THE MEREDITH STORY
“WHO is this man?” asked Doctor Gilvray, sharply, as he strode across
the room to look for himself on the dead man’s features.
“Hugh Curran,” Loft answered, briefly. “A fairly well-known author of
fiction--”
“Yes, yes, I know Curran,--sleuth stories,--good ones, too. H’m,--been
dead several hours,--six or eight, surely. Bad symptoms--”
“What do you mean by symptoms?” Loft showed an eager curiosity.
“Look at his face--cyanotic. Eyes wide open,--signs of bloody froth on
his lips,--teeth tight clenched,--this man--” the doctor stopped to
sniff at Curran’s mouth,--“yes, this man died of poison,--Hydrocyanic
acid. Suicide?”
“Good Lord, I don’t know!” Valentine Loft stared. “I scarcely know him
at all,--but, no,--I’m sure he wouldn’t commit suicide,--he had all
sorts of things to live for!”
“Well--well,--let’s look further. Ah, yes, yes,--it’s Prussic acid,
for sure. There’s a distinct odor of it on his lips. So, he either took
the stuff voluntarily,--or, it was administered by someone else.”
“But--” Loft looked puzzled. “But the room was locked.”
“That would argue suicide,--but then, I see no container, do you? The
poison must have acted instantaneously, and he would have had no more
than time to fling away the paper or bottle,--scarcely that. He would
more likely have dropped it where he sat. Has any one interfered with
the room in any way?”
“No one. I’ve been here alone ever since we discovered this. And I’ve
touched nothing,--nothing at all.”
“There’ll have to be an autopsy,--and, of course, you realize, Mr.
Loft, it’s a case for the police. I shall have to notify them at once.”
“Oh, what a horrible situation. I’ve a house party here,--and,
aside from that, I don’t want my home invaded by a lot of snooping
detectives--and all for a perfect stranger.”
“How’d he happen to be here?”
“The people felt interested in him,--as a sort of celebrity,--and I
asked him for a week-end visit. See here,--if anybody did for him, how
did the intruder get in? We had to break in this morning.”
“One of those seemingly insoluble mysteries of entrance, that always
proves to be a simple matter after all. Any of the servants have a pass
key?”
“No; and, anyway, the key was in the lock.”
“Well, that’s outside my jurisdiction. I’ll have Detective Kinney put
on this,--he’s a sharp one. Now, get your household together,--say, in
the library, and I’ll have to question them pretty closely.”
“Awful nuisance,--but I know it must be done. I wish I’d never seen
Hugh Curran!”
“Where is his home? Where are his people?”
“I don’t know. He hails from Indiana, but I think he lives in New York
just now. The Club people will know all about him. Now, Doctor, Miss
Fuller, my promised wife, is staying here. I want to tell her of this
matter myself. And,--I wish you could excuse her from the general
inquiry--”
“Can’t be done. Must have everybody present, servants and all. I
daresay some can be quickly dismissed, but I must get all the testimony
possible. It’s a strange case, I think,--though it may turn out a
simple matter after all. Go ahead, Mr. Loft, and tell the lady about
it, and I’ll call Police Headquarters and get busy at once. Is there a
telephone in the hall? Yes? Well, I’ll lock this room door against my
return. Oh, the lock is fairly burst off! Never mind,--I can keep my
eye on it. I don’t want anyone meddling in there.”
“Here’s Baldwin,” Loft said, as they met Bob in the hall. “Mount guard
in Curran’s room, Angel, while the doctor is telephoning.”
“Don’t like the job, but I’ll do it,” Baldwin said, a rueful look on
his usually smiling face. “Hurry up all you can, Doctor.”
Loft went away to seek Pauline. He found her in the pretty sitting room
that belonged to her suite, and though she had not yet been told of the
tragedy, she knew from various unexplained stirrings about the house
that something had happened.
“What is it, Val?” she asked, “what has happened?”
Gently he told her the bare facts as he knew them. He had feared she
would be greatly shocked, possibly hysterical, but he was not prepared
for the utter prostration that overtook her.
She gasped, choked for breath and almost fainted.
“No, don’t call anybody,” she asked, as he started for the door. “I’ll
be all right in a minute. Why--who--who did it?”
“Pauline, darling, we don’t know that anybody did. It may be the man
took his own life. Doctor Gilvray isn’t certain. And maybe it’s a
stroke of some sort. Gilvray thought he detected the odor of bitter
almonds, but I couldn’t notice it. And the room was locked, and there’s
no bottle or paper to be found,--so I’m inclined to think it may have
been a stroke.”
