Читать книгу The Tapestry Room Murder - Carolyn Wells - Страница 5

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JUST to look at her you would know her name must be Abbie Perkins.

It couldn’t have been anything else. Tightly drawn as to hair, skin, and clothing, she stood, motionless, in the curtained doorway between the Tapestry Room and the hall.

A wiry little figure of a woman, the coiled knot at the back of her head so taut that it seemed the reason for the prominence of her round brown eyes. Thin, angular, flat, she seemed cut out of tin.

She had about as much of the quality recently dubbed sex appeal as an icepick, and this fact she knew so well and resented so fiercely that she was jealous and envious of every woman who had what she lacked. That subtle, elusive lure, much written about of late, but no more a decisive factor in a woman’s fate now than in the most ancient of days.

The law of compensation gave her common sense, efficiency, housewifely skill and an uncanny intuition that was almost clairvoyance.

Any or all of these things she would joyfully have bartered for a half ounce of charm. Yet a real sense of humor saved her from misanthropy or sulks and Abbie Perkins was a success in her own field.

She was housekeeper for Gaylord Homer, and it was her generalship that kept things running smoothly, for a home without a mistress is not an easy proposition.

Always an inveterate talker, she stood now silenced and aghast at the scene before her.

“What is it?” she breathed, clasping her bony hands together and staring at the tragic figure on the little sofa.

“Be quiet, Abbie,” said Dr. Opdyke, warningly; “Mr. Homer is hurt.”

“He is dead,” she said, in a sharp tone. “What can I do?”

The doctor flung her a grateful glance.

“That’s the way to talk,” he said. “You can do nothing here, Abbie, but you can help a lot by looking after the servants. Don’t let them get excited or hysterical. Where is Wood?”

“Here I am sir,” and the butler appeared from the dining-room door.

“Stay in the hall, Wood. Let no one pass in or out until the police can get here to take matters in charge.”

“Police!”

It was Bobbie Abbott who spoke, but the dread and horror in her voice found its echo in the hearts of all present.

No one had spoken since the doctor’s awful question. And now, the mention of police brought home to all of them the sudden realization that here was murder and it must be dealt with by the law.

“Yes, of course,” the doctor snapped out. “Who is in charge here?”

He looked about. As he well knew it was Gaylord Homer’s house, Gaylord Homer lived there alone, and now Gaylord Homer sat, helpless and still before their eyes.

There was no one in charge, if not Homer.

Abbie Perkins had gone to look after the frightened servants. Wood stood at attention in the hall, but these were not the ones to take charge.

Then the doctor’s eye lighted on the secretary, Cale Harrison.

“You must take charge for the moment, Harrison,” Dr. Opdyke declared. “As confidential secretary it is your place to do so, at least, until we can get his relatives here. Where are his people?”

“He hasn’t any, except a distant cousin.”

“Well, never mind that now, anyway. The thing to do first is to call the police.”

It was hard on the doctor, for in all his experience he had never been in a situation like this before, and though an able physician, he had but small power to meet this emergency.

He looked about him at the crowd of young people, he looked at the white scared face of Diana Kittredge, the drawn, tear-stained countenance of Marita Moore, the blank faces of the men, and he was glad indeed when his wife came across the hall and stood at his side.

Acting on his orders Wood had denied her admittance, but Emily Opdyke had insistently pursued her way, unheeding him.

“What has happened?” she whispered. “Who did it?”

“We don’t know,” her husband returned. “Look after Polly and do anything you can for the others.”

There was someone in charge now, at least so far as the women were concerned. Mrs. Opdyke was tactful and kindly by nature, and always ready in an emergency.

She made all the women go with her into the lounge, she ordered coffee brought to them there, and found cigarettes for them. Marita she made lie on a couch and bathed her brow with violet water. The girl was almost in hysterics, but Mrs. Opdyke’s ministrations calmed and soothed her.

Diana refused all such nursing and sat in a big armchair, looking inscrutable and a little defiant.

Bobbie Abbott was regaining her composure and wondering why she hadn’t had sense enough to do the very things Mrs. Opdyke was doing.

Polly, reassured now by the presence of both parents, was alert and quite ready to chatter with Bobbie about the tragedy.

But Mrs. Opdyke banned that at once and forbade Polly to speak at all.

