Who Were the Women?
The usual and necessary routine was followed out. The Medical Examiner
came and did his part; the undertakers came and did theirs; and at last
Bob Moore’s nervous restlessness was calmed, somewhat, by a hope of
getting all signs of the tragedy obliterated before the morning’s stir
began in the house.
“I’ll wash up these blood stains, myself,” Moore volunteered,—speaking
to Corson, after the body had been taken away to a mortuary
establishment and the Prall family had gone up to their rooms.
“Oh, I don’t know,” demurred Corson. “It’s evidence, you know——”
“For whom? Can’t you get all the deductions you want, and let me clean
up? We can’t have the tenants coming down to a hall like this! If
there’s any evidence in these blood spots, make a note of it. You know
yourself they can’t be left here all day!”
This was reasonable talk, and Corson agreed. “All right,” he said. “I’ll
make pencil marks around where the spots are,—pencil won’t wash off,
you know,—and as I can’t see any trace of footprints, I suppose there
isn’t anything further to be learned from the condition of the floor.”
“Thought you Tecs got a lot from looking at the scene of the crime,”
Moore jeered. “You haven’t deduced a thing but that the man was
stabbed,—and Dr Pagett told you that.”
Corson took the taunt seriously.
“That finding of tiny clues, such as shreds of clothing, part of a
broken cuff-link, a dropped handkerchief, all those things, are just
story-book stuff,—they cut no ice in real cases.”
“I’ll bet Sherlock Holmes could find a lot of data just by going over
the floor with a lens.”
“He could in a story book,—and do you know why? Because the clews and
things, in a story, are all put there for him by the property man. Like
a salted mine. But in real life, there’s nothing doing of that sort.
Take a good squint at the floor, though, before you remove those stains.
You don’t see anything, do you?”
Elated at being thus appealed to by a real, live detective, Moore got
down on hands and knees and scrutinized the floor all about where the
body of Sir Herbert had lain.
There was nothing indicative to be seen. The floor of the lobby was
always kept in proper condition and beyond the slight trace of dust that
naturally accumulated between the diurnal washings, the floor gave up no
information.
So the gruesome red stains were washed away, and once again the onyx
lobby took on its normal atmosphere.
“How you going to work on the case?” asked Moore, eagerly interested.
“I’m going to get the truth out of you!” declared Corson, so suddenly
and brusquely that Moore turned white.
“What!” he cried.
“Yes, just that. You know a lot about the matter that you haven’t
told,—so you can just out with it!”
“Me? I don’t know anything.”
“Now, now, the thing is too thin. How could Binney get in here, and then
his murderer come in and have the whole shooting-match pulled off in the
short time it would take you to run Vail up to the tenth floor and drop
your car down again?”
“But—but, you see, I—I stood quite a while talking to Mr Vail after we
stopped at his floor.”
“What’d you do that for?”
“Why, we were talking about the book I was reading——”
“You were both talking—or you were talking to him?”
“I guess that’s it. I was so crazy about the book I’d talk to anybody
who’d listen, and Mr Vail was real good-natured, and I guess I let
myself go——”
“And babbled on, till he was bored to death and sent you away.”
“Just about that,” and Moore grinned, sheepishly. “I’m terribly fond of
detective stories.”
“Yes, so you’ve said. Well, your book is called, I believe, ‘Murder Will
Out,’ so, as that’s pretty true, you might as well own up first as
last.”
“Own up to what?”
“That you killed Sir Binney! Where’s the knife? What did you do it for?
Don’t you know you’ll be arrested, tried, convicted and sentenced?
Yes—sentenced!”
Corson’s habit of flinging out rapid-fire questions took on new terror
from the fierce frown with which he accompanied his speech, and Bob
Moore’s knees trembled beneath him.
“W—what are you talking about? I—I didn’t k—kill him!”
“Yes, you did! You got all wrought up over those fool story books of
yours and you went bug, and killed him in a frenzy of imagination!”
“Oh, oh! I didn’t—I,——”
“Then explain your movements! You came down from your talk with Vail,
full of murder thoughts. You saw Binney come in, and, moved by the
opportunity and obsessed with the murder game, you let drive and killed
him, in a sort of mania!”