“Do you?” Pauline gazed into his eyes. “Do you, really, Val?”
“Yes, dear, I do. But why are you so concerned? To be sure the
occurrence itself is awful,--coming as it does during this visit of
yours, that was to be such a gay, happy party. But aside from that,
you’ve no personal interest in Curran, have you?”
“Oh, no, no. Of course not. How could I have? I saw him for the first
time yesterday,--_yesterday_.”
“That is so, dear, isn’t it? You never saw Hugh Curran before?”
“I never laid eyes on Hugh Curran until yesterday,” she averred,
almost solemnly, and with a straightforward gaze at Loft. “And I hope I
need never lay eyes on him again.”
“No, sweetheart, no, of course not. We will have--him taken away just
as soon as possible. But,--I’m sorry,--you’ll have to come downstairs
now, and answer a few questions the Examiner will ask you.”
“Oh, no, Valentine! I can’t,--I _can’t_! Don’t make me do that!
Please, please, dear, if you love me,--don’t make me do that!”
“I’m not making you, Pauline,--I tried to get you off. But it is
imperative,--it is the law--”
“I don’t care if it is the law,--I can’t I--can’t--” she broke into
deep, silent sobbing.
“My precious girl, I’d save you this ordeal if it were in any way
possible to do so. But it isn’t. The detective will come up here if you
don’t go down. And think, Pauline, it isn’t any more than the rest will
do. Anna, Stella, the Countess, the Merediths,--all of us have to do
the same. You will be asked only a few perfunctory questions,--it will
be over in a few minutes. Whereas,” he looked stern, “whereas dear, if
you refuse, it will look strange,--even--suspicious--”
“Oh, of course I’ll go, Val. I’ll do whatever you tell me to. I only
felt scared and horrified at first. Shall we go now?”
Suddenly Pauline had regained her poise, and was her own calm self
again. She turned to Loft, her sweet face submissive, even willing to
obey his request.
“Yes, come now. The others are gathered, I daresay. Don’t talk much,
Pauline. Just answer what they ask, carefully and concisely.”
“Why, Val, what do you mean? Is there any--any danger--”
“No, of course not. But it’s never wise to dilate on the subject you’re
asked about. However, tell all you know, of course.”
“I’ll glance at you, and if I’m doing all right you nod. If not shake
your head.”
“Very well. Oh, I’m so sorry, Pauline, that you must do this.”
“Never mind, it’s all right. Come along.”
Together they went downstairs.
Their interview had been longer than Loft realized, and the household
had assembled in the library.
The whole atmosphere of the house seemed changed.
Pauline had shuddered as they passed an officer in the hall, and
another was to be seen patrolling the front terrace.
In the library Doctor Gilvray and Detective Kinney were ready to begin
their inquiries.
“We needn’t be over formal,” the Doctor said. “First, Mr. Loft, you
will tell all you know of Hugh Curran and how he came to be your guest.”
Valentine Loft stated clearly and concisely the little he knew of the
author, and explained that he had invited him merely because his guests
were interested and also because Mr. Curran had expressed a desire to
talk with Mr. Baldwin on the subject of old and rare books.
“He wanted to see your collection too, Val,” Angel put in, as if
disclaiming the entire responsibility.
“Yes,--he said he meant to spend this morning in the library,” Loft
returned, looking about him in rather an awed way.
“Then that doesn’t point to a suicide,” said the Detective, quickly.
“No, and it wasn’t a suicide,” Doctor Gilvray declared. “The man was
murdered.”
At this Anna gave a gasp of horror, and clutched at her husband’s arm.
“And you were all discussing murder,--and how it could be done!” she
cried, in an hysterical whisper that ended in a faint shriek.
“What’s that?” asked Kinney, “all discussing methods of murder? When?”
“Last night,” said Loft, calmly. “Mr. Curran was a Detective Story
writer and we all talked of such matters to him.”
“Yes, we did,” Stella Lawrence said; “and each chose a different means.
And last night I dreamed--”
“Now, Stella,” Anna interrupted, “you will not tell your dream, I
forbid it!”
“We don’t care especially for dreams,” the Doctor said, “we want facts.
Will you each in turn please tell me, if you heard or saw anything
suspicious or unusual,--after you had said good-night and gone to your
rooms? You, Mr. Loft?”
