The Busy Police
But even the astonishing disclosure of the scrawled statement did not
cause Bob Moore to lose his head. Excited and startled though he was, he
was also alertly conscious that he must conduct himself with care. He
had a vague fear that he might be connected with the case and weirdly
enough he had a secret fear that he might not!
Already in fancy he saw himself doing marvelously clever detective work
that should result in getting the criminal of whom the dying efforts of
the victim strove to tell him. But he must be careful not to put himself
forward, not to overstep his privileges, and, above all, not to seem too
eager to help in the search for the murderer, for he felt sure his
offers of assistance would be deemed presumptuous.
Doctor Pagett came running down the stairs, knotting his necktie as he
descended.
“Binney!” he exclaimed; “the Englishman who makes Buns. What’s this
paper?”
“I haven’t touched it, Doctor; I haven’t touched anything. You can see
for yourself what the paper says.”
“Women did this,” said the doctor, his eyes fairly bulging; “what—what
does it mean? Where were you?”
“Up at the tenth floor, taking Mr Vail up. He came in,—there was no
Binney about then!—and I took him up in the elevator to his floor, and
when I came down, Mr Binney was there just as you see him now,—only, he
was still alive.”
“Alive!”
“Yes, sir,—just dying. He mumbled a word or two——”
“What did he say?”
“He said—‘Get—get——’ but he couldn’t say who. That’s all,—then he
drew a long breath and died.”
“You came straight to me?”
“Yes, sir. I flew! I thought it my duty to hesitate that moment, in case
he might get out the name of the murderer.”
“I think you did all right, Moore. He’s surely dead,—and, just as
surely, he was murdered. And by women! But how is it possible? However,
that’s not my province. We must get the police, and also, notify his
people. He lived in the Prall apartment, didn’t he?”
“No; he was there a lot; they’re his relatives, I believe, but he had
his own apartment, a small one on the eighth floor. Miss Prall, she’s on
the eighth, too, shall I call her up?”
“Oh, that’s pretty awful. Call the nephew, young Bates, first.”
“Shall I telephone or go up there——?”
“Go up—no, telephone,—somebody might come in, and want you.”
“Hello,” Richard Bates responded to Moore’s telephone call.
“Mr Bates?”
“Yes.”
“Will you come downstairs, sir, right away? There’s been a—an accident.
Mr Binney,—that is, Sir Binney, you know,—he’s—he’s——”
“Well, he’s what?”
“He’s—oh, come down, sir, _please_!”
Moore hung up his receiver, for his nerve suddenly deserted him when it
came to telling the dreadful fact of the tragedy.
In a few moments the elevator bell sounded and Moore went up to bring
Bates down.
“What is it?” Bates asked. “Is my uncle—er,—lit up?”
“Oh, no, sir,” and Bob Moore looked shocked, “it isn’t that, at all.
It’s worse than that,—it’s an accident.”
“What sort of an accident? Taxi smash-up? Any kind of a stroke?”
But by this time they were down to the street floor, and the two men
stepped out of the car.
Seeing the doctor, who was still bending over the inert figure on the
floor, Bates hurried along the onyx lobby till he reached the scene, and
could see, without being told, what had happened.
A moment he gazed in silence at his uncle’s face, and then said,
excitedly, “Who did this? How was he killed? Why should anybody——”
Silently the doctor pointed to the paper on the floor at the dead man’s
side.
Bates read it, and looked up wonderingly.
“Don’t touch it,” warned the physician as the young man stretched out
his hand. “It’s a clew,—the police must take charge of it.”
“The police! Oh, yes,—of course,—it’s a murder, isn’t it?”
“You bet it’s a murder!” exclaimed Moore. “And done by women! Oh, gee!
what a case it will be!”
“Hush up!” Bates cried, angrily. “Don’t talk like that in the presence
of the dead! We must send for an undertaker.”
“Not yet,” demurred Doctor Pagett. “In a case like this, the police must
be notified first of all.”
“Not first of all,” said Bates, slowly, as his mind began to work; “we
must tell my aunt, Miss Prall.”
“Yes, of course, but the police must be sent for.”
“Sure,” put in Bob Moore, who was gaining confidence in his own
importance, “I must get this matter hushed up before people begin to get
around. Lucky it happened in the night! It’s none too good an
advertisement for the house!”
“I think I’ll go up and tell my aunt myself,” said Bates, thoughtfully.
