ROLY TAKES THE LEAD
IT was a wearisome grilling, and it got them nowhere.
Detective Kinney was logical and consequent in his questionings and
Doctor Gilvray was keen and shrewd in his comments and deductions, but
when it was over nobody seemed to know anything save that Hugh Curran
was dead.
Some held the opinion that he had committed suicide, others that he was
murdered, but most of the listeners to the scanty evidence were utterly
at sea as to any satisfactory conclusion.
“It is the old problem, after all,” said Roly Mears, his round, jolly
face unusually grave. “An inexplicable death in an unenterable room.
What’s the answer?”
“Ned,” Loft said, suddenly, “you said these Sealed Room detective
stories bored you to death because they were so easy of solution.”
“No, Val, I didn’t quite say that. I said they bored me because I’d
read so many, and the solution was rarely a satisfying one. However,
here’s a real problem of that sort right under our noses. It’ll be
queer if we can’t, some of us, dope it out.”
“I say so, too,” cried Roly. “Let’s do the detective work
ourselves,--under Mr. Kinney’s supervision, of course.”
He added the last phrase because of a somewhat indignant expression on
the detective’s face.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Angel, “let’s organize a detective squad
of our own,--us four, you know,--Val, Ned, Roly and myself, and work
independently of Mr. Kinney, but reporting to him any findings or
conclusions that we consider worth while.”
Kinney looked rather patronizing, but nodded his head indulgently.
“I’ll be glad of any help,” he said, sincerely, but didn’t add his
secret thought, which was that precious little help was likely to reach
him from the quartette of amateur detectives.
“And remember this,” said the Countess, in her acid way, “you
men were all discussing the ease and grace of certain methods of
assassination,--suppose one of you should turn out to be the criminal.”
“Such jesting is very ill-timed, Countess,” Anna flared out, “you ought
to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Perhaps she isn’t jesting,” said Pauline, slowly.
“Then she ought to be even more ashamed of herself!” Anna declared.
“Anyway, I’m going to help in this detective business,--I’ve the
instinct, or whatever you call it, myself. I can deduce,--and all that.”
“So can I,” said Stella. “And I have psychic powers--”
“We don’t want those,” said Knox. “Deliver me from spook messages about
a mystery. They only make matters worse.”
“I want nothing to do with it,” Pauline said, decidedly. “And I wish
you men wouldn’t take it up. You’ll only get notoriety and horrid
publicity without accomplishing anything. What can you do, more than
professional detectives can?”
“Oh, lots,” Roly Mears assured her. “Why, it’s a chance of a lifetime.
You see, while we’re all sorry for the poor chap, yet it isn’t the
grief we would feel for a more personal friend,--and, so, we’re free to
follow up clues and evidences, no matter where they lead. Now, here’s
my platform. The death of Hugh Curran was not a natural death, nor
an accidental one, either. The doctor vouches for that. The man was
either killed by another or he killed himself. To my mind, the suicide
theory is out of the question, for the simple reason that no container
of the poison can be found.”
“Has been found,” corrected Angel. “Perhaps it will yet be discovered.”
“We haven’t searched Curran’s room yet,” said Roly. “I mean searched it
carefully,--for clues, you know.”
“Then let’s do it now,” proposed Knox. “If Doctor Gilvray wants to
question us more, later, we’ll all be here. I’ve no intention of
leaving.”
“I’d like very much to go,” said Mr. Meredith, mildly. “These
unfortunate circumstances are trying to my wife’s nerves, and, I admit,
also to my own. If nobody objects, we’d like to leave on the afternoon
train.”
“I want you all to do exactly as you please, in that matter,” Loft
said, courteously. “Unless the authorities wish to hold anybody, let
each one feel free to carry out his or her own wishes. Pauline, dear,
do you want to go?”
Pauline’s face was a study. She looked pitifully at Loft, and seeing
his own evident anxiety regarding her decision, she said, after a
moment’s pause; “I’ll stay, please. I know, Valentine, you’ll have lots
of bothers and responsibilities, and perhaps I can share them,--or help
you in some way.”
“You’ll help me just by your presence,” he assured her, and his smile
of relief told her how glad he was at her decision to stay.
“I shall stay,” declared the Countess. “It all interests me
exceedingly, and I want to see how the case works out.”
“I want to go,” Anna said, “and I want to go quick. Ned, can’t we get
off this afternoon, when the Merediths go?”
“I think not,” said Knox, with so positive an air that Anna began to
pout. She well knew that when her husband’s face assumed that look of
absolute finality, all her pleas and prayers were of no avail.
Almost always she wound her easy-going husband round her finger, but
when he was determined on any subject, it was not in her power to move
him.
