Читать книгу The Mystery Of The Second Shot - Rufus Gillmore - Страница 9

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Early next morning, behind the locked door of a West End shooting gallery, Ashley conducted an experiment. With the aid of the sleepy proprietor, he stretched a white sheet across the rear. Against this, from varying distances, he fired shot after shot from a Colt .32 automatic. Powder marks showed on the sheet six out of seven times at a distance of thirty inches and every time at a distance of twenty-eight inches.

He had already calculated Newhall’s extreme reach to be from twenty-nine to thirty inches. He had made up his mind that he could not have shot himself from a distance greater than twenty-four or twenty-five inches. The absence of powder marks on his clothes hence bore out his suspicion that Bertrand Newhall had not killed himself.

Much which Ashley had planned to do that day was foiled by the necessity of receiving the congratulations of his fellow-reporters. It takes time to decline courteously fifteen or twenty requests to have a drink; it takes not only time, but thought and attention to respond properly to the gibes of a crowd of reporters congratulating a fellow workman after their own peculiar fashion.

Ames, the stringy, sour-faced city editor of The Eagle, expressed the general attitude when Ashley went in to report. “Excuse me for not rising and coming out to salute you,” he said with mock humility, “but I didn’t know who the loud cheers were for. Thought it was no one but Ty Cobb or Cook or Teddy.”

Sarcasm such as this Ashley took at face value, but the conduct of one man puzzled him. Henderson had changed his attitude toward him completely. Henderson was unexpectedly conciliating—apologetic. “You backed me into a corner, had me screaming for help, all right,” he acknowledged, a smile lolling on his fat face. Later on, he drew Ashley aside. “I’ve quit on this assignment,” he informed him. “It’s yours from now on, if you see anything in it and want it.”

“Guess there’s nothing to it, if you’ve thrown it up,” answered Ashley, smiling.

“That’s what. I don’t see anything to it but a simple case of suicide. The story’s all in as far as I can make out. But I thought from what you said last night—”

“By the way, what did you find in that bag?” interrupted Ashley.

“The queerest assortment of junk you ever heard of. A lot of old daguerreotypes, a tin case full of keys, and a collection of old jewelry that might have belonged to ancestors. Looked as though some one had gone through a trunk and picked out a lot of old stuff to throw away, except that the jewelry was packed in cotton-wool and boxes.”

“Nothing of value?”

“Not except as keepsakes. We thought we had landed something, but—” a wave of his hand disposed of it as trash. “By the way,” Henderson went on easily, “I didn’t want to butt in, so I didn’t say anything to Ames about your suspicions. Go in, tip him off, and get time to run them down, if you think it’s worth while.”

Ashley did not know what to make of this. Henderson had not asked him a question about Miss Newhall, where he had taken her, what she had said and done. In fact, Henderson turned to leave carelessly, as though thoroughly convinced that Ashley had come upon a mare’s nest.

“What convinces you that Newhall shot himself?” Ashley held him.

“Everything. Why, man, think!” Henderson’s manner became for the first time a little querulous. “He was run down—a rat in a corner, without a friend to turn to. It was some God-forsaken country in South America or jail for him. What would a man like Newhall do, caught in such a mess? Pass it all up, wouldn’t he? That’s the answer! Now, I know he had a lot of enemies who would have liked nothing better than to shoot him as full of holes as a sieve. But he did die inside his own house, and there wasn’t a lock, door or window tampered with. I know that because I examined every one. Now, if anyone else shot Newhall, Newhall must have let him in with his own keys. Can you see Newhall doing that? That is, unless,” Henderson grinned, “unless you or his own stepdaughter did the foul deed—you were the only two inside that house when the police arrived.”

“Stepdaughter?” queried Ashley.

“Miss Newhall wasn’t his own daughter, but he was so fond of her that he had her change her name. You don’t really suspect that little doll of doing it?”

“No motive—in sight,” admitted Ashley.

“And you’d have one hell of a hunt to find one,” said Henderson, walking away.

And along early in the afternoon came information calculated still more to discourage Ashley’s suspicions. Medical Examiner Sorley had held his inquest, and found for suicide. In view of the facts, the finding appeared thoroughly to be justified. The police testified that no one had entered the house except with keys; and the watchman and all others possessing keys established conclusive alibis. The secretary of the Wool Trust confessed that it had been on the edge of bankruptcy for weeks owing to lack of ready capital; and Deputy-Commissioner Haswell provided a good and sufficient motive for suicide when he testified that the Province Trust Company was hopelessly involved in the downfall of this other Newhall enterprise.

Against the weight of all this testimony, the absence of powder marks received slight consideration, was set down to the probability that Newhall must have used an underloaded cartridge; and the chauffeur’s cap found with the body was passed by without comment.

But the incredible thing about life is that the young and obstinate should dare to be as young and obstinate as we once were. Ashley refused to accept the verdict, asked to be assigned for further work on the case.

“It’s just like a raw young thing like you to want to keep on with a story after it’s off the hooks, decently interred and dead as a divorced wife,” Ames, the city editor, sneered. “I’ve always found that when a suckling escapes the booze, worse things get to his block! But go on!—go on!—we’re just running The Eagle to educate our promising young men. Go ahead—rattle the bones—and turn in a Sunday story if you’re just bursting with suppressed words.”

“Not much time for that. Can I have help?” demanded Ashley.

Ames grinned. “You can have Conley—if he deigns to be with us to-day,” he said.

Conley was a veteran reporter. That alone explains. Men are veteran reporters for just two reasons—incapacity and capacity. Conley had capacity. As his fellow-reporters put it, “enough beer could not be brewed in one day to do Conley any harm.” But periodically, he forgot and drank hard liquor. And then he became about as reliable as a chauffeur on a joy-ride. Nevertheless, Conley, sober, was an excellent reporter. Ashley gladly accepted his aid.

After pledging him to drink nothing except beer, Ashley sent Conley to get a view of the pistol and the chauffeur’s cap; to trail them back, if possible, to the men who had sold them. If he had time, he was also to interview some of the directors of the Province Trust Company and to pick up any information he could regarding Newhall’s movements for the past few days. These points covered, Ashley set out himself to follow the main track to Miss Newhall. After giving his own testimony at the inquest that morning he had looked for her only to learn that she had testified early and departed. He found now that she had also given up her rooms at the Touraine. The clerk could not tell him where she had gone. Ashley moved away feeling as grieved as if he had just heard of a death in the family.

The summer home of the Newhalls was at Mossett, twenty-five miles away. He had hoped to see Miss Newhall, get the keys, make a thorough inspection of the house where Newhall had died and also pay a visit to the Thorpes—all during that afternoon—and the hotel clock pointed at six minutes of three.

Ten minutes later Ashley was sprinting across the South Station. By nearly knocking the guard at the gate off his feet, he managed to swing, puffing and spent, upon the steps of the last car of the 3.04 train for Mossett.