“You stay here by—by the body, Doctor. And, I say,—what—how was he
killed?”
“Stabbed,” said the doctor, shortly.
“What with?”
“I don’t know,—except that it was with a sharp blade of some sort.
There’s no weapon in sight.”
“No weapon! How queer!”
“Queer or not, I can’t find any. It’s a pretty strange affair, to my
mind. Yes, I’ll stay here, you go and tell your aunt’s people,
and,—Moore, you come right back after you take Mr Bates up.”
In silence the return trip was made in the elevator, for Bates was
thinking how he should break the news to the two excitable women
upstairs, and Bob Moore’s thoughts were in such a riot, that he was
trying hard to straighten them out.
In front of Miss Prall’s bedroom door, her nephew hesitated for some
time before knocking. Not only was his courage weak but his brain was
receiving so many sudden jolts that he could scarcely control his voice.
Why, now, he was his uncle’s heir. Unless he had already changed that
will! Had he?
At last, with a gentle knock, repeated more loudly, and finally with a
fusillade of raps, he succeeded in rousing Miss Prall, who demanded,
with asperity, “Who’s there?”
“Me; Rick. Open the door, please.”
“What’s the matter? You sick?” his aunt exclaimed, as she unlocked her
door.
“No; now, listen, Aunt Letitia, and don’t faint—for anything. Uncle
Binney is—has been—why, somebody killed him!”
“Killed him! Is he dead?”
“Yes, ma’am”; both were unaware of the absurdity of the words, “he’s
downstairs,—in the lobby,—and he’s been stabbed.”
Richard’s teeth were chattering from the tension of his nerves, and the
horror of the situation, but Miss Prall’s nerves were strong ones, and
she said, “I’ll dress and go right down. And I’ll tell Eliza,—you
needn’t. Go in the living-room and wait for me there.”
Rather relieved at not being sent back downstairs and decidedly willing
to let his aunt break the news to Miss Gurney, Bates went to his own
room and added some finishing touches to the hasty toilet he had made.
Then he awaited his aunt, as directed, and in an incredibly short time
she appeared, all dressed and impatient to go downstairs.
“We won’t wait for Eliza,” she said; “come along. Oh, no, wait a
minute!” She returned to her bedroom, and shortly reappeared.
Her vigorous push of the elevator button brought Moore quickly, and he
took them down.
Miss Prall strode rapidly along the lobby and spoke brusquely to the
doctor.
“What are you doing? Why do you touch him before the police arrive?”
“Good Lord, how you startled me!” exclaimed Doctor Pagett, who in his
absorption had not heard her approach. “I have a perfect right to
examine the body, ma’am,” he went on indignantly. “Do you suppose I
don’t know my business?”
“I’ve always heard no one must touch a murdered man until——”
“Then how are we to know it is a murder?” he countered, looking at her
keenly. “Will you read that paper, Miss Prall? Don’t touch it!”
“Women did this,” she read, aloud. “Well, I’m not surprised. If ever a
man was mixed up with women,—of all sorts, it was Sir Herbert! But what
women did it? Where are they?”
She looked about, as if expecting to see the criminals cowering in the
shadows or behind the great columns of the lobby.
“They have disappeared,—not an uncommon procedure,” returned the
doctor, dryly. “And they have taken with them the weapon with which the
crime was committed, thus removing a most important clue! Have you any
suspicion—in any direction?”
Doctor Pagett shot this query at her with such sharp suddenness that
Miss Prall almost jumped.
“I!” she exclaimed loudly. “How could I know anything about this man or
his women? He’s nothing to me!”
“He is your nephew’s uncle.”
“Well, that makes him no kin of mine, does it? Don’t you dare mix me up
in this thing!”
“Nobody’s mixing you up in it, ma’am,” and, indifferently, the physician
returned his attention to the dead man, and became engrossed in studying
the writing on the paper.
And then, as three men from Police Headquarters appeared at the front
end of the long lobby, Eliza Gurney stepped from the elevator at the
other end. Apparently she was holding herself well in hand, for, though
her face was white and drawn with fear, her firm set lips and clenched
hands betokened a resolve not to give way to nerves in any fashion.
“Let me see him,” she said, in steady tones.
“Who are you, madam?” said Officer Kelsey, resenting her determined push
forward.
“I’m Miss Gurney, the companion of Miss Prall,” and the air with which
she made the announcement would have fitted a grand duchess.
Impressed, the policeman made way for her, and then continued his
questioning.