The doctor and Cale Harrison were in the Tapestry Room with the dead man, but the other two men had drifted out to the hall.

These two, Dare and Bingham, were silent.

Though in no way enemies, they were not congenial spirits, and neither cared to discuss the case with the other.

Ted Bingham was nervous and walked about lighting a cigarette and then throwing it aside, sitting down a moment, then suddenly jumping up, going out to the dining-room for a glass of water, and then coming back without it.

Rollin Dare watched him, his own big frame comfortably ensconced in a high-backed hall chair.

“Do sit down, Bingham,” he said, at last. “Or at least stand still. You make me jumpy.”

“Who isn’t jumpy? Do you realize what has happened?”

“Of course I do. But we can’t do anything. Why roll around so?”

Bingham vouchsafed no answer but turned off and entered the Tapestry Room.

Here Dr. Opdyke and Cale Harrison were holding a desultory conversation.

“It’s unthinkable,” the doctor was saying.

“Yes,” Harrison agreed.

He was one of those men who would agree to almost anything. It was this trait that had endeared him to Gaylord Homer.

“Come in, Bingham,” Dr. Opdyke said, looking up. “What do you make of it all? Mr. Harrison says there was no one in this room but Gaylord and two girls.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ted Bingham returned. “Where were all the others?”

“Where were you?”

“Me? Why—I was standing in that doorway, between this room and the lounge.”

“You were there when the lights went out?”

“Why, yes—I think so. Yes I was.”

“And you stayed there through the dark time?”

“Sure. But—are you questioning me?”

“Not at all. I’ll leave all that to the police.”

“You’d better. Excuse me, I don’t mean to advise, but I know that an official investigation is the one that counts. He—he couldn’t have done it himself?”

“Hardly.” The doctor gave a grim smile. “The dagger was driven in by a strong, quick stroke. It entered between the seventh and eighth ribs, and death was probably painless and almost instantaneous.”

“I see. The murderer then had a knowledge of anatomy.”

“Well, that wouldn’t be really necessary. Anybody with the will to kill would strike about like that. The dagger blade is horizontal, you see.”

“Don’t ask me to look at it—I can’t!” Ted walked away from the tragic sight and fingered some books that lay on a table.

“Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t touch anything, Mr. Bingham,” murmured Harrison, in his deprecatory way.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Bingham flung back at him, and leaving the room he went to where the girls were.

He sat down beside Diana, who paid no attention to him. She seemed like one in a trance, her blue eyes looked glassy, and her pale face showed all too clearly the remaining dabs of rouge.

From her couch Marita was eying Diana attentively. Her face showed all her worst characteristics, hate, rage, jealousy—all gleamed from her great dark eyes and were shown in the straight line of her red lips.

Yet no one spoke. Perhaps it was because of the restraining presence of Mrs. Opdyke, perhaps the girls were all too overcome with the shock of the tragedy, but Bingham found himself in a silence that was more embarrassing than their first excitement had been.

At last the police arrived. There was the village constable, and a detective sergeant in plain clothes.

The latter took charge of affairs. No longer need Dr. Opdyke wonder who was at the head of things. Sergeant Cram was. He took hold with a force and decision that left no room or place for any one else.

He strode into the Tapestry Room, followed by the far less self-assertive constable. He walked once round the love-seat, viewing the body from all angles.

Then he said, rapping the words out; “Who did it?”

As no reply was forthcoming, Dr. Opdyke said, quietly. “We don’t know that, sergeant. It is yet to be discovered.”

“Who was in the room with him?”

It had come. The vital question, the significant query.

The question that had but one answer, that led to but one result.

“I—I wasn’t here,” the doctor begged the question. “I was called in after Mr. Homer was dead. I live next door.”

“Well, who was here? Who are you, sir?”

It was Cale he turned to, and the secretary replied at once.

“I am Harrison, the confidential secretary of Mr. Homer.”

“Where were you when Mr. Homer was killed?”

“I was upstairs. I went up to the study directly we left the dinner table, and only a few moments later, I heard a commotion down here and I heard a woman scream. I ran down and found Mr. Homer stabbed to death.”

“How did you know he was dead?”

“I—I didn’t—then, but when he was so still—and didn’t move and all——”

“Did anybody say he was dead—before the doctor came, I mean?”

