutchins agreed to this, and leaving the room by the back way he began a search himself.

As he closed the door behind him, his quick ears caught a stifled sob.

It seemed to come from a closed closet, and, throwing opened the door and, striking a match, simultaneously, he discovered some one huddled among a lot of canvases and artists’ odds and ends.

“Come out! Who are you?” he ordered, sharply, but changed his tone as he clutched at the arm of a trembling girl.

“Oh,” she sobbed, “oh, what shall I do?”

“Do, miss? Why, just come out, and tell me who you are. Don’t be afraid of me—if you’ve nothing else to be afraid of! What’s your name?”

“I’m Miss Cutler,” and, somehow, meeting this crisis seemed to give her back her nerve. “I was—I was frightened—so—so I hid.”

“I see you did,” Hutchins remarked, dryly, his own sympathy for her waning, as she recovered her poise. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Hide—of course. You didn’t do anything else—did you? Nothing wrong, now?”

“No, of course I didn’t!” she began gravely, but broke down again and sobbed.

“May I go home? Oh, please let me go home.”

“You can go pretty soon. I see you were at the party.”

The Dutch Peasant costume, though still effective, was crumpled and wet with tears, and, though Hutchins’ heart almost stood still as he saw it, there was certainly a small stain on the sleeve that looked like blood.

Without another word he drew her quickly into the den, and took her straight to the divan.

“Miss Cutler,” he said, as he grasped her arm firmly, “did you kill that woman?”

“No!” she shrieked, and fainted away.

“No need to be brutal, Hutchins,” Doctor Babcock cried, as he took the unconscious girl into his charge.

“Why, it’s Pearl Jane!” cried Miss Vallon. “Henry, here she is! Where did you find her?”

Kate spoke to the doctor, not having heard Hutchins’ question to the girl.

“She was hiding in a back closet,” the detective answered her. “I must hold her—till she can explain some matters. Keep her by you, Doctor. Or let Dickson do it. I’m off to find Locke now.” And again the detective started down those back stairs.

“Well,” Dickson looked sadly at his wits’ end. “This is sure a mysterious case. Here’s a dead woman and nobody knows who she is, or who did for her. Next, there’s nobody to make a report to—except that lawyer chap—and he seems to me a little hit too smart. Yes, he is, a little too smart.”

Dickson was talking to the Medical Examiner, who had succeeded in restoring Pearl Jane to her senses, but wouldn’t yet allow her to talk.

They were in the smoking room, which they kept cleared of all save those they wished to interview. The studio and halls were guarded and policemen were stationed out side the house, which no one was as yet allowed to leave or enter.

An officer from outside came to Dickson.

“Here’s a go,” he said; “there’s a swell car out there, and the chauffeur says he has orders to wait for his missus, and she hasn’t come out and he wants to know if she can be let to go.”

“Who is his mistress?”

“Mrs. Barham—Mrs. Andrew Barham.”

“Oh, the society people. I’ve heard the name. Well, get Mrs. Barham from the studio and let me speak to her.”

In the studio a plain clothes man was industriously taking the names and addresses of the guests, preparatory to dismissing some of them at least.

As yet he had not the name of Mrs. Barham, and no one responded to his query for it.

“Maybe she went home,” some one said. “A few did go.”

“She would have gone in her car, then,” the officer argued; “the chauffeur has been waiting here since before eleven.”

“What time is it now?”

“Eleven-thirty. I say,” he jerked his head over his shoulder, “maybe that’s her!”

“Get the chauffeur up here,” the other said, gravely.

And when he arrived he was asked concerning the costume his mistress wore when he brought her to the house.

“I don’t know, sir,” Louis said; “she had on a large dark cloak.”

“Don’t waste time,” said Dickson, shortly. “Show him the body.”

So Louis, the chauffeur of Madeleine Barham was taken in to look at the still figure in the Oriental garb.

“It is Madame,” he said, startled into a scared trembling.

“Her name?”

“Mrs. Andrew Barham.”