Читать книгу The Vanity Case - Carolyn Wells - Страница 7

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BUNNY went slowly downstairs, pausing on every step.

Just as she reached the Lounge, Doctor Conklin entered. He was a brisk, alert sort of person, with sharp, penetrating eyes and a quick jerkiness of movement.

Though he had turned toward the studio, he paused at sight of Bunny, and looked at her inquiringly.

"Belong here, do you?" he said, shortly.

"I am a guest of the Heaths," Bunny returned, a little brusque, because she was not accustomed to such abrupt manners.

"Oh, you are. Where is Mr. Heath? What am I wanted for, anyway?"

Herrick, who had admitted the doctor, said, respectfully: "If you will come this way, sir."

He led the way to the studio, and Doctor Conklin walked in silence after him.

Bunny followed, timidly, and with hesitating steps.

She saw the doctor pause suddenly, as he reached the studio door, and clench his hands, while his face took on a look of horror.

But he said no word, and strode over to the body that lay on the floor.

The candles had gone out; a black wick fallen over in a small pool of melted wax being all that remained in each tall candlestick.

For a few seconds, the man's piercing eyes took in the details, the card propped against one candlestick, the bizarre effect of the gay colored beads and scarf, the glaring tints of the make-up on the dead face, and the terrible wound on the temple, that was visible only in part.

Quickly, then, he stooped, and gently turned the head the better to examine this abrasion.

It was obvious to him at once that death had resulted from a sudden and powerful blow, delivered by a strong hand.

Also, the weapon used was in evidence.

Beside the fractured skull lay the broken fragments of a brown bottle of thick, heavy glass.

About to pick these up, Doctor Conklin thought better of it, and contented himself with looking closely at them.

"A brutal job!" he said, indignantly. "This woman was struck on the temple with this heavy bottle, and killed almost instantly! Who did it?"

His question was addressed to no one in particular, but as he raised his eyes, he discovered he had several auditors.

Bunny, wide-eyed and white-faced, had sunk into a chair, and was clutching at the window curtain nearest her.

Larry Inman had come in also, and stood, leaning against the mantel, his face set and horror-stricken.

Herrick was inside the room, on duty, but the other servants were hovering just outside the studio door, all more or less moaning their grief or murmuring their opinions.

"Where is Mr. Heath?" the doctor asked, rising from his examination. "Who is in charge here?"

There was a moment's silence and then Inman said, "We do not know where Mr. Heath is, doctor. He has not been seen this morning at all. In his absence I suppose I would better assume charge of things. I am a cousin of Mrs. Heath's. Is it—is it—murder?"

Though he balked at the terrible word, every one listened breathlessly for the answer.

"Murder? Yes! Of the most brutal, dastardly type! Where is this woman's husband?"

He turned to the butler, who shook his head.

"Nobody knows, sir. Mr. Heath was here last night, but he is not here now. His bed seems not to have been slept in."

"Well, the further proceedings are not for me to conduct. I will tell the police, and they will take charge. Mr. Inman, will you call up the Harbor Park Police Station?"

But Inman turned this task over to Herrick. For one thing, Larry had no intention of taking orders from the family physician, and, too, he was much shaken as to nerves, and it was more than he could face, to call in the police to investigate the death of Myra, his beautiful cousin!

He made no apology for shifting the errand to another, and turned solicitously to Bunny, as he saw her face blanch afresh at the police call.

Doctor Conklin looked at the pair curiously. They were not at all friendly in their attitude toward him, and he wondered why.

But he had so much else to wonder about that he turned back to his scrutiny of the dead woman.

He was fairly well acquainted with the Heaths, for, on occasion, he had prescribed for their minor ailments, and had, too, once or twice met them socially.

He was a Gardens man himself, for, of course, no Gardener would have a Park physician.

But the police had to come from the Park, and it was astonishing how quickly they managed to appear.

Three or four men arrived, but the Coroner and a Detective Sergeant took the case in hand.

With a perfunctory nod at the brief summary Doctor Conklin gave him, the Coroner set about his own examination of the body.

He had never known Myra Heath in life, and therefore, was not surprised at the pronounced make-up of her face.

But he showed his amazement at the candlesticks with their traces of burnt-out candles, and especially at the penned card.

"The Work of Perry Heath," he read, with an incredulous expression on his shrewd, small countenance. "Her husband, eh? Where is he?"

Informed that Heath was inexplicably missing, he nodded sagaciously.

"Made his getaway, did he? Well, it'll be a hard job to find him, for if he had the nerve to sign his handiwork, he must be well out of the neighborhood by this time. What say about how long she's been dead, Conklin? Some seven or eight hours, eh?"

"Hard to tell, Doctor Osborn. Perhaps your guess is about right. I'd put it eight, anyway."