“I don’t know—I really don’t know exactly what did happen or what anybody said. I was sort of—sort of dazed, you know.”

“You’re sort of dazed yet. Pull yourself together, you’ll have a lot of talking to do. Now, tell me, someone, who was in this room with Mr. Homer when he was killed?”

“Mr. Bingham was in that doorway,” offered Dare, pointing to the arched door where Ted had stood.

“Hold on! Did this stabbing occur when the lights went off? The dark time?”

“Yes,” Cale said, “I thought you knew that.”

“I didn’t. I knew nothing about it. How do you know?”

“Only because just after the lights came on again, I heard a shriek and a commotion down here.”

“Well, that fixes the time, doesn’t it, Gorman?” He turned to his fellow policeman for the first time since his entrance.

“Yes, no question about that. You’d better talk to somebody who wasn’t next door or upstairs when the thing happened.”

His dry tone seemed to nettle the sergeant a little, but he agreed.

“Call that man Bingham,” he directed.

In his cautious way, Harrison stepped to the door of the lounge and summoned Ted.

Unwillingly he came, his face as black as a thunder cloud, his lips twitching and his whole aspect belligerent.

“What do you want?” he said, not rudely, but with a decided lack of cordiality.

“You,” said Cram, tersely. “Murder has been committed here, and we want to get the detailed particulars at once.”

“Sorry, but I can’t tell you anything.”

“You can tell me where you were at the time.”

“Oh that. Yes, I was standing in that doorway.”

“Why were you there?”

Ted stared at him, and then said quietly: “For no especial reason. We had all just come in from the dining-room, and we scattered through the house. I paused in the doorway to see where others were going to settle down.”

“And Mr. Homer came into this room directly he left the dining-room?”

“Yes—I think so. I wasn’t noticing, you understand.”

“Did you leave the dining-room after Mr. Homer?”

“Yes, right behind him.”

“Then you couldn’t help seeing where he went. He came right in here?”

“Guess he did.”

“Who was with him?”

There it was, the awful question! But Ted Bingham had no intention of answering it.

“I don’t remember,” he said, mendaciously. “We all crowded through the hall together. Gaylord turned into this room, and a lot of us went on to the lounge. I think Harrison went upstairs.”

“He did. He went up to Mr. Homer’s study to do some work.”

“Oh, was that it? Well, I can only speak for myself. I don’t know about the others.”

“But Mr. Bingham, when you stood in that doorway, just before the lights went out, you surely saw who was in this room with Mr. Homer.”

“No,” Ted looked his inquisitor squarely in the eye, “I was looking the other way.”

“Oh, toward the lounge. Well, then, who was in the lounge?”

“Most of the crowd. Mrs. Abbott, Miss Opdyke—I don’t think I can enumerate them, really.”

“Never mind, I’ll learn all this from the others.”

With that Sergeant Cram went into the lounge, leaving the constable and the doctor alone with the dead man.

Bingham and the secretary he herded before him, seeming desirous for their presence.

The lounge was a large and imposing room. Of noble proportions and with a lofty ceiling it was a fit setting for the treasures of furniture and ornament therein gathered.

Paneled in polished gumwood, the walls gave back reflections of the soft light of a myriad candles, and the darker recesses and alcoves added to the picturesqueness of the scene.

Unheeding the aesthetic effect, Cram looked about for a light-switch and found one. A flood of light followed, and brought into bold relief the faces that had willingly sought the more welcome dusk.

“Ah, that’s better,” said Cram, as he turned on another switch. “Now, if you please, I want a straightforward and coherent story of what happened here tonight.”

Though he had expressed his wishes clearly enough, nobody seemed inclined to grant them.

The silence grew oppressive, and at last Cram said:

“The fact that it is so hard to elicit testimony is a bit suspicious in itself. I find I must interrogate you individually.”

There was a slight rustle of indignation at this, but Cram paid no attention to it, and addressed Rollin Dare.

“I have already had a few words with Mr. Harrison and Mr. Bingham,” he said, in a grave but not unkindly voice, “and now, Mr. Dare, I will ask you to tell me all you can as to the actual happenings when the lights went off.”

“Me,” exclaimed Dare. “I don’t know anything about it.”

“Where were you?”

“Over in that far corner of the lounge, over by the big Oriental urn.”