“Who’s in command here?” he said. “Who’s nearest of kin?”
At the first question, Miss Prall stepped forward, but at the second,
she fell back in favor of Richard Bates.
“I am,” Bates said, quietly. “He is my uncle, Sir Herbert Binney.”
Further statistics were ascertained and then the police began actual
investigation. The detective was the smallest and least conspicuous man
of the three, and his unassuming air and somewhat stupid-looking face
would have carried a conviction of his utter incompetency, save for his
alert, darting black eyes, that seemed to look in several directions at
once, so rapidly did they roll about.
Corson was his name, and he asked questions so quickly and so
continuously that he scarce waited for answers.
“Where had he been?” he flung out. “Who saw him come in? Who was on door
duty? What’s _your_ name? Moore? Well, did you admit this man?”
“No,” said Bob Moore, “I was up in the elevator taking one of the
tenants to his floor. There’s only me on, late at night.”
But Corson seemed unheeding. Already he had turned to Miss Prall.
“Does this man live with you? Did he, I mean. Where did he set out for
when he left home? What time did he go?”
“Now you look here!” said Miss Letitia, angrily. “I can’t answer
forty-seven questions at once! Nor other people can’t, either. You talk
more slowly, sir, and more rationally.”
But Corson heeded her not at all. He turned to Bates.
“Your uncle, eh? You his heir?”
“Yes, he is!” Miss Prall answered for him, and Corson’s roving glance
took her in and returned to Bates. “Where were you when he was killed?”
“In bed,” replied Richard, shortly.
“Oh; all right. Now, I’ll take charge of this paper, for there’s little
doubt but it’s mighty important.” He folded it carefully into his
pocket-book. “Was this gentleman—er, addicted to ladies’ society?”
“That he was,” Moore spoke up, involuntarily.
“I didn’t ask you,” said Corson. “I asked Mr Bates.”
“Why, yes,” said Richard, “he did like the society of ladies,—but most
men do.”
“We’re not discussing the matter, Mr Bates,” and for once Corson looked
steadily at him, “we’re just looking into it. And—” he paused,
impressively, “and these immediate, right-away-quick questions are
pretty good first aid, as a rule.”
“Go ahead, then,” and Richard folded his arms, in a resigned manner.
Doctor Pagett motioned the two ladies to take seats on the red velvet
sofa and seated himself also.
“There’s no doubt,” Corson went on, “that this writing is the true
explanation. Dying men don’t leave anything but truth as a last message.
It seems pretty steep to believe that women managed this affair, but
that’s the very reason he made such a desperate effort to let it be
known.”
“And he tried to tell me who it was,” broke in Moore, irrepressibly.
“He did?” and Corson’s eyes flashed toward the speaker. “What did he
say? Did he mention any names? How did you come to be listening? Were
you here when——”
Miss Prall interrupted. “If you’d listen a minute, and not talk all the
time, you might learn something, Mister Detective!”
“Thank you, ma’am. Answer me, Moore. Just what did this man say after he
was hurt,—that you heard?”
“He said ‘Get—get—’ and that was all, except that he tried hard to say
a name,—or it seemed like that,—and he said something like something
beginning with a J.”
“Well, you’re guarded in your statements. But I understand. I suppose he
was struggling for breath, really——”
“He could just speak and that’s all. He kept saying ‘J—J—’ and then he
gave a gasp and died.”
“How do you know he died?”
“Why, he sort of relaxed—limp like,—and stopped trying to speak.”
“And he seemed to be after some name beginning with J,—say James or
John.”
“That’s the way it sounded.”
“All right. Now, how long had you been absent from this place when you
returned and found him?”
“Just long enough to take Mr Vail up to his floor,—the tenth.”
“Vail? Who’s he?”
“One of our tenants. He lives on the tenth floor. He came in and I took
him up——”
“And came right down again?”
“Yes; and when I got down, I saw the—the heap in the lobby.”
“You knew at once who it was?”
“Not who it was, but I saw it was a man, evidently knocked down, or
fallen in a fit,—as I thought. So I ran to see, and—I’ve told you the
rest.”
“What time was all this?”
“It was twenty minutes after two.”
“When you found him?”
“When I found him.”
“How do you know so certainly?”
“I’m—I’m fond of detective work, and I thought there’d be some in this
matter, and so, I did everything I could think of to help along.”
“Oho, fond of detective work, are you? What have you done in that line?”
