Chief Gleason immediately turned and approached the rising physician,
asking a bit brusquely:
“Well, Doctor Doyle, what do you make of it? The man is dead?”
“Yes, indeed, there is no question about that, Mr. Gleason.”
“What was the cause?”
“It appears to be a case of heart disease.”
“Are you sure of it?”
“One cannot be absolutely sure, Mr. Gleason, without performing an
autopsy,” Doctor Doyle said blandly, while he wiped his fingers with
his handkerchief. “I feel reasonably sure. There is no wound that I can
discover, nor does there appear to be any indication of foul play. Yes,
I feel reasonably sure of it,” he repeated.
“You don’t think, then, that there is any occasion to notify the
coroner?” Gleason said inquiringly.
“There seems to be none. I have no doubt that the man died from natural
causes. There is no superficial evidence to the contrary, or any----”
Doctor Doyle broke off abruptly, his gaze having fallen upon the
detective, who had passed back of the couple and approached the body.
Carter then was bending over it, and with his finger had raised one of
Todd’s eyelids. He studied the ball and pupil for several seconds, then
took a powerful lens from his pocket and inspected the dead man’s face
and lips. He looked up after a moment and said:
“I don’t agree with you, doctor. This man appears to have been a very
strong and rugged fellow.”
“That is true, sir, as far as it goes,” Doctor Doyle admitted, frowning
slightly when his professional opinion was thus questioned by a
stranger.
“It seems hardly probable that such a man died of heart disease,” the
detective said pointedly. “Nor do his eyes denote that apoplexy was the
cause.”
“You will have to go deeper, sir, nevertheless, to find positive
evidence of the cause,” Doctor Doyle said, rather coldly. “Superficial
evidence is not absolutely convincing.”
“Have you noticed this slight discoloration of the skin near the mouth
and nostrils?”
“Yes, of course.”
“How do you account for that?”
“Such slight changes immediately after death are not uncommon,” said
the physician. “There may be a slight settlement of blood in the
tissues in that locality.”
“You would not attribute it to a blow?”
“Surely not. There could be no mistaking the evidence of a violent
blow.”
“But the skin appears to be slightly withered,” said Carter. “Minute
wrinkles are discernible with my lens, particularly in the thin skin of
the lips.”
“That may be easily explained.”
“How so?”
“Death may have been preceded by a sudden terrible pain, causing a
contraction of the lips, and what may be termed a pinched condition
of the nerves and muscles in that locality. They may not have relaxed
yet, which causes the drawn appearance of the skin which, you say,
is discernible with your lens. No, I do not wish to examine it more
closely. I don’t think it signifies anything.”
“I do,” said the detective, rising abruptly. “I think----”
“One moment, gentlemen.” The interruption came from Doctor Perry, the
dentist, who still was among the people then gathered in the corridor.
“Here is Professor Graff, the chemist. His opinion ought to be valuable
in a case of this kind.”
Nicholas Carter turned to gaze at the man who then was approaching.
Professor Graff had come from a room at the rear end of the corridor,
and he appeared surprised that something unusual had occurred,
evidently having heard none of the disturbance. He was a man of medium
build, somewhat bowed, and appeared to be about sixty years old. His
hair and beard were gray, his complexion sallow, his expression serious
and reserved. He wore gold-bowed spectacles and looked as if he might
be of German or Swedish extraction. He was clad for the street, wearing
a soft felt hat and a coat with a cape, a style augmenting his foreign
appearance.
“Dear me, what has happened?” he said gravely, while others made way
for him to approach. “A gentleman injured--not dead, is he?”
“Yes.” Doctor Perry drew him nearer. “He was found lying here a few
minutes ago.”
“I heard nothing. I have just come up from my laboratory. Why, why,
this is Mr. Gaston Todd,” Professor Graff added amazedly, manifestly
shocked by the discovery. “I cannot be mistaken. I have seen him
frequently in the Wilton House.”
“There is no question as to his identity,” replied the dentist, who
appeared to be the only person acquainted with the chemist. “There is a
difference of opinion between Doctor Doyle and this gentleman, however,
as to the possible cause of his death. They----”
“Let me explain,” the detective interposed, addressing the chemist. “It
will take me only a few minutes.”
“Why, yes, certainly,” Professor Graff bowed, regarding the detective a
bit curiously.
Carter turned again to the body, briefly pointing out the conditions he
already had mentioned, and then added earnestly:
“Use my lens. You can see more distinctly.”
Professor Graff smiled faintly and shook his head.
“Really, sir, there is no occasion,” he replied. “My opinion in such a
matter is worthless. I know nothing about such things. I am a chemist,
not a physician. I can subject the physical organs to analysis and
detect poisons, or other foreign substances, perhaps; but I would not
wish to pass upon the conditions you have mentioned. It seems only
reasonable to me, however, that Doctor Doyle’s opinion ought to be
entirely reliable.”
“I think he will find it so,” said the latter, as Professor Graff moved
away and descended the stairs.
