Читать книгу The Doorstep Murders - Carolyn Wells - Страница 7

Table of Contents

THE houses that bordered the green on the two ends and the north side were all of elaborate design and set in spacious grounds. But the summer residents were catholic in their tastes, and not all of them realized that Colonial architecture was more appropriate to the New England landscape than European importations. There were Georgian and Tudor houses, there were Italian and Spanish villas, and here and there a really old Connecticut farmhouse, though often remodeled out of all semblance to its original simplicity.

The house toward which the trio of horrified policemen were hastening was the beautiful home of Montcalm Nichols, halfway along the green on the north side. It was one of the show places of the town, or would have been, save for the fact that it could not be seen from the road. Hedges of box or privet were reinforced by tall conifers or dense clumps of shrubbery.

Somewhat awed by the beauty of the place as well as by their tragic errand, the men passed through the great gates and hurried along the wide paths. Rolling green lawns spread on either side, vistas showed glimpses of gorgeous gardens and shimmering ponds with playing fountains.

The house itself was long and low, with walls of brick and rough stone, half-timbered with old oak and roofed with slate. Casement windows with small leaded panes were set in rows and scarlet chimneys gave a touch of color.

There was no entrance porch. The great door, flush with the ground, stood wide open, and outside it, on the stone-paved threshold, lay the huddled figure of a man. A gruesome sight, a hideous blot on the beauty of the scene: the master of all this great estate, the owner of this sturdy, well-built home lay dead on his own doorstep. And dead by a violent hand. Dead, with the crimson of his own life blood staining the stones whereon he lay.

Behind him, framed in the doorway, was the butler, Pitts. This man stood sentinel-like, unwilling to yield to any of his subordinates the charge of his master, dead or alive, but ready to turn the matter over to the Law.

Sheriff Gorton took charge, ignoring the effort the village constable put forth to become spokesman. But all were silent while the coroner leaned over the stricken man.

“Just like the Carman business,” he said, and Pitts looked at him inquiringly.

But Flint heeded him not, and went on, speaking to himself as much as to his colleagues:

“Yes, struck in the same place, below the fifth rib, right through the heart! And”—he stared at the weapon which they could now see protruding from the back of the victim—“with the same dagger—I mean, one exactly like it!”

“No!” Gorton knelt to look. “But it is the twin of that other! What does it all mean?” No one answered him, and the bewildered sheriff went on:

“It’s pretty terrible, but I can’t see any meaning to it.” He stood upright again, stretching his back and gazing about him. The gay flowers in the window boxes seemed to hold his attention, then his eyes returned to the still figure of Montcalm Nichols.

A tall figure Nichols was in life, but a thin, spare man, and now he seemed, as he lay convulsively doubled up, to be of insignificant size.

“May we take him inside, sir?” whispered Pitts, of a submissive mien perhaps for the first time in his dominating career.

“Shortly,” returned Flint, who was making a few chalk marks to show the position of the body.

“Where’s his hat?”

“Inside, sir,” said Pitts. “I picked it up, not thinking that any harm.”

“And probably it was not,” Flint said. “Where did it lie?”

“About here, sir, next this urn.”

The man designated a stone urn that held a small shrub and that stood perhaps two feet from the head the hat had fallen from.

“H’m. Get it,” said Flint, curtly.

Pitts, who had not stepped outside the door, went back into the hall and quickly returned, looking a little worried.

“It isn’t there, sir,” he said. “I hung it on the hat tree, but it’s gone.”

“Make it your business to find it,” Flint ordered. “But not just now. I think, Gorton, we can move him now. As you see, there was no struggle. It looks to me as if Mr. Nichols was just about to unlock his door, as Carman was, and he was stabbed in the back by an unseen assailant and death was practically instantaneous.”

“Yes. Where are the keys?”

“I suppose you picked those up, too?” asked Flint, turning to the butler.

“No, sir,” declared Pitts. “That I didn’t. I never touched a thing but the hat. I did that unthinkinglike. I was all put about, you see.”

“Well, was the door unlocked, then?”

“Yes, sir, it was always unlocked. That was Mr. Nichols’ way. He said there never was burglars or sneak thieves in this section, and you know, Mr. Roper, that’s true.”

“True as gospel,” stated the constable. “Half the people in Gilead never lock their doors. And the other half don’t need to.”

“Did Mr. Nichols carry anything else?” asked Flint. “A stick, now, or an umbrella?”

“He didn’t last night,” Pits informed him. “I let him out myself—I always wait on the master—and he carried nothing except his light overcoat. He’s got it on now, you see.”

“Where did he spend the evening? Do you know?”