"Well, seven or eight. It's nine now,—say she was killed 'long about two o'clock."

"I don't see how we can set it any more positively. The skull is fractured, you see—"

"Yes, beastly work! And with an old whisky bottle! Must have been a tramp thug—"

"Well, the bottle is no clue to the intruder. For that's one of Mrs. Heath's own bottles."

"Her bottle! This old booze holder?"

"Yes, she collected them. See the row of them in that cabinet?"

"My stars!" Osborn looked in amazement at the neat row of old liquor bottles on the shelf. "Whatever did she want of them?"

"They have a certain value to collectors. Anyway, I'm confident this was one of hers. I've seen her collection before, and I've heard her exult over certain specimens. Wasn't this bottle the property of Mrs. Heath?" He added, turning suddenly to Inman.

"Y—yes," Larry stammered, not so much ill at ease as startled by the abrupt question.

"Have you any idea who used it to brain her?" put in the Coroner.

It was a pet device of Osborn's to fire an unexpected question at a witness, and watch its effect.

"I? No, indeed! How could I have?"

Larry had regained his composure, and was ready for any ordeal.

Mott, the Detective Sergeant, took up the matter then, and in a quiet, almost gentle tone, began to ask definite questions.

"Who discovered Mrs. Heath's body here?" he said.

"Katie, the parlor maid," Herrick answered.

"Where is she? Tell her to come here."

Herrick nodded to the girl, who came slowly into the room and stood before Mott.

Her attitude was calm and unembarrassed. She had shrieked with terror at the shock of finding the body, but her fright had passed and now feelings of interest and curiosity predominated in her breast.

"Tell the story of what happened," said Mott, gravely but not too sternly.

"Well, sir, I come down stairs and went to my work—"

"At what time?"

Katie flushed a little, and said, "I was a bit late, sir. I'm to be down at eight and it was ten or fifteen after."

"Not more than that?"

"No, sir. And I tidied up the Lounge, and dusted about a bit, then I came in here to do the same, and as soon as I got through the door I saw—that—" she pointed to Myra's body.

"What did you do?"

"I let out a yell that they must have heard over at the Park! I couldn't help it,—I was that scared, sir."

"Yes, you must have been startled. What next?"

"Then I just ran to the pantry to find Herrick, and I told him."

"You didn't stop to look at Mrs. Heath more closely, and you didn't—didn't touch her?"

"Goodness, no! Touch her? I should say not! I just rushed out of this room as quick as I could."

"Is this the gown Mrs. Heath was wearing last evening?"

"Yes, sir, the very same, only of course, she didn't have that scarf on, nor those beads. That's Miss Bunny's scarf."

"Make no remarks, except in answer to questions. When did you last see Mrs. Heath alive?"

"Last night, about half-past eight, sir. It was my evening out, and after I fixed the Bridge table in here, I went out."

"Where did you go?"

"I went to the Movies. Over in Garden Park."

"What time did you come home?"

Katie turned red. "I don't just know,—I didn't notice."

"Ah, you were later than you should have been?"

"A—a little."

"Katie's a good girl," Herrick spoke up for her. "She might have been a minute or two late, but nothing to do any harm."

"Never mind that now," Mott said. "When you came in, Katie, did you notice anything unusual about?"

"Well,—no, sir."

Clearly she had been about to make a different answer and suddenly changed her mind.

Again Mott said, "Never mind that, now," and proceeded with his queries.

"Do you recognize this bottle, Katie?" He pointed to the pieces without touching them.

"Oh, yes, sir."

"Whose is it?"

"Why, it was Mrs. Heath's. The newest one she had She set a deal by it, sir."

"Proud of it, was she?"

"Yes, sir. Said it was the finest of the whole bunch. Terrible lookin' things, I call 'em!"

"Who do you suppose used this bottle to kill your mistress?"

"Who but some horrid burglar? Comin' of course, to steal some of her precious old glass. She often said it was very valuable, sir."

"Yes, it is. And you assume a robber was after it and was discovered by Mrs. Heath, and he killed her?"

"How else?"

"Did you see any trace of the robber when you came in last night late, or this morning, either?"

"No, sir, I didn't notice anything."

"You wouldn't! Herrick, did you?"

"Did I what, sir?"

"Did you see any traces of an intruder when you opened up the house this morning?"

"That I did not, for why there weren't any such."

"You seem positive."

"Well, what I mean is, that there was no door or window opened or unlocked. I fastened them all myself, last night, and I found them just so this morning."

"Proving to your mind, that no intruder could have gotten in or out?"

"Proving that to anybody's mind, sir. I always lock up everything after the last one of the family goes upstairs. Sometimes that's pretty late, but last night it was fairly early."