“Oh, no! no!” and Moore fell limply into a seat and began to sob wildly.
“Stop that!” Corson ordered. “I’ve got to find out about this. I believe
you did it,—I believe I’ve struck the truth, for the simple reason that
there’s no other suspect. This man Binney had no enemies. Why, he’s a
peaceable Englishman, in trade,—and a big trade. I know all about him.
He wanted to place his Bun business over here. He’d confabbed with
several Bakery men in this city, and was about to make a deal. He was on
good terms with his people here,—sort of relatives, they are,—and he
was a gay old boy in his social tastes. Now, who’s going to stick up a
man like that? There was no robbery,—his watch and kale were all right
there. So there’s no way to look, but toward you! _You!_” A pointed
forefinger emphasized Corson’s words and Moore broke into fresh sobs.
“I tell you I didn’t! Why, it’s too absurd—too——”
“Not absurd at all. I know something of psychology, and I know how those
murder yarns, read late at nights,—when you’re here alone, get into
your blood, and—well, it’s a wonder you didn’t stick Vail! But I
suppose his indulgent listening to your ravings helped along your murder
instinct, and you——”
“Oh, hush! If you keep on you’ll make me think I did do it!”
“Of course,—you can’t think anything else. Now, here’s another thing.
You say you went up for Dr Pagett at twenty past two.”
“Or a few minutes later.”
“Well, Pagett said,—I asked him privately,—that it was at least
quarter to three! What were you doing all that time?”
“It wasn’t—I didn’t—oh, Mr Corson, I told you the truth. I waited to
catch the last words of——”
“Yes, of your own victim! And then, frightened, you hung around twenty
minutes or so before calling the doctor.”
“I did not! But,” and Moore pulled himself together, “I’m not going to
say another word! You’ve doped out this cock-and-bull story because you
don’t know which way to look for the real murderer. And you think you
can work a third degree on me—and railroad me to the chair, do you?
Well, you can’t do it!”
Moore’s eyes were glittering, his cheeks were flushed and his voice rose
to a shrill shriek as he glared wildly at his tormentor.
“Shut up on that!” Corson flung at him. “Calm yourself down, now. If
you’re innocent, it’s all right. But I’ll keep my eye on you, my boy.
Now, tell me any theory you have or can invent that will fit the facts
of the case.”
Corson asked this in the honest hope that Moore could give him a hint.
The detective was a good plodding sleuth when it came to tracking down a
clew, but he was not fertile of imagination and had little or no
initiative. He really believed it might have been Moore’s work, but he
thought so, principally, because he could think of no other way to look.
“The facts are not so very strange,” began Moore, looking at the
detective uncertainly. He didn’t want to give any unnecessary help, for
he had a half-formed theory that he wanted to think out for himself, and
he had no intention of sharing it with an avowed enemy. But he saw, too,
that a few words of suggestion of any sort might lead Corson’s
suspicions away from himself and might make for leniency.
“Wait a minute,” he said, on a sudden thought. “The writing the dying
man managed to scribble said that women did the murder.”
“That’s my best bet!” cried Corson; “I’ve been waiting for you to
mention that! You wrote that paper! That’s what occupied you all that
time. Of course women didn’t do a deed like that. You conceived the
fiendishly clever idea of writing such a message to mislead the police!”
“You—you——” but words failed Bob Moore. He reverted to his plan of
silence and sat, moodily staring in front of him, as the dawn broke and
the time drew near for the day shift of workers to come on.
“Don’t you think so?” and Corson now spoke almost ingratiatingly. “I
mean don’t you think it pretty impossible for women to put over such a
crime?”
“No, I don’t,” Bob blurted out. “Nor you wouldn’t either, if you knew
Binney! Why, his life just one—h’m—one woman after another! And they
were all after him!”
“What do you mean?”
