Читать книгу Murder Will In - Carolyn Wells - Страница 6

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Doctor Lloyd assumed authority.

He sent Nadine and Murray out of the room, and told Dickson to go for Mr. McCleod who was up in his father’s apartment.

“Don’t tell him anything,” he directed Dickson, “and don’t let Miss Emmy or her father know there is anything wrong. Just get him down here quick.”

Dickson went and Lloyd stood looking at the beautiful face of the woman who had been his patient. But his medical advice to Alma had been of the simplest and most minor sort. Her maladies save for a slight cold or a touch of indigestion had been largely imaginery.

But Alma had thought it added to her importance to have a medical attendant, and, too, she liked Arthur Lloyd.

Lloyd looked at her and wondered. What had caused her death?

She had often feared or pretended that her heart was weak, but the doctor knew better. This was no heart attack.

And there was no wound, no convulsive effect, nothing peculiar about her appearance, unless—

Hugh came in, saw Alma lying on the chaise longue and went toward her, as he spoke to Lloyd.

“What’s the matter? Is Alma ill?”

The doctor grasped him by the arm, and said, “Your wife is dead.”

Experience had taught him the value of straightforward talk.

Hugh stared at him without comprehension.

“She doesn’t look so,” he said, going closer. “But—what is it, Lloyd? What does it mean?”

Hugh trembled all over, as understanding came to him.

Then he fell on his knees beside the couch.

“My darling,” he whispered, “my little Alma.” He took her hand and kissed it gently, then he rose, with a determined air.

“Was it her heart, Lloyd? She has told me she had heart trouble, I but I thought she imagined it.”

“She did,” the doctor declared. “And in any case that did not cause her death. McCleod, it was not a natural death.”

“What!” the man braced himself as for a blow. “What do you mean?”

“I know your wife’s physical condition and I know there was no hint of trouble of any sort that could have brought this about. I know that, McCleod, and I know she was killed. Do you understand? Murdered!”

Lloyd spoke blunty for the other was staring at him as if devoid of all comprehension.

Then Hugh gave a sudden upward jerk of his head and squared his broad shoulders as if physical force would help his shattered senses.

He said, clenching his hands. “Do you help me—tell me what to do.”

“Take a drink first, you need it.” Lloyd pointed to a decanter and glasses on a side table. “Now, this must be reported, and at once. Or do you want to call Doctor Larkin?”

“No, what for? He is my father’s physician, but you are Alma’s. It’s your case. But do you mean reported to—to—”

“Yes, to the police. See straight, McCleod. It must be done, and no time should be wasted. Shall I call Headquarters?”

“Y—yes, I suppose so. Poor little Alma, will they take her away?”

“Yes. It must be. Tomorrow you will be glad that you took my advice. Indeed, you must take it. Now, you stay here, Dickson will keep people out and I will go and telephone.”

“There’s one in the little writing room across the hall, go there.” Lloyd knew the room, it was Alma’s writing room. The thought passed through his mind that the open desk might offer access to secrets, but he could not do anything about that.

He called Headquarters and told his story which would set in motion the great machine of police activities.

Then he went back to Hugh.

“They’ll respond quickly,” he said. “I think it best, don’t you, not to tell your father or sister of this tonight. There will be more or less excitement which would be bad for the old man. And Miss Emmy would have a bad night. Can’t you keep it from them until tomorrow?”

“Yes, a good idea. Will they question everybody?”

“More or less. But that needn’t bother you. When they ask you anything, just tell the exact truth and say as little as possible. You know nothing of Alma’s death—do you?”

“No. But if they discover who did that awful thing—I say, are you sure it was—”

“Yes, there is no doubt about it. The Medical Examiner will tell you the same, I have no doubt.”

“Was she—hurt?”

“Probably not. Don’t think about it now. I was going down to tell the guests who are down there still. But I think it would be better to let them learn it from the police. There’ll be less hysterics that way.”

McCleod nodded, and turned again to gaze at the still figure on the couch.