“Who was with you?”

Dare paused a moment, and then said, firmly, “Mrs. Abbott was with me.”

“You verify that, Mrs. Abbott?” asked Cram, turning to her.

“Yes, of course. We were sitting on the divan there, smoking.”

“All the time the lights were off?”

“Yes, all the time,” said Dare.

“And please describe what happened when the lights came on again.”

Rollin Dare had no thought in his mind but to tell the exact truth as far as he knew it. A straightforward sort, he almost always spoke the truth.

He was a short, stocky man, physically, with a round, pleasant face and mirror-like black hair. He was always positive, though also given to changing his mind. His worst trait was that he was a bit of a sponge, often coming down on his friends for entertainment, favors, and even financial aid now and then.

Yet his gay good nature, and his readiness to help at any time kept him a favorite and caused his faults to be forgotten.

He was not a far-sighted chap, and now, put to it for a description of a scene, he thought only of being exact about it.

“Why, let me see,” he said, thinking back. “We sat there on the divan, Mrs. Abbott and I, and it was dark, and I was thinking as soon as the lights came on I would ask Homer to let us have a dance. Then the lights did come on, just as they always do, you know, and I reached out for a cigarette and gave one to Mrs. Abbott. I was just lighting hers for her, when there came a scream, a girl’s scream from the Tapestry Room.”

“How did you know it was from that room?”

“Why—er—I dunno as I did know at the time—not for sure. But it sounded from that direction, and when we jumped up and went that way—everybody was going that way, why, we could see that was where the scream came from.”

“Yes, and how could you see that?”

“Why, Marita—Miss Moore, you know—had fallen to the floor, and I guess she was the one who had screamed. Though I’m not sure of that.”

“Was it you who screamed, Miss Moore?” Cram whirled round toward her.

“Yes, it was,” Marita said, in a low voice, but speaking steadily.

“Why did you scream?”

“Because, when the lights came on, I saw—I saw Gaylord, with a—a dagger sticking in his back.”

“And you screamed from fright?”

Marita’s great eyes gave one glance round the room, and then came to rest on the countenance of the detective.

“Yes,” she said, slowly, “yes, from fright, and terror and grief.”

“You didn’t know then that Mr. Homer was dead.”

“I surmised it. The way he looked, the way he was huddled down, the way that terrible dagger stuck out—oh, oh,—hush! Don’t ask me any more!”

Marita gave way to an unrestrained sobbing, and Mrs. Opdyke went quickly to her side, hoping to calm her.

Cram turned at once to Diana, and said, with a sort of intuition. “Were you in that room, too, the Tapestry Room?”

The girl had been looking pale and distressed, but this question seemed to break down her final barriers. She collapsed, her head drooped forward in her hands, and she seemed unable to speak.

“Let her alone,” stormed Ted Bingham. “Don’t you see she is ill—she is almost distracted.”

“I am sorry,” Cram said, “but this inquiry must go on. It is imperative. Perhaps Miss Kittredge will answer this one question. Were you in that room with Mr. Homer when the lights went off?”

Diana nodded an assent, and the detective mercifully let her alone.

He turned to Bingham.

“Mr. Bingham,” he said, “I must ask you to answer me carefully. When you stood in the doorway, and the electric lights went dark, were you standing there alone?”

“I was,” Ted replied.

“When the lights came on again, were you still standing there alone?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Who was then in the Tapestry Room with Mr. Homer?”

For a moment Ted hesitated, and then the eye of his inquisitor being firmly fixed on him, he said, slowly:

“Miss Moore was in there and Miss Kittredge, too.”

“Then you must have turned round, Mr. Bingham. You have already told me that you were facing the lounge and couldn’t see into the other room.”

“Yes—I—I suppose I did turn around.”

“And you saw the two ladies there, when the light returned. What were they doing?”

“Nothing, that I noticed. Miss Moore had fallen to the floor, and naturally I hastened to help her up.”

“You had heard Miss Moore scream?”

“Yes.”

“You were then not surprised to find she had fallen?”

“I heard her fall—I mean I heard a sound as if someone had fallen. I think that was when I turned that way.”

“But Miss Moore didn’t scream until after the lights came on.”

“Didn’t she? I’m a bit confused. The shock of it all has dazed my memory a bit. I’ve told you all I know.”