“Why he was a regular feller, you know. He took the chorus girls,—or
some of their sort,—out to dinners and all that, and, here in the
house, he jollied the elevator girls and the telephone and news-stand
Janes,—and yet he detested girls’ service. Many a time he’d blow out to
the manager about how he’d ought to fire all the girls and put back men
or boys,—like we had before the war.”
“Your story doesn’t hang together. Binney seemed to adore and hate the
girls, both.”
“That’s just it, he did. He’d storm and rail at Daisy,—she’s on his
elevator, and then he’d turn around and chuck her under the chin, and
like as not bring her home a big box of chocolates.”
“Oh, well, I’ve heard of men like that before.”
“But not so much so. I don’t believe anybody ever went for the girls
rough-shod as bad as he did. He called them down for the least
thing,—and then, sometimes he’d make it up to them and sometimes he
wouldn’t.”
“And the chorus ladies? But I suppose you don’t know much about them.”
“Don’t I? Well, I guess I do! Why, Mr Binney—Sir Binney, I mean,—he
used to tell me the tallest yarns I ever heard, about his little
suppers,—as he called ’em. He’d come ’long about two G. M. pretty
mellow, and in an expansive mood, and he’d pour out his heart to old
Bob,—meaning me. Yes, sir, I know a thing or two about Binney’s lady
friends, and there’s a few of them that wouldn’t mind knifing him a
bit,—if they were sure they wouldn’t be found out. And,—if you ask me,
that’s just what happened.”
“H’m; you mean they followed him home, and slipped in after him——”
“Yep.”
“But how did they know they’d find the coast clear,—that you’d so very
conveniently be up in the elevator, and would stay up there such an
unusually long time? You’d better shut up, Moore. Everything you say
gets you deeper in the net. If your chorus girl theory is the right
dope, you were in on it, too. Otherwise it couldn’t have been worked!”
“All right, Mr Corson, I’ll shut up. You’ll see the time when you’ll be
mighty glad to turn to me for help. Till then, work on your own; but you
needn’t aim this way, it won’t get you anywhere.”
Meantime there was consternation among the nearest of kin to the dead
man.
In the Prall apartment, Miss Letitia was conducting conversation ably
aided and abetted by Eliza Gurney, while young Bates sat listening and
joining in when there was opportunity.
“Worst of all is the disgrace,” Miss Prall was saying. “There’s no use
my pretending I’m over-come with grief,—personal grief, I mean, for I
never cared two straws for the man, and I’m not going to make believe I
did. But the publicity and newspaper talk is terrible. Once it blows
over and is forgotten we’ll be able to hold up our heads again, but just
now, we’re in the public eye,—and it’s an awful place to be!”
“But who did it, Aunt Letitia,” said Bates. “We’ve got to get the
murderer——”
“I don’t mind so much about that,” his aunt returned, with a sharp
sniff. “All I want is to get the thing hushed up. Of course, you’re the
heir now, Ricky, so you must put on suitable mourning and all that, but
those things can be attended to in due course.”
“Where you going to have the funeral and when?” asked Eliza. “I don’t
think I’ll go.”
“You needn’t, if you don’t want to,” Miss Prall agreed. “I don’t blame
you,—I don’t want to attend it myself, but I suppose I ought to. It
will be in the undertaker’s chapel, and it will soon be over. Let’s have
it just as quickly as possible, Rick. To-morrow, say.”
“Oh, Aunt Letitia! Do observe the rules of common decency! We can’t
hurry the poor man into his grave like that. And I shouldn’t wonder if
there’ll be a lot of red tape and inquiry before we can bury him at
all.”
“Maybe the body’ll have to be sent back to England,” suggested Eliza,
and Richard was just about to say he supposed it would, when the
doorbell of the apartment rang.
As Miss Prall’s maids did not sleep in the house, Bates opened the door
and found Corson there, with a bland but determined look on his face.
“Sorry to trouble you people,” he said, stepping inside without being
asked, “but I’ve some talking to do, and the sooner the quicker.”
He smiled, importantly, and, selecting a comfortable chair, seated
himself deliberately and looked in silence from one to another.
“Well,” said Miss Prall, stiffly, “what do you want to know?”