Nick Carter did not longer argue the point. Instead, turning to Chief
Gleason, he whispered quietly:
“You had better be governed by my opinion, nevertheless, and take the
necessary steps to insure an autopsy.”
“You really think, then, that----”
“Never mind what I really think. I’ll see you later and inform you. You
will make no mistake, however, in doing what I direct. Take it from me,
Gleason, this man was--murdered.”
“Murdered? Why do you----”
“Hush!” Nick quietly cautioned. “There will be nothing in immediately
disclosing my suspicion. It will be better to conceal it temporarily.
Has this man a family?”
“No; no family.”
“Or relatives who will be likely to interfere?”
“I think not. I am quite sure of it, in fact.”
“Very good. Notify the coroner, then, and have him take the necessary
steps to perform an autopsy later,” the detective directed.
“Understand?”
“Perfectly,” Chief Gleason nodded. “I will see to it.”
“And I will see you later, also the coroner, and explain my position,”
Carter added. “Just now I have something else in view and must get a
move on. Mum’s the word, mind you, until after the autopsy.”
He did not wait for an answer. He turned away and quickly departed,
leaving his observers wondering who he was and what he had said, his
instructions having been imparted in subdued and hurried whispers.
Returning to the street, Carter consulted a directory in a drug store,
and five minutes later he entered the Gratton Building and approached
the office of the lawyer whom the chief had mentioned. He listened at
the door for a moment, hearing nothing, and then opened it and entered.
A tall, clean-cut man of thirty swung around in his swivel chair
from a rolltop desk. He was of light complexion, with a smoothly
shaved, attractive face, and frank blue eyes. He was alone and looked
a bit curiously at his visitor, who, glancing sharply around the
well-equipped office, appeared somewhat surprised, and said:
“Pardon me. Are you Mr. Paulding?”
“Yes, I am, sir.”
“I thought I saw Mr. Gaston Todd come in here a moment ago. Was I
mistaken?”
“Humph!” Paulding straightened up with an expressive grunt. “Yes, sir,
very much mistaken. Todd never comes here, nor would it be wise for
him to do so. I would fire him out, head, neck, and heels, before he
could open his mouth. You may repeat that to him, if you like and are a
friend of his. I would say the same to Todd himself.”
Nick laughed, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and surveyed with
quizzical eye the somewhat impulsive speaker.
“Oh, I’m no friend of Todd,” he replied. “I know him only by sight.
There is a little matter, however, about which I would like to question
him.”
“All right, in that case, and I’ll do all I can to help you,” Paulding
said more agreeably. “I saw him in the Waldmere Chambers about fifteen
minutes ago. He still is there, perhaps, if you care to seek him.”
“In the rooms of one of the tenants, or----”
“No. He was in the second-floor corridor,” Paulding interrupted. “He
appeared to be waiting for some one. I passed him when I came out.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Not by a long chalk. I speak to Todd only under protest and when it
cannot be avoided. That’s all I can tell you. You may find him there,
perhaps.”
Nick Carter had accomplished his object. He was a keen physiognomist
and could read faces and characters much less frank and outspoken
than those of this lawyer. He now was absolutely sure, in fact, that
Paulding knew nothing about Todd’s death, nor had even heard of it. He
smiled and replied:
“Much obliged. Sorry to have troubled you.”
“No trouble at all, sir.”
“May I ask, Mr. Paulding, what took you to the Waldmere Chambers?”
“I went there to confer with a client who----” Paulding broke off
abruptly, gazing more sharply at the detective, then frowningly added:
“But why do you ask why I went there? What is it to you? It strikes me
that you are deucedly inquisitive.”
“I agree with you,” said Nick, coolly placing a chair near that of
the lawyer and sitting down. “There is serious occasion for it, Mr.
Paulding, as I now will explain: I happen to know that Mr. Gaston Todd
has not left that second-floor corridor in the Waldmere Chambers. He
was found dead there immediately after you left the building.”
“Dead--found dead!” Paulding stared amazedly. “What are you saying? Do
you really mean it--that Gaston Todd is--dead!”
If Nick had had even a lingering shadow of suspicion, it would have
been instantly dispelled by the expression of the lawyer’s face. It was
one that no man could have feigned, however accomplished an actor. He
bowed and replied:
“Yes, Mr. Paulding, that is precisely what I mean. Gaston Todd is dead.”
“Dear me, I can hardly believe it. It seems utterly incredible. Found
dead, you say----”
“Exactly. Where you last saw him. He was----”
“Stop a moment! What do you imply by that?”
Paulding’s face had changed like a flash. His brows fell and his eyes
took on a threatening gleam and glitter. He lurched forward in his
chair, adding quickly:
“Why did you say he was found immediately after I left the building,
and where I last saw him? What are you insinuating? What are you trying
to put over on me? Why, if you knew he was dead, did you come here to
pretend you were seeking him? Who the devil are you, that you impose
upon me in this way, implying that I----”
“Here is my card,” the detective blandly interposed, tendering it. “You
may, perhaps, know me by name.”