Then Foo Chow brought up the first comer.

“Mr. Raynor,” he said, and turned away.

“I’m Captain Raynor, from the Homicide Bureau,” said a straightforward voice, and a tall, active-looking man came in. “You are Mr. McCleod?”

“Yes,” Hugh returned, as he rose and faced him. “Can I do anything for you?”

“I’ll just look round a bit. Doctor Colville, the Medical Examiner, will be here shortly.”

Raynor stood a moment, looking at Alma and then asked a few questions of Doctor Lloyd.

But he soon learned that his information or advice must come from McCleod.

“Nothing has been touched in this room, I take it?” he asked.

“That’s hard to say,” Hugh told him. “This is a guest bedroom, but for convenience it was used tonight as a men’s coat room. We had a party, but many have already gone home.”

“Since Mrs. McCleod was discovered here?”

“That I don’t know. My valet is in charge, he may tell you.”

“Who first found her?”

“One of the guests, I think. Who was it, Lloyd?”

“Doris Day, first. And then Miss Glenn and Mr. Murray came up here. Do you want to see them now?”

“Not just now. Better wait for Colville.”

Then Doctor Colville came. A smallish dapper man with what seemed to be absorbent eyes, so instantly did they take in anything in sight.

“Oh!” he said, in a voice of real pain as he looked at the lovely face.

He bent over and examined the cut on her full lower lip. He touched it lightly with his finger, and looked at Raynor.

The detective picked up the large down pillow that lay on the bed.

It was a square one, with a cover of filet lace and embroidery, and a lace frill all around it. Holding it out to the Examiner, Raynor turned it over, and showed the other side, covered with plain linen. In the middle of this they saw a red mark, sufficiently shaped to show the impress of two red lips which had stained the white linen.

Closer examination showed some red spots of a different shade, and Colville’s glittering eyes read the story.

“Mrs. McCleod was smothered,” he stated, with a positive air. “I gathered that from the signs on her face, and this is proof. Some strong hands held this pillow over her face so tightly and so long that she ceased to breathe, probably without a struggle. It was an Othello performance.

“This stain on the pillow is where Mrs. McCleod bit at it in her frenzy, you see the linen is torn a little, or where the murderer dealt a blow or pressure. Her struggle was not a long one, nor did she suffer after the first few seconds.”

Hugh McCleod stared at the speaker.

The last was addressed to Raynor, who nodded his head with emphasis.

Colville looked round the room. It was a well-appointed guest room, fitted for a man or a woman visitor.

“Better have these coats and hats put in some other room. This room must be locked up.”

“Must have the place photographed first,” Raynor said, and opened the door as he heard men in the hall just outside.

The camera men came in and the fingerprint men, and Doctor Colville took Hugh by the arm and led him away.

“Where can we go,” he asked, “for a few minutes’ talk?”

“Come in here,” and Hugh led the way to the waiting room.

“Tell me,” Colville said, “have you any idea who could have killed your wife?”

“Not the slightest.”

“She was smothered. Someone did it with force, by reason of a sudden spasm of rage or maybe by premeditation. She had no enemy?”

“No! Everybody loved Alma. She had hosts of friends, but she never made an enemy.”

“Lovers, then? Were men devoted to her?”

“Yes, of course. But she only laughed at them. She told me all about the things they would say to her, she liked to be admired, but it meant nothing to her—nothing serious.”

“It was serious to someone. Your servants are of good character?”

“Oh, yes, the butler has been with us ever since we were married, and my man I have had for more than ten years. There are others, but Alma never came in contact with them, except the maids. My wife was not a domestic type, the servants were not people to her, they were furniture. I can’t get a ray of light, can you? Unless it was a burglar, a sneak thief, you know.”

“Not very plausible. There was always someone on guard?”

“Yes. Dickson was in or near that guest room all the time. And Foo Chow is always everywhere. He would know if a fly came in.”