"What time?"

"Not much more than eleven-thirty, sir. Mr. Heath, he was the last one to go upstairs. Then I went my rounds and every window and every door was fastened by me, I do assure you."

"Some other time, Herrick, I want more detailed account of those fastenings. But now, you declare that the house was so thoroughly locked up that no one could get in or out?"

"I do, sir."

"Then, how did Mr. Heath get out?"

"That's what's puzzling me. I ask you, sir, how did he get out? For get out he did, since he ain't now in the house. But how did he do it,—and why?"

"Those are questions for wiser heads than yours, Herrick. You saw him go upstairs?"

"Yes, sir. After Mrs. Heath had gone up and likewise, Miss Moore and Mr. Inman. Master was the last one up, and now where is he?"

The blank, despairing look on the man's face would have been amusing had the matter been of less grave import.

"Could Mr. Heath have had a telegram or any sort of message that called him away late last night, or in the early morning hours?"

"He could have had messages, of course, but he couldn't get out of any door, and leave it locked behind him, on the inside. Nor out any window, for they all have patent catches and they were all locked."

"None left open for air?"

"There's patent ventilators to take care-of that. Ever since the burglary scares two years or so ago, Mrs. Heath has been most particular about the locks everywhere."

"We'll go into all that later. Where, then, do you think Mr. Heath is at the present moment?"

"Laws, sir, if I only knew! But I can't think of any place he could be, or any way he could get there!"

Detective Mott transferred his attention to Inman, who had seated himself, turning his chair so that the body of Myra was not in his line of vision.

Mott looked at Larry a moment before he spoke to him, and his keen eye noted that Inman's hands clenched themselves involuntarily, and his whole body tensed a trifle, as if preparing himself for an ordeal.

And ordeal it was, for Mott had a way of making his most casual remarks seem accusatory, and his lightest question often hinted at vital import.

The detective had acquired this manner purposely, knowing it sometimes frightened a witness into telling the truth, Yet his tones were suave and his attitude courteous, as he said:

"Being the nearest relative of Mrs. Heath present, I assume, Mr. Inman, that you are deeply anxious to learn who committed this shocking crime."

"Yes," said Larry, and no more. His voice was low and even, his face showed little or no emotion, and though he did not seem to resent the detective's question he certainly evinced no intention of offering gratuitous information.

But Detective Mott well knew the distaste most people have for detailing unpleasant recollections, and he proceeded along practical and straightforward lines.

"Then, will you tell me, in your own words, of the events of last evening, up to the time you last saw Mrs. Heath alive?"

"We spent the evening quietly at home," Larry replied, with cold politeness. "Miss Moore and myself are staying here, and there were no other guests at dinner. After dinner, we four had a game of Bridge here in this room, and when that was over, we chatted a bit, and then Miss Moore left us and went to her room. A few moments later I went up to bed, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Heath here. That is all I can tell you, Mr. Mott."

"At what time did you go upstairs, Mr. Inman?"

"Something after eleven, I think. I don't know more accurately than that."

"Did you hear Mr. and Mrs. Heath come upstairs, later?"

"That I can't say. If I did I didn't notice it. One pays no attention to the footsteps of the household."

"You do not remember hearing them, then?"

"I do not."

"Were Mr. and Mrs. Heath in their usual good health and spirits last evening?"

"I noticed nothing at all unusual."

"This is not the formal inquest, Mr. Inman, but I am hoping you can tell me some detail or impart some bit of information, that may give us a hint which way to look for the murderer. The coroner, as well as the family physician declares that Mrs. Heath was wilfully murdered by a fierce blow with a heavy bottle. The concussion broke the bottle and fractured the lady's skull, also producing a deep flesh bruise. Can you imagine for a moment, that Mr. Heath could have thus attacked his wife?"

"One can imagine anything, Mr. Mott. But if you mean do I think such a thing probable, I say, of course I do not. Mr. and Mrs. Heath were on perfectly good terms, and it is absurd to think of such a thing as a family brawl that would lead to such a blow!"

"Was Mrs. Heath high-tempered? Or is Mr. Heath of an impulsive or fiery nature?"

"I have always known them to be cultured, high-bred people. Far removed from quarrels that might lead to physical violence."

"Then we must look elsewhere for the murderer. Now another mystery is the disappearance of Mr. Heath. Can you shed any light on that, either by fact or theory?"

"I'm afraid I can't, Mr. Mott. Perry Heath has been a friend of mine for years and while I can't think he killed his wife, I am still more at a loss to imagine a cause for his disappearance just now."

"What significance do you attach to this card, 'The Work of Perry Heath'?"

"Personally, I think that card was dropped by accident. It is a card that we have joked about often. It has been kicking around this studio for months."