“Not a thing,” said Loft, promptly. “I closed my bedroom door, and
heard nothing at all till morning.”
Ned Knox and Angel Bob Baldwin said the same thing, and declared they
had heard nothing whatever.
But Mr. Meredith was more informative.
“I did,” he asserted; “I heard footsteps in the hall several times
after I had retired.”
“You were wakeful?” asked Kinney.
“I’m a poor sleeper always. Mrs. Meredith slept soundly, and was not
disturbed, but I heard a stealthy tread passing my door, and thinking
it might be some one desiring me I opened my door and looked out.”
“Whom did you see?”
“I don’t know who it was, but I saw someone just disappearing into Mr.
Curran’s room, and the door closed at once.”
“You are sure it wasn’t Mr. Curran himself?”
“I think not, because I heard voices talking. Of course I could make
out no words, of course I didn’t try to do so, but it was either Mr.
Curran or a visitor of his who went in at that door.”
“The hall was dark?”
“Dimly lighted by a low light at the farther end. It was fairly dark at
our end.”
“And this man that you saw--”
“Pardon me, sir,” Mr. Meredith’s voice was apologetic, “I didn’t say it
was a man.”
“Was it not?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Ah; could it have been a chambermaid, with fresh towels?”
“It might have been.”
“You know it was a woman?”
“It was a person wearing a long, dark shawl or cape, as if to conceal
the figure. As I say, it was dark, and I could not see her clearly,
but,--yes, if I am asked, I must say it was quite evidently a woman.”
“You did not recognize her identity?”
“I did not. As soon as I saw the matter in no way concerned me, I
closed my door and went back to bed.”
“You heard nothing further?”
“Perhaps half an hour later I heard Mr. Curran’s door open again.”
“And the lady came out?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t open my own door that time. It was none of my
affair.”
“At what time was this, Mr. Meredith?”
“This last time was shortly after half-past two.”
“How do you know?”
“The clock in the upper hall strikes the half hours. In my wakefulness
I had heard it strike half-past one, and two o’clock, and this time
it struck half-past two. It was a few moments later that I heard Mr.
Curran’s door open and shut for the second time.”
“And you didn’t look out into the hall?”
“No.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“I heard light footsteps,--so light as to be scarcely audible.”
“Passing your door?”
“Yes; going along the hall.”
“Then you heard any other door open or shut?”
“I did not,--though I listened for it.”
“And you have no idea who the woman was?”
“Not the slightest.”
“Was she tall or short?”
“Neither, especially. I saw only the dim figure, apparently a woman,
with a long shawl or robe that concealed the outlines of her figure.”
“Did she wear anything on her head?”
“I couldn’t notice anything. The light was too faint to discern that.”
“It must have been a housekeeper or maid taking some forgotten
necessaries to his room,” said Loft, decidedly. “There is no other
explanation.”
“You can’t make a suspect out of that woman, anyway,” put in Roly
Mears. “For, you see, whoever it was, Mr. Curran locked his door after
her departure.”
“If Mr. Curran was murdered, he couldn’t have locked his door after the
murderer,” said Detective Kinney, curtly.
“Nor could the murderer have locked it after himself,” said Bob.
“That’s a hard nut, Mr. Kinney. How are you going to crack it?”
“I’m not taking the case by that handle,” Kinney said, with a dogged
expression. “I start first with an investigation of the whereabouts and
doings of everyone in the house; next, I look for a motive--”
“That’s a sorry quest,” Loft said; “no one in this house could have
possibly had a motive for murdering Hugh Curran. There’s an absolute
fact to start with.”
“Nothing of the sort,” snapped the Countess. “You don’t know,
Valentine, that some of your servants hadn’t a previous acquaintance
with that man,--and, maybe, had some old grudge to pay off,--something
serious enough to call forth such revenge as murder. I had small use
for Mr. Curran myself.”
“Tut, tut; Countess,” began Roly Mears, but she interrupted him:
“Don’t you tut tut me! I merely say such a thing is possible, and
Valentine has no right to say it isn’t.”
“As a matter of fact,” Loft returned, “I wasn’t thinking of the
servants. It is possible in their case, I suppose. But I meant that all
of us, never having met Hugh Curran before, surely had no motive for
murdering him.”
“I’ve met him before,” said Angel, “but only in the relation of client
and book dealer,--and our transactions were always most amicable and
satisfactory.”