“Nothing! I didn’t mean practically. But, well, theoretically. You see,
I’ve read a great many detective stories——”
“Yes; you were reading one this evening? Where is it? Let me see it.”
Slightly embarrassed at Corson’s manner, Bob got the book and passed it
over.
“‘Murder Will Out.’ H’m——Say, Mr Bates, do you know where your uncle
spent the evening?”
“I do not.” Richard was not at all pleased with Corson’s way, and he had
turned sullen.
“No idea? Have you, Miss Prall?”
“I’ve an idea, but I suppose you want only definite statements. Such I
cannot give.”
“Well, well, what _do_ you know about it? Remember, evasion or refusal
to answer is by no means a point in your favor.”
“What! Are you implying there’s anything in my disfavor? Am I being
questioned as a possible suspect?”
“Lord, no, madam! Don’t jump at conclusions.”
“She didn’t!” put in Eliza Gurney. “Seems to me you’re an addlepated
young fellow for a detective.”
“Yes? Does any one present know where Mr Binney—is that the
name?—spent this evening? Or any way to learn of his whereabouts?”
“He went out about before I came on,” volunteered Moore. “The day
doorman will know, or the elevator girl who brought him down.”
“All right. That’s keep. Now, I want to get at the actual facts of his
discovery here. It would seem, Moore, that you’re the only one who can
give any information in that respect.”
“I’ve already told you all I know.”
“And this Mr Vail you took upstairs,—he wouldn’t know anything?”
“I can’t answer for that, but when Mr Vail came in, and I took him up in
the elevator, there wasn’t any sign of Sir Herbert Binney about, dead or
alive!”
“No; that’s so. Well, then, when you came down, and found the wounded
man, you went at once for the doctor?”
“Almost at once. I paused a moment, because he was trying so hard to
speak, and I reasoned that if he succeeded it would be of utmost
importance that some one should hear his words.”
“H’m—yes, that’s so. Well, and then, he gave over trying and died, you
say; and then?”
“Then I ran up at once to Doctor Pagett’s apartment, it is only one
flight up, and he came down as soon as he could.”
“Go on from there, Doctor.”
“I came right down, as soon as I could hurry on some clothes. I found
Sir Binney dead, and can asseverate that he had been dead but a few
moments.”
“He was stabbed?”
“Yes, and the weapon used was removed and must have been taken away by
the murderer, as it cannot be found.”
“H’m there are other explanations. But never mind that. The wound was
such as to cause almost instantaneous death?”
“Apparently it _did_ do so. Death was, of course, hastened by the
immediate removal of the knife. Had that remained in the wound, the
victim would doubtless have lived long enough to make a clear dying
statement.”
“What was the weapon? Can you divine?”
“A sharp knife, dagger, or some such implement.”
“A paper-cutter, say?”
“Not likely. Unless it was an unusually sharp one. The cut is so cleanly
made that it presupposes a very sharp blade.”
“And your diagnosis of the killing corresponds in all points with this
night porter’s story?”
“So far as I can judge, there is no discrepancy in his narrative.”
Dr Pagett was of the pompous school, and dearly loved to be in an
important rôle. But he was evidently a learned and skilled physician and
his words were spoken with a positive air that carried conviction.
“There is little more to be learned from viewing the scene,” the
detective said, at last, after he had put a few more direct questions to
Bob Moore and had advised some with his companion policemen.
“Nope; might as well let in the undertakers,” agreed Kelsey.
“Oh, do,” urged Moore. “It’s really imperative that we get all traces of
the tragedy away before daylight. And it’s almost four o’clock now!”
“Good gracious, so it is!” exclaimed Miss Prall. “Well, I suppose I
shall be consulted as to the funeral, at least! I seem to be of little
importance here!”
“Don’t talk like that, Aunt,” urged Bates. “These inquiries are
necessary. The funeral services and all that, will of course be under
our control.”
“I should hope so,” the lady sniffed; “I shall stay here until the
undertaker arrives. I want some say in these matters.”
“I think, Letitia,” suggested Miss Gurney, “you’d better go to your room
and tidy up a bit. You dressed very hastily.”
“What matter! Such things are unimportant in a crisis of this sort! Oh,
I can’t realize it! The awful circumstances almost make one forget the
sadness of death! Poor Sir Herbert! He enjoyed life so much!”
Miss Prall buried her face in her handkerchief, and so was unable to see
the quizzical glances given her by Detective Corson.