“Moreover, Anna,” the Countess said, “I doubt if any of these men would
be allowed to leave the place until the mystery is cleared up. You seem
to forget that if Mr. Curran was murdered, it must have been by someone
in the house--”
“Nonsense, Countess!” Loft exclaimed, “if you talk like that, I’ll send
you away.”
“Perhaps the Countess herself is the criminal,” said Anna, spitefully.
“For all we know, she has known Mr. Curran before. And the veiled woman
that Mr. Meredith saw has yet to be identified.”
“I didn’t say veiled,” Mr. Meredith put in, mildly.
“Well, shawled, scarfed,--whatever she was,” Anna cried. “Anyway, she
must be named, before we can go much further.”
“We!” said her husband. “Are you too helping in the detective work?”
“If you are, Ned. I will take it on myself to hunt out that woman, if
you like.”
“Oh, Anna,” said Pauline, greatly distressed, “don’t mix up in these
awful matters. It’s bad enough to have the men do it, but let us women
keep out of it!”
“I shan’t keep out of it,” said Stella, decidedly. “I shall stay, of
course, and I know I can help some. You’ll all be glad of my assistance
before you’re through.”
“Perhaps you can dream who that woman was,” Anna suggested.
“Perhaps I can,” and Stella looked or tried to look mystical. “I can
sometimes summon dreams that are revelations.”
“Never mind that part of it,” said Mears, impatiently. “It seems you’re
all going to stay except the Merediths. But you women must keep out of
the actual investigations. If I take the lead in this thing--”
“Who asked you to?” cried Angel.
“Since I am taking the lead in this thing,” Mears went on, “I propose
that we first go and take a look at the room. I’m sure that we must
find among Curran’s belongings some hint or clue to the whole matter.”
“It’s a little unusual to have a band of amateur detectives working
with the officers of the law,” said Doctor Gilvray, slowly, “but in
this very strange case, I’m not sure but it’s a good thing. You men are
shrewd and keen,--you may discover some important evidence. I hope,
Kinney, you will raise no objections.”
“Not a bit, sir. I’m quite ready to accept any help they can give
me. But I must reserve the right to pass on their findings, whether
material evidence or deductions.”
“All right, old top,” Mears said, “we agree to that. It’s much better
to work in harmony than to be pitted against you.”
The body of Hugh Curran had been removed to the establishment of the
local undertaker, and an autopsy had been held.
The final report of this was brought to Doctor Gilvray, and he read it
to himself before announcing its contents.
“It’s a bit strange,” he said at last. “The death of Mr. Curran was
positively due to hydrocyanic acid,--which, as you doubtless know,
is Prussic acid,--a deadly poison. This was administered through the
mouth, as the odor was distinct and unmistakable. But no traces are
found in the stomach.”
“Yet the poison must have been swallowed to produce death?” said Knox
interrogatively.
“Probably,--yet not quite necessarily. However, I can’t conceive of a
circumstance which would imply the poison in his mouth and not in his
stomach, unless he ejected it at once. And there is no evidence of
that.”
“Look here, doctor,” Mears said; “reconstruct the case. I hold suicide
impossible, because that poison must have been a powder, in a paper,
or, a liquid, in a vial. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes,” said Gilvray, briefly.
“Then as we find no paper and no vial, it must have been administered
by someone else. It must have been done purposely. Therefore it was
murder. There is no alternative. As to how the murderer left the room
locked behind him,--that is the problem we must solve. And no matter
how difficult, it will be easier than to prove a suicide with no
container to be found.”
“Sounds plausible, Roly,” Angel said, his blue eyes staring into
vacancy, as they always did when his imagination was working. “But
you’ve neglected one theory. Suppose Curran did take the poison
himself, and suppose there was someone in his room later, who removed
the bottle or the paper.”
“Why would he?” said Mears, thinking hard.
“I don’t know, I’m sure. Only, if a murderer could get out, leaving the
door locked behind him, so could a man who was not the murderer.”
“That’s surely true, Angel, but I can’t see any reason for it.”
“We can’t see any reason for the murder,--or the suicide, or whatever
it is,” Loft said; “But, to my mind, we can investigate just the same
before we know which it is,--and so perhaps discover which it is.
Though, first of all, I think we must find out about Curran’s people.”
“You don’t have to do that, Val; the police are taking charge of it
all.” It was Pauline who spoke, and her voice was infinitely gentle, as
if glad to relieve Loft of any responsibilities.
“Yes,” Kinney told them, “we are making wide inquiries. We’ve sent a
man down to New York to look through Curran’s rooms at the hotel where
he lived.”