“Oh, yes, sir. At Dr. Sherrill’s. He always went there of a Saturday night. They played cards. Can’t we take Mr. Nichols inside? There’s some people coming in at the gate.”

“Keep ’em out!” roared the sheriff. “Roper, you attend to that. Get some help, anywhere you can, get gardeners or house servants, but block all entrances.”

“The gardeners aren’t about much on Sundays,” Pitts volunteered. “I’ll send some of the garage men—but please, can’t we get the master in, decent-like, first?”

“Yes,” Flint agreed at last. “We three can manage, I think.”

But Nichols was of light weight, and Pitts and the sheriff carried him in while Flint remained studying the scene of the crime.

They placed the dead man on a couch in a dressing room or cloak room, just inside the entrance; a small room, but beautifully appointed and equipped for guests. Reverently Pitts hovered over his dead master, composing his limbs and closing the staring eyes.

Flint had removed the dagger and was studying it. He joined the others.

“It’s so unbelievable,” he said, slowly, “so unreal, that there must be a simple and quickly found explanation.”

“Yes?” Gorton sniffed. “I’ve heard that theory advanced by the big-noise detectives. But if you can see a glimmer of explanation I’d be glad to know what it is.”

“Two prominent citizens struck down on their own doorsteps, at about the same time, and by precisely similar weapons—” Flint said, musingly, and Gorton interrupted him.

“Was it about the same time? They been dead the same number of hours?”

“Looks so to me,” Flint replied. “I put both deaths at about two o’clock. But you know yourself that’s tentative and uncertain. The question is whether the same hand struck down both, or whether we have two murderers to look for.”

“Small use in conjecturing,” Gorton said, shaking his head. “We must get the family together and find out some facts. Are they up, Pitts?”

“Probably not, sir, or we’d hear some moving about. The ladies breakfast in bed, and late at that. The servants are mostly up, but they won’t come in here until their reg’lar time. Shall I call any of them?”

“No, not yet. Who had better break the news to Mrs. Nichols, Flint? I declare, this is all outside my experience. I know how to be a sheriff in a proper way, but a murder—well, I’ve got to have some help, somebody bigger’n I am! I hope Inspector Wall will come from Hartford. He’s a powerful worker and he’d know just what to do.”

“You know what to do,” Flint said. “Don’t lay down on your job. Get the lady of the house, get the rest of the family, then get the servants, and find out some facts. You can’t face Wall when he comes, without having learned anything.”

“That’s right. Now, Pitts, you get Mrs. Nichols down here. It’ll be a sorry errand, and you can send a maid, or whatever you think best to do, but get the lady here. Who else is there?”

“Miss Anne, that’s Mr. Nichols’ daughter. Daughter of his first wife, you know.”

“No, I don’t know. I know nothing about these people. Any more in the family?”

“No, not in the family. And there’s no guests here just now. Some are expected to-day.”

“Better send ’em word not to come. But first get the lady down. The time is getting along.”

Pitts left them and went toward the domestic offices.

The discipline of the house had kept the servants from intruding beyond their rightful domains, but the housekeeper and the second man were hovering in the corridors to learn the cause of the butler’s long-continued absence.

“It’s fierce,” Pitts gasped, as he sank into a chair in his pantry. “The master’s been killed, and that’s the long and short of it. Now don’t raise a hullabaloo—there’ll be enough of that later. Just keep your heads, and do as I say. You, Mrs. Mellon, go to Mrs. Nichols’ rooms and either tell her yourself or get Lisette to tell her. Whichever you think best.”

“It’ll take the two of us,” said sagacious Mrs. Mellon. “What about Miss Anne?”

“Oh, let Nanna tell her. Lord, I can’t think what’ll happen!”

“You don’t have to,” said Mrs. Mellon, practically. “Better keep cool and go back and look after things. Who all’s there? Police?”

“Yes. You take it coolly—”

“Why not? As you say, there’ll be doings soon. Get back there, Pitts, and keep an eye on all goings-on.”

“She’s right,” the butler murmured to himself, and reluctantly ending his brief reprieve he returned to the scene of action.

And action it certainly was.

As Pitts reached the room where the body of Montcalm Nichols lay, he heard wild shrieks and wails, and saw Phyllis Nichols, kneeling by the side of her dead husband, her arms flung across his breast, her whole frame shaking with convulsive sobs and her high-pitched voice uttering alternate words of endearment and of woe.

She had on a voluminous boudoir robe of pale yellow satin edged with marabout, beneath which she wore elaborate pajamas of apricot silk and lace. Unheeding her apparel, unheeding the strange men present, she writhed in tumultuous spasms of excitement, now bursting into tears, now staring about her and vowing vengeance.

The maid, Lisette, tried to quiet her, the butler ventured to speak to her, but all to no avail.

