MR. NARKOM VOICES AN OPINION
"_Bloodstains?_"
Three pairs of feminine lips voiced that sinister word simultaneously:
Lady Paula's, Cynthia's, and Maud Duggan's.
"But how, Mr. Deland?-- But why?-- And upon Cynthia's dress, too!"
"Well, I'll swear I never had anything to do with it, anyhow!" threw in
Cynthia emphatically and in a voice of astonishment. "How _could_ they
be bloodstains, Mr. Deland? and how could they possibly get on _my_
frock? Solve that question, if you please, first of all."
"Quite a simple one, Miss Debenham. Just this: The murderer--or one of
them, as the case may be--entered this room by that middle window,
stabbed Sir Andrew with the stiletto, stolen for the purpose, of
course--then, in a frenzy lest he be discovered, caught hold of the
nearest thing and wiped the bloodstained instrument upon it, and then
made off as quickly as possible. You happened to be the nearest, no
doubt. So you were the person chosen. Did you not feel anything at all
of the action?"
She shook her head.
"Nothing that I remember. We were all so astonished when the light
failed that I don't remember anything at all about it. If it was done,
it was done gently--and my skirt is wide."
"And you think the murderer, the perpetrator of this wicked crime, was a
man, then, Mr. Deland?" put in the soft voice of Lady Paula at this
juncture.
Cleek spun around toward her, nodding emphatically.
"I do, indeed. No woman could have arranged the thing like this, Lady
Paula. The electricity would have been too difficult a problem for her,
in the first place, and then the shooting----"
"And how do you account for _that_, Mr. Deland?"
"Ah, that is a more difficult matter. How? By whose hand? We will get
back to our stage rehearsal for that, I think. Mr. Narkom, would you sit
down again in the chair? Thanks very much. It's only just for a moment.
Now, if you ladies would take up your positions again as they were, I'd
be very much obliged. Let me see. The shot entered the temple here above
the left eye and passed clean through the head into the wall of the room
beyond. An acute angle of fifty degrees. H'm. That would bring it to
about over there and to a level with the top of that wood-panelling.
Then the bullet must be located somewhere in that vicinity, from all
logical reasonings. But where? Come, Mr. Narkom, just a moment. Lend me
your keen eyes, will you? And we'll have a look together. It'll want
careful looking, I'll warrant. But the panelling's in fine condition and
shows every mark. I-- Gad! and here it is too!"
His finger paused upon a slight, dark puncture in the darkness of the
wood, and he whirled round and faced them all, eyes alight, face aglow,
and marking the spot with his finger-nail. "Here, lend me your knife, my
friend, and we'll dig it out. That will establish a pretty good clue, I
can promise you. And a soundless pistol-shot--an air-gun. It ought to be
easy to trace the owner of _that_, in desolate parts like this. Well,
here goes!"
A moment's careful prodding with the point of the knife, and the thing
was done. The bullet--an infinitesimal thing--fell out into the palm of
his hand. Then, of a sudden, he swung around in his tracks toward them.
His face was grim.
"Look here," he said, in the sharp staccato of excitement, "what I want
to know is, who of this company possesses an air-gun? For that someone
does I am certain. That shot must have been fired at close range--by the
depth to which it was embedded in this wood. Mr. Duggan, do you happen
to own an air-pistol?"
The last remnant of colour drained itself out of Ross Duggan's already
pale cheeks. His eyes narrowed down to pin-points in the frame of his
face. Then his chin went up.
"I do, Mr. Deland."
"H'm. I thought as much. And if you were standing there, opposite your
father, and with no one at the right side of you, and only the space of
the bow-window between you and the outside world--taking into
consideration the enormous amount of misguided reason which you might
have to commit such a terrible crime--as I said before, if you moved
quickly over there, side stepping, so that the shot might miss any of
the ladies opposite after passing through Sir Andrew's brain, and--if
the lights failed at a given and arranged moment, and you whipped out
your revolver and fired, it _might_ bring about just this identical
result."
"I ... my God! man, you're not accusing me of murdering my own father,
are you? You're daft--insane--idiotic!"
Cleek held up a silencing hand.
"I'm not accusing anybody, Mr. Duggan; simply reconstructing matters for
the purpose of finding out the true assassins. And, as I told you last
night, every one, according to English law, may be considered guilty
until he be proved innocent. Suspicions seem to point heavily to you, I
must say. But we've got to have more facts, of course.
"He didn't do it, Mr. Deland! Of course he didn't do it!"
Cynthia shrilled out these words suddenly, rushing toward Cleek and
fastening her hands about his arm. "You're mad to suggest such a thing,
to even think it! My Ross wouldn't stoop to _murder_ for a beastly
inheritance! You don't know him as I do--as all these others do. It's
incredible."
"Quite true, Miss Debenham. But let's ask Mr. Narkom what he thinks of
it. He's kept his peace during this session, proving himself, no doubt,
a wiser man than I. Mr. Narkom, give us your views, please. Who do _you_
think has committed this crime, according to present evidence?"
"That man!" Mr. Narkom pointed excitedly in Ross's direction, his fat
face red with excitement, his forehead perspiring with the heat of his
excitement. "_He_ fired the shot. But the stiletto--that is a more
difficult question."
"And you think Mr. Duggan actually did kill his father, then? No, no,
sir, I beg of you, let us finish this discussion before you interrupt.
It might lead to something really enlightening. You think that, Mr.
Narkom? Considering the position in which the shot was fired, and the
position in which Mr. Duggan himself stood last night?"
"Decidedly I do."
"H'm. I'm sorry. But I'm inclined to agree. But the evidence, I admit,
is at present slight--the actual circumstantial evidence, I mean. You're
not going to--arrest--him on that, I hope?"
Arrest! The fateful word fell upon that assemblage with truly sinister
meaning. Arrest Ross! Arrest him! Impossible! Upon every face these
thoughts might be read--except upon Lady Paula's, where, indeed, a sort
of secret and hidden triumph seemed to glow like a light lit from
within. Cleek flashed his eyes over every face. He paused at Lady
Paula's for one moment, and then went on to Ross's--and ended up at
length upon Catherine Dowd's. It was transfigured! Transfigured with
hate of himself, with love of Ross: the two most intense feelings in
human nature warring with each other upon it to be uppermost. That look
of hatred made him positively shiver. If the woman had had any real
reason for the crime, could she not have been the perpetrator of the
stabbing episode? But she hadn't any reason, at least none that could be
at present discovered. One would have to go deeper than that for motive.
"Well, Mr. Narkom?"
The Superintendent was looking frankly uncomfortable. Cleek's direct
action in front of them all had somewhat winded him. He was not used to
such out-and-out tactics, even in the methods of a man who was the most
amazing beggar he had ever struck.
"I--I--well, hardly that, my dear chap," he responded awkwardly. "We've
got to have more proof than that, you know. A judge won't hang a man
upon the evidence of his possible position in a room when the light went
out. It--it isn't feasible!"
"Well done, well done!" Cleek laughed the words softly into his ear.
"So, Mr. Duggan, you are free--for the present. But understand, you are
on parole and must not leave this house unaccompanied by a constable or
plain-clothes man. This thing's got to be sifted to the bottom, and,
what's more, it's going to be, too. And whoever has murdered that poor
old man will swing for it, so help me God!"