“What about the Country Club up here?” Knox asked. “Is he a member, or
who put him up?”
“No, he wasn’t a member,” Kinney said; “and he had letters from John
Bingham and Augustus Hedden,--each putting him up for two weeks. It’s
all right that way, but Mr. Bingham and Mr. Hedden are both in Europe,
and we can’t get in touch with them immediately. However, we’ve no
reason to think of Mr. Curran other than as a first class and right
minded gentleman. I’ve sent another officer to his publishers in
New York. We’ll soon learn all about Mr. Curran’s circumstances and
relatives. And of course that knowledge may give us a line on the
criminal. But, so far, we’ve not the ghost of a suspicion of the motive
behind the crime.”
“That’s what makes it interesting,” insisted Mears. “And there are
queer things about it. For instance, where’s Curran’s watch?”
“Did he have one?” asked Doctor Gilvray. “There was none on his watch
fob when I looked him over.”
“He had one on last night,” Stella informed them. “I saw him take it
out and look at it twice during the evening.”
“So did I,” said Bob. “It was a very thin gold one, on a fob. He had it
in his trousers pocket.”
“Yes, I noticed it,” the Countess offered. “I saw him open it, too.
There was a picture in the case,--a woman.”
“Could you see it?” asked Angel.
“Not to recognize it,” the Countess replied. “I only caught a glimpse
of a woman’s face.”
“And that watch is gone?” cried Kinney. “Then that’s a clue in itself!
The woman took it!”
“What woman?”
“The one Mr. Meredith saw going into Curran’s room.”
“And she killed him?” asked Stella, her eyes large and bright with
interest.
“Now, look here,” said Mears, “you’re going too fast. That watch may be
in his room. He may have taken it from his pocket--”
“Then he left the fob in its place,” said the doctor. “For I took his
valuables myself, and gave them over to Kinney. There was a fob, and
three pearl studs and a collar button,--real gold,--and cuff-links.”
“Anything else in his pockets?” asked Loft.
“Only a couple of handkerchiefs and a bunch of keys,--a very small
bunch. Oh, yes, a short lead pencil, and a card or two,--of no
evidential importance.”
“Evidential importance is a serious thing,” said Mears, didactically.
“You can’t always recognize it at first. Come on, I’m impatient to
examine that room. Now, Kinney you may come, and we four men,--that’s
all. You women cannot!”
This last was emphatic, because Anna and the Countess had risen quickly
from their chairs with every indication of joining the party.
Anna pouted and the Countess stormed, but to no avail. They were not
allowed to have their way, and the five men went off together.
The room had not been disturbed in any way. Save for the absence of the
still, stark body they had seen in the easy chair, everything was the
same as they had seen it at the time of the forced entrance.
“Don’t touch things, boys,” begged Mears. “Let’s work together and
systematically. First, we know Curran had not begun to prepare for bed.
He had apparently sat down in his chair for a time. He had not smoked,
though.”
“Why, Roly, see the cigar ashes on the floor!” and Loft pointed down.
“Those he scattered before dinner,” said Mears, imperturbably. “You
see, the ash trays on the table at his side are clean and empty. I know
the chambermaid cleans those when she turns down the bed, I can tell
from my own room. And there are no burnt matches, no stubs of cigars or
cigarettes. So, I know those few ashes on the floor were strewn there
in the afternoon. Curran was an untidy sort, and I daresay the maid
wasn’t overparticular,--or, she failed to notice the ashes. Anyway, I
am sure he didn’t smoke after he came to his room last night. What did
he smoke?”
This was all self-evident, for had he smoked there must have been a
stub or a match in evidence.
Kinney looked at Mears with growing respect, and awaited his next words.
“Now, there’s that little basket of nuts.” Roly stared hard at a
small filigree silver basket on the table. It was half full of salted
almonds. “Where did that come from?”
“That was on the dinner table,” Loft said, promptly. “I suppose after
dinner, it was on the sideboard,--Binns would put it there,--and
perhaps Curran was fond of nuts and brought it upstairs with him.”
“Wrong,” said Angel, looking a little amused. “I brought it up to him.
As we all started upstairs, I asked Curran if he wanted anything. And
he said, ‘I’m ravenous for some of those salted nuts we had at dinner.’
So I went to the dining room, corralled the basket and brought it up
here to him.”
“Then you were in this room with him?” said Kinney.
“Yes, stayed fifteen or twenty minutes. He got started on old books,
and he would have talked on forever, but I was sleepy, so I told him
I’d discuss the things in the morning.”
“Describe the whole interview,” said Kinney, briefly.
“All right,” said Angel. “I brought up the nuts, tapped at the door,
and Curran said, ‘Come in.’ So I came in, and Curran closed the door
after me.”