“Then you have no theory, Mr. McCleod? No suspicion?”

“How can I have? All the guests are our friends, or were brought by our friends. Strangers come that way, you see, for our friends know that their friends are welcome here.”

“Were there many strangers here tonight?”

“No, I think not. But I’m not sure. You see, owing to my father’s illness, I was with him a great deal of the time. I can’t make it out.”

“Do you not think that Mrs. McCleod might have had some friends that you did not know of?”

“If you’re implying her acquaintance with anyone of whom I would not approve, cut it out. She was not that sort.”

“The guests were all over the house? Or only the drawing rooms?”

“Oh, they were all over. Up and downstairs, but, of course, they did not go up to my father’s place. He is just above this.”

“This apartment of yours is a bit complicated, isn’t it? As to arrangement, I mean.”

“Indeed it is. Visitors staying here say they need a guide to find their way around. There are many rooms and lots of halls and nooks.”

“An intruder, then, could have hidden himself at will.”

“Oh, I think not. Foo Chow was on the job, and then, why would an intruder, I suppose you mean a robber, kill Alma in that strange fashion? She had on valuable jewelry, but I don’t think there was any of it disturbed. But I don’t know that—I didn’t notice—”

“I have to go now, Mr. McCleod. We will take the body away tonight, and there will be an autopsy in the morning. Then you will have the report.”

“Autopsy! Must you—”

“Yes, it is customary and necessary. We may find some condition that will be of evidential value. I know you will not put any obstacles in our way. The case is in Raynor’s charge and he will be glad of your information and counsel. Do you want to see any of the guests before they are allowed to go home?”

“Guests? Are they downstairs yet?”

“Oh, yes. But you need not see them unless you wish. Raynor is taking care of it all.”

“I think I won’t see them. Isn’t it very late?”

“It’s after five, nearly half past. I must go now. Why don’t you stay right here for a time? I’ll tell Dickson where you are.”

“I’ll stay here a few minutes. I want to think a little.”

“Very well; I’ll tell Foo Chow to make some coffee.”

But Hugh McCleod had already become immersed in his thoughts, and he merely nodded his head as Colville left him.

The Examiner knew that they had already taken Alma’s body away, and another room was made the coat room.

Foo Chow told him that the house manager had been with the mortuary men, and all had been done quietly and well.

Dickson carried the same news to Hugh, and told him gently that he had better go to bed and get a little rest against the day that must come.

Hugh paid no attention to this advice, and he drank the coffee offered to him, with an equal lack of notice.

“Dickson,” he said at last, “will you help me to get the beast that killed my wife?

“I don’t know how we will do it,” Hugh went on. “Have you any suspicions, Dickson? You know most of the people at the party. Can you imagine any of them as a murderer?”

“Don’t think about that now, Mr. McCleod. And you couldn’t do that sort of thing, sir. If you want to, you could get a detective, a private one, I mean.”

“They don’t know anything. They do in the books, but not in real life. The police detectives know more. They are trained workers. That Raynor is a smart chap. He’ll do better than a Sherlock what d’y’call ’em?”

“Holmes, sir.”

“Well, then, Holmes. I don’t want his sort. I’ll ask Raynor about this. You didn’t notice anything queer about anybody tonight? None of the men jittery, or anything like that?”

“No, Mr. McCleod. Now, sir, if you won’t go to bed, you must lie down for a while.”—

“Yes, I’ll do that—come on.”

The rooms occupied by Hugh and Alma were across the front of the house. Each had bedroom, dressing room and bath, and a small living room besides, which connected the two suites.

Hugh looked in at Alma’s door and saw Linda, her maid, putting away some things.

“What are you doing, Linda?”

The girl gave a start.

“Oh,” she said, relieved to see her master instead of a policeman. “I’m putting Mrs. McCleod’s jewels in the cases. They took her, just as she was, except for these. Shall I put them in this little safe, sir, or will you take care of them?”

“Put them there for now, Linda. I’ll see about it later.”