The two police officers watched her curiously, anxious to learn what they could from her mad ravings rather than to quell her storms of grief.

A beautiful woman she was, even more so in this wrought-up state of nerves and emotional tension. Her dark eyes, wildly darting from one man to another, then back to her husband; her ceaselessly moving hands, now clasped to her breast, then grasping at her gown or the couch pillow or clutching at the cold still form before her, she seemed the incarnation of a Niobe wrought by some master sculptor. Her black hair, worn in what is called the wind-blown bob, was indeed as if tossed by the winds. The thick wavy tresses flung themselves either side of her convulsed face, while her quivering nostrils and pursed scarlet lips showed her utter lack of self-control.

A step sounded outside and the men looked up quickly to see Dr. Sherrill entering the room. He was out of breath, evidently from fast walking, and he took Phyllis Nichols by the elbows and lifted her to her feet.

“Be quiet,” he said, not unkindly, but in decided tones.

“Oh, Lu,” she cried, in a broken wail, “oh, Lu!”

“Yes, Phyllis, yes, I know. Don’t try to talk, just be quiet. Lisette, get me a glass and spoon and a little water.”

He took a small bottle from his pocket and gave her a dose of aromatic ammonia, which she took with docile, childlike obedience.

“You want to talk to Mrs. Nichols?” Dr. Sherrill asked, looking at Gorton.

“Yes, I do, and right now.”

“Very well,” Dr. Sherrill said. “But let’s have the interview in another room. Where—where’d you find him?” He glanced half fearfully at Nichols’s body.”

“On the doorstep—same as Carman,” returned Flint, biting off his words sharply.

“Stabbed?” asked Sherrill, seemingly fascinated and unable to move.

“Yes, stabbed with a dagger just like the other.”

This brought a fresh scream from Mrs. Nichols and Dr. Sherrill turned to her again.

“Come,” he said, quietly, “come with me. Take her other arm, Lisette.”

Between them they led her to the living room and placed her in a great easy chair, with soft cushions and a pillow-like footstool.

But a wave of arms sent the cushions flying and a vigorous kick propelled the footstool after them, while Phyllis Nichols sat bolt upright, saying:

“Stop such nonsense. I’m not an invalid! Now, I want to know who killed my husband and why.”

“That’s what we want to know, Mrs. Nichols.” Gorton spoke in a straightforward way, and looked directly at her. “I am glad you are not ill, and I beg of you to control your feelings while we ask a few questions. I am sure you want to do all you can to help us find out the truth of this matter.”

“I do. Now, waste no time in futile palaver. I mean don’t ask my name and age and rubbish of that kind. Get right down to facts.”

“That’s good advice. When did you last see your husband alive?”

Flint caught his breath. This was forging ahead with a vengeance. Yet he was glad Gorton had the nerve to do it.

Mrs. Nichols took no offense at the question, however.

“Last evening,” she said; “after dinner. He left the house about—oh, I don’t know, between half-past eight and nine, I guess.”

“Where did he go?”

“He came over to my house,” supplied Dr. Sherrill. “As I told you at the Carman inquiry, we play cards every Saturday night.”

“Yes, I remember your telling me. Did Mr. Nichols leave you at the same time Mr. Carman did?”

“Yes. They went away together. Antony Dane was with them. I watched the three go along the street together toward Carman’s house.”

“That’s the other side of the green?”

“Yes. You see, they’ve been playing with me Saturday nights all summer. And when they go home, they usually follow the same procedure. Carman drops out first at his home, then Nichols and Dane go on round the green, Nichols stopping here, and Dane going on home. I’ve heard them say so often.”

“Oh, hush that twaddle,” Phyllis Nichols burst out, angrily. “Just as I said, you mull over some silly point, and all the time the murderer is getting away. I suppose you admit there is a murderer, don’t you? You agree that there must be?”

“Yes, Mrs. Nichols,” Flint took up the tale, “and you’re right in your criticism. Now, help us more. Do you know of any enemies your husband may have had?”

“He had dozens of them,” she stated, “but they didn’t kill him. Do you say that John Carman has been killed, too?”

“Yes, at about the same time and in the same way.”

“Then how can you think it was an enemy of Mr. Nichols? Unless they had the same enemy, which isn’t likely, for though they were good neighbors and all that, the two men had little in common, and certainly not enemies.”

Flint looked at her in amazement. Was this cool, self-possessed witness the same woman who had been yelling and screaming in hysteria?

“But if not an enemy, then who, Mrs. Nichols? Not a friend?”

“You say the weapon was the same?”

“Not the same dagger, but two exactly alike, or very nearly so.”