“Why did he do that?”
“I thought it queer myself at first, but he wanted to ask me to get him
a special book, and the details were rather a private matter.”
“Of course,” Mears said. “Go on, Angel, did he like the nuts?”
“Yes, he thanked me, and began eating them. But rather
absent-mindedly,--as to the nuts, I mean,--for he was deeply interested
in the book he wanted me to get for him.”
“What was the book?” asked Kinney.
“It is a rare old book,--a Caxton, dated 1485. It is called ‘A Book of
the Noble History of King Arthur.’ Here is the catalogue, you may see
the item.”
Baldwin picked up a bookdealer’s catalogue from the table, and opened
it at a turned down and well-thumbed page. The item was as he had
stated it.
“Woodcuts!” exclaimed Loft, his eyes glistening at the description. “I
say, Angel, get it for me, will you?”
“If you like,” said Baldwin, “and if you want to pay for it. It’s worth
a mint of money.”
“Well, I’ll have to think it over. Go on with your story.”
“That’s about all,” said Baldwin. “We talked over the book, Mr. Curran
was most desirous to have it, and I promised to do the best I could
about the price. Then, though he asked me to stay and have a smoke, I
didn’t care about it, and I left him and went to my room.”
“Did he seem in any way excited or nervous?” Kinney inquired.
“Not a bit nervous. A little excited about the book. Collectors are
always excited over an important purchase.”
“And you left him sitting in that chair?”
“I left him sitting almost exactly as he was found this morning. When
I went out the door, I said ‘don’t rise,’ and he didn’t. I closed the
door behind me. He must have risen later, to lock it, but, apparently
he returned to the same seat,--even the same posture. I have no doubt
he pored over the book catalogue again.”
“At what time was all this, Mr. Baldwin?” the detective asked.
“Let me see; we came upstairs shortly after midnight. About
twelve-fifteen, wasn’t it, Val?”
“About that.”
“And I daresay I was in here with Curran half an hour, or less. I left
him, I judge at about twenty minutes or quarter before one.”
“Was he then wearing his watch?”
“I’ve no idea. If so, he didn’t look at it while I was with him.”
“He sure was an untidy person,” said Mears, glancing about the floor.
It was strewed with Curran’s belongings as well as with worthless
trash. Parts of one or two newspapers had evidently been flung aside
after reading, and were in various parts of the room. Near the desk,
Curran had evidently sharpened a lead pencil, dropping the chips on the
rug. Near the dresser, whose top drawer was open, two handkerchiefs,
clean ones, lay on the floor, and two more on the dresser top, while
those in the drawer were tossed in a rumpled heap.
“He went for a handkerchief, and tossed over the whole lot to find the
one he wanted,” said Kinney.
“Or to find something he had hidden under the heap,” Mears suggested.
The detective stared at him.
“You’re uncanny,” he said; “you’re doubtless right! Why would he go for
a clean handkerchief with two in his pockets?”
“Why, Roly, you’re the real thing in sleuths!” Knox exclaimed. “Go to
it, boy! We’ll get at the truth yet!”
“Will you help, Ned?”
“Of course, all I can. What next, Roly?”
“Well, here are all these torn papers on the floor near the chair
he sat in. I doubt if they mean much, even if we could piece them
together, for he wouldn’t throw around anything of a private nature.
However, I’ll piece ’em out, and see. Hello, among them is a toothpick
paper,--a printed one. Oh, it’s one of the Country Club ones. Probably
had it in his pocket.”
“No, he didn’t, smarty!” and Angel smiled at Roly’s earnest face. “I
gave it to him. The man had a predilection for toothpicks,--asked
Binns for one after dinner. Poor Binns nearly threw a fit, but he
dug up a wooden one. So, knowing Curran’s weakness, I offered him a
first-class sealed-paper Club quill, and he was as pleased as could be.
Here’s the toothpick itself, on the table.”
Angel picked it up, gingerly, looked at it as if it might be evidence,
and said, “Sherlock Holmes would construct a whole man from this.”
“We don’t want to construct a man from that,” Mears scoffed. “We want
the criminal. Throw that away, Angel, it means nothing.”
Baldwin went over to the waste basket and even as the toothpick dropped
from his fingers said, “There’s a lot of things in the basket,--better
give ’em the once over, Roly.”
“They’ll keep. Mostly book catalogues and wrappings off of things. I
glanced at ’em. Well, we’re not getting much of anywhere, are we? Guess
I’ll piece out these torn papers, and see what comes of it.”
“I see Jackson coming,” announced Kinney, from the window, “he’ll have
news from the Club people. Let’s go down and see him.”