“Don’t be silly!” and Loft began to lose patience. “I meant and I
repeat it, Mr. Kinney, neither I, myself, nor any of my guests have
had sufficient social acquaintance with Mr. Curran to have felt enmity
toward him or to have any motive for killing him. I trust you will
find out who did it,--if it is a murder; I trust you will prove it
a suicide if it is one; but in any case, I hope you will be able to
remove the body shortly, and to finish up this inquiry as soon as may
be, and leave us to ourselves.”
“I should be glad to do all that, Mr. Loft,” the detective said looking
serious, “but these things are not so easily disposed of. It is my duty
to investigate thoroughly, and my duty must be done. These inquiries
are necessary as a preliminary measure, and then I shall proceed to the
real work of investigation. Mrs. Knox, I learn that the rooms occupied
by you and your husband are near Mr. Curran’s room also,--did you see
or hear this woman Mr. Meredith tells of?”
“No, I didn’t,” replied Anna, haughtily, “and he didn’t either. Mr.
Meredith dreamed that or imagined it. Who in the world would be
trailing into Mr. Curran’s room at that hour? Maids don’t take towels
to guests after midnight,--had Mr. Curran wanted any service, the
butler would have looked after him. None of the ladies of our house
party visited Mr. Curran in his room and so I say Mr. Meredith dreamed
or imagined that whole yarn!”
“That’s right, Anna,” and the Countess nodded her head, emphatically.
“If any one did go there, it must have been Mrs. Meredith--”
“Madam!” interrupted Mrs. Meredith’s husband.
“Why not?” asked the Countess, coolly. “She might have heard the poor
man having a stroke or an illness, and thought she could be of help.
Mrs. Meredith is, of course, of an age when such a kind act would not
be unfitting.”
“I can assure you, Mrs. Meredith did nothing of the sort. I resent your
implication that she might have done so!”
“But, Mr. Meredith,” Anna’s tone was velvety though her eyes glittered,
“you laid us all open to that same implication. You declared that some
one of us went into Mr. Curran’s room.”
“I am not considering the manners or morals of this party,” Doctor
Gilvray said, severely. “As County Medical Examiner, it is my place
to learn all I can regarding this affair. I wish you all to speak as
frankly as Mr. Meredith has done--”
“Whether it’s true or not?” said Anna, flippantly.
“I want only the truth. Mrs. Knox, from your brief acquaintance with
Mr. Curran, would you say he was a man on the verge of committing
suicide?”
“Most certainly not,” said Anna, promptly. “He had too many irons in
the fire. He was too deeply in love with life. His new book will be
published next week. His recent book, made into a Moving Picture, will
be released shortly, and he looked forward with eagerness to seeing it
on the films. No, sir, last night, that man had no more intention of
committing suicide than I have this minute!”
“You liked him, Mrs. Knox?”
“Very much,” said Anna, heartily. “He was entertaining, witty,
courteous,--and, a trifle flirtatious.”
“Ah, a fine line of virtues. You learned a great deal of him in one
evening.”
“Yes, I did. We went for a long walk, and he told me a lot about
himself.”
“He did! Then perhaps you can tell us of his life,--his home.”
“He had no home,--I mean no house. He lived at hotels or clubs, rather
a roamer, I gathered,--going from one city to another as the whim took
him.”
“He was married?”
“He had been. He was divorced.”
“Recently?”
“About six years ago, I think he said.”
“Do you know whom he married?”
“He did not mention her name to me. I suppose it could be easily
learned.”
“I daresay. Did he mention the cause of his divorce?”
“He did not. We merely touched on the subject. I had no curiosity
concerning the lady. He was simply an amusing companion for an evening.
That’s all I know of Mr. Hugh Curran.”
“And you know nothing more of him, Mr. Knox?”
“Nothing whatever, and I wish I knew less! I did not like him at all. I
thought him egoistical and unduly familiar.”
“Oh, come, now, Ned,” Angel put in; “don’t show off your asinine
jealousy just now. Curran was all right,--an all-round good sort.
We all know why you don’t cotton to him, but don’t lug it into your
testimony.”
“I have no testimony to give,” Knox said, sullenly. “I know nothing at
all of the matter, and I want to know nothing. I hope, with Mr. Loft,
you will arrange to remove the remains as soon as you can do so.”
“That will be attended to as quickly as possible,” Doctor Gilvray
assured him, and the sapient Examiner smiled to himself at this
exhibition of marital jealousy.
But indeed, Anna not infrequently gave her faithful and devoted husband
a bad quarter of an hour because of her various coquetries.