“Then—” the dark eyes looked intently into Flint’s own, the wind-blown head nodded positively, and she said, “Then it was a homicidal maniac.”

“Perhaps so,” said Flint, non-committally, “quite likely, Mrs. Nichols. But, even so, we have to make these preliminary inquiries, and I’m sure you’ll answer a few more. You are Mr. Nichols’ second wife, I’m told.”

“Yes,” she said, a gentle smile breaking over her lovely face.

Flint couldn’t wonder that Nichols or any other man would have wooed her. A more beautiful woman he thought he had never seen, and he gave himself one instant of rapturous delight in just looking at her before he brought himself back to his distasteful duty of quizzing her.

Dr. Sherrill, however, gave himself more time. He sat gazing in adoration, oblivious of the occasion and of the onlookers.

Without seeming to, both Flint and Gorton observed the doctor’s absorption, and came to the conclusion that his interest in the lady was more than mere neighborly sympathy in her affliction. Also, it opened avenues of conjecture that made Gorton sigh with apprehension that this case was going to be too much for him. It was beyond the jurisdiction of a mere sheriff. An inspector was needed; a detective, a—oh, a miracle worker, if these two murders were to be duly and promptly solved.

Two daggers—alike. Two crimes—alike.

He forced himself to give over thinking and to act. He felt he could manage this woman better if she would rant and rave again. Instead, Phyllis Nichols sat, nestling now in her easy chair, fingering the soft feathers that bordered her gown, and alertly eying the sheriff who was trying to quiz her. But her very insolence, veiled though it was with a gentle sadness, gave him courage to proceed, and he went on.

“How long have you been married to Mr. Nichols?” he asked, in a cold, clear voice.

“About two years,” she answered softly.

“He was much older than you?”

“Twenty-five years older.

“You are—you were—happily married?”

“I don’t admit your right to ask that,” she said, looking up at him from beneath long, drooping lashes, “but I’ve not the least objection to answering. We were very happily married. I’ve lost my best friend.”

But now there was no show of emotion, no visible sign of grief at her loss.

“What was your husband’s business?”

“He was a lawyer—a criminal lawyer.”

“He has, then, condemned men to imprisonment or—worse?”

“I suppose he has.” She shrugged her lovely slim shoulders. “But Mr. Nichols never mentioned his business affairs to me.”

“No, I suppose not. You will know that, Dr. Sherrill. Is it not true?”

“That Nichols was the means of bringing punishment to evil doers? Most certainly. All criminal lawyers have to do that at times.”

“And may it not be the result of resentment or antagonism on the part of these evil doers or their comrades that this crime has come about?”

“Of course, it may be so,” the doctor conceded. “It seems to me most likely.”

“And the same can be said of John Carman,” Flint put in.

“Then you’ve solved the mystery,” Phyllis cried, sitting upright. “Now, all you have to do is to look back in the lives of those two men and see who owed them a grudge. Do you suppose the same man killed both, Mr. Gorton?”

“That we can’t judge yet. It may be. Yet, if they were killed at the same time, it precludes that. Oh, there seems no end to the work to be done!”

Gorton, overcome, fell silent, thinking of the tasks before him. The coroner, less impressionable and a bit more brutal of method, spoke almost sharply as he said:

“Where were you last evening, Mrs. Nichols?”

“I? Mercy, when you spring at me like that, I have no memory! I don’t know where I was.”

She smiled and became deeply absorbed in braiding fronds of her feathers into an intricate pattern.

“I am waiting for an answer,” came the cold tones of the coroner.

“I tell you I don’t remember,” she said, pettishly. “Where was I, Lisette?”

“You were at home all evening, madame. You didn’t go out anywhere.”

“Oh, that’s so! No wonder I couldn’t remember where I went, when I didn’t go anywhere!”

The light laughter that accompanied this speech was palpably forced. Also, the sudden glance that the speaker shot at Dr. Sherrill was nervous and anxious-eyed.

The doctor said nothing. He looked at Phyllis more thoughtfully, and less as an infatuated adorer, but he made no comment on her words.

“What did you do to amuse yourself, Mrs. Nichols, all the evening?”

“Well, let me see. I read for a time, and I played a little on the piano, and I tried on a new gown and—oh, I did just what any woman does who has an evening at home alone.”

“You’re sure you weren’t out of the house?”

“Well, if I had been, Lisette would know it, wouldn’t you, Lisette?”

“Certainly, madame. I would attend your going.”

“And you didn’t do so?” asked Flint.

“No, sir,” replied the maid. “Therefore, Madame was in her home all the evening.”

A slow, even step was heard descending the staircase, which was built into one end of the great living room.

“That isn’t true,” said a cold, hard voice. “Mrs. Nichols was out most of the evening.”