"I see. Then you don't think it indicates that Mr. Heath killed his wife, and placed the card there in a spirit of bravado?"

"No, indeed. I think it far more likely that someone else killed Mrs. Heath and placed the card where it was found, in order to seem to incriminate Mr. Heath. That is, unless my other impression is the truth, that the card fell there accidentally."

"These things will be gone into more thoroughly at the Inquest," Mott said. "That will take place this afternoon, at two o'clock. Please be in attendance, Mr. Inman."

He turned to Bunny with an apologetic glance, as if he hated to annoy her, but his duty was imperative.

"Miss Moore," he said, gently, "your friend Mrs. Heath was not in the habit of using what is known as the make-up box, was she?"

"No," said Bunny, frightened at this opening. She had expected questions as to her friendship with Myra and her position in the house.

"Knowing her well, do you think she herself applied the powder and rouge which is now so conspicuously on her face?"

"Oh, no," Bunny said, excitedly, "she never would do that! Never. Why, we often coaxed her to try it, but she never would."

"Did she possess a vanity box of her own?"

"Why—yes,—she had two or three that were given her as presents, by people who didn't know her distaste for such things."

"Where are these gifts?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. Up in her boudoir, I suppose."

"Not likely she used one of them then, for the cosmetics now on her face?"

"N—no,—I shouldn't think so."

Bunny had turned pale, and was shaking with nervousness. But she forced herself to speak calmly, and managed to control her quivering lips.

"Is the red scarf that is so artistically draped round Mrs. Heath's figure her own property?"

"No," the girl replied, "it is mine."

"Yours? How did it get where it now is?"

"I don't know, I'm sure." Bunny had conquered her nerves somewhat, and was beginning to try her natural wiles on her inquisitor. "I was wearing it last evening when I stepped out on the porch, and when I went upstairs to bed, I left it down here. Why Mrs. Heath put it round her, I don't know, I'm sure. It was not like her at all. All her scarves are white or silver grey."

"You were the first to leave the group last night to go up to bed?"

"Yes. We were all about to go, but I chanced to go up first. Why?"

The sudden question was in a rather impertinent tone, but was accompanied by an innocent and enchanting smile, that made Detective Mott sit up and take notice. He had his own opinion of young women who tried to cajole or bewitch a detective, and he immediately began to watch his step.

"Why, because I want to know all about when you last saw Mrs. Heath alive."

"That was the time." Bunny spoke softly. "I said good night,—I think,—or, perhaps I didn't, we're not very punctilious about such things, and I went up to my room and shut the door, and I didn't hear anybody else come upstairs at all."

"And you didn't leave your room again, last night?" Bunny paled, and her big blue eyes stared at the detective.

"W—what do you mean?" she said, with a gasp and a little catch in her voice.

Mott looked at her. Could it be that this lovely child had some knowledge, guilty or otherwise, that she was keeping back?

"It doesn't seem to be an abstruse question," Mott smiled kindly at her. "I only asked if you left your bedroom again after you went in and shut the door."

"Why, no,—no, of course I didn't!"

"Then you knew nothing of the tragedy until you came downstairs. this morning?"

"I knew before I came down, because Carter, Mrs. Heath's maid, came to my room and told me."

"I see. And did Carter tell you the details of Mrs. Heath's appearance? How her face was painted, and how there were candles at her head and feet?"

"No,—she didn't tell me that—" Bunny looked vaguely at Mott, her lovely eyes clouding with tears as she glanced toward the beautiful still figure on the floor.

"Then you were shocked afresh when you came downstairs and saw the—the scene that you did see?"

"Yes,—oh, yes."

"You gazed at the strangely painted face,—"

"Yes." Bunny's eyes looked straight into the detective's own.

"You saw the crimson scarf draped across the body?"

"Yes."

"You saw the card about Mr. Heath's work?"

"Yes."

"You saw the candles burning at her head and feet, almost as if in a church?"

"Yes." Bunny looked rapt now, and then, as the detective ceased his questions she burst into a flood of helpless tears, and blindly took the handkerchief Larry silently offered.

"Miss Moore," Mott seemed to ignore her sudden breakdown, "please answer this with candor. Was there any ill feeling, to your knowledge, between Mr. Heath and his wife?"

"No," and Bunny ceased crying, and faced the detective with all her old insouciance and independence. "Most certainly not! They were one of the most devoted couples I ever knew."

"There was no difference of opinion,—I mean on a vital subject?"

"No, nothing special or definite. Except, perhaps, that Mr. Heath did not sympathize in Mrs. Heath's fancy for collecting old glass."

"That would scarcely be sufficient reason for him to attack her with one of her own old bottles," Mott said, gravely.

"No, of course not," returned Bunny.