The angular, spare figure of the spinster, upright in a straight-backed
chair, was not of a demeanor to put a man at ease, but Corson showed no
uneasiness, and almost lolled in his seat as he cast a slow glance at
her.
“Naturally,” he began, “what I want to know is, and what I propose to
find out is, who killed Sir Herbert Binney. And what I want to know here
is, anything any of you can tell me that will throw any light, side
light, or full glare, on the question.”
“We don’t know anything that is illuminating in any way,” Miss Prall
informed him.
“I will be the judge of the powers of illumination if you will tell me
what you know,” was the suave retort. “Will you make a statement or
shall I ask questions?”
“Neither,” and Letitia Prall rose. “You may bid us good-night, sir. This
is no time to intrude upon the ladies of a family,—especially a family
in deep and sudden mourning.”
“You weren’t mourning very deeply as I entered.” Corson made no move to
get up, although Bates rose as his aunt did. “I think, Miss Prall, you’d
better sit down again, and you, too, Mr Bates. This may be a lengthy
confab.”
“I think you’d better listen to this man, Letitia,” advised Eliza. “He’s
got a right to be heard, and I, for one, want to know how matters
stand.”
Whereupon Letitia sat down and Bates came and stood behind her chair.
“First, Mr Corson,” Richard said, “let me understand just how far your
authority goes——”
“All the way,” returned Corson, promptly. “I’m the police detective on
this case. I shall have a helper,—a colleague, undoubtedly, but for the
moment I’m working alone. However, I’ve all the authority in the world.
I represent law and justice, I represent the government, I represent the
United States!”
“The United States is honored, I’m sure,” said Miss Prall with
unconcealed sarcasm.
Such things never ruffled Corson, and he went calmly on.
“This man’s relation to you?” he said, interrogatively, looking at
Letitia.
“He was no kin of mine,” she snapped; “he was the uncle of my nephew, Mr
Bates, and Mr Bates is the sole heir.”
“Indeed; he is to be congratulated. Now, this man,—Sir Binney——”
“Don’t call him that!” put in Eliza. “It does annoy me so! Say Sir
Herbert Binney or Sir Herbert. Have you never known a knight?”
“No, ma’am, I never have. Well, Sir Herbert, then,—did he live here?”
“In this building,—not in this apartment,” Richard answered, as the two
haughty ladies seemed disinclined to accommodate their inquisitor.
And then, by dint of slow and persistent questioning, Detective Corson
drew out the vital statistics of the deceased gentleman and of the
members of the Prall household.
“Now as to the ‘women,’” Corson went on. “You know Sir Herbert left a
paper stating that women killed him. This is a most peculiar message for
a dying man to leave.”
“Why so, if it is true?” and Letitia Prall’s eyes gave him a curious
look.
“Yes,—that’s just it,—if it is true.”
“It’s got to be true,” burst out Bates, impulsively. “No man is going to
write a thing like that with his last ounce of dying strength unless
it’s true!”
“I agree to that,” and Corson nodded, “if he did write it.”
“What?” Miss Prall started up in amazement. “Who says he didn’t write
it?”
“Nobody says so, I only say it might be so. Suppose the murderer himself
wrote it to turn suspicion toward some one else,—some woman.”
“I never thought of that!” and Miss Prall fell into a brown study, as if
the new thought moved her profoundly.
“Nor I,” said Bates, looking intently at the detective. “But, I say,
that writing looked to me amazingly like my uncle’s.”
“And the porter,—Bob Moore, you know,” broke in Eliza,—“he said, the
pencil dropped from Sir Herbert’s fingers just as he fell back dead——”
“Oh, no, he didn’t say that! That’s the way stories get repeated.
There’s no such thing as direct, undistorted evidence! Moore didn’t see
the pencil in Sir Herbert’s fingers at all. He saw it lying on the floor
beside the dead man’s hand,—or, he says he did.”
“Good Heavens! You don’t suspect Moore!” cried Richard. “Why, he’s the
best chap going!”
“I don’t say he isn’t, and I don’t say I suspect him, but I want you
people to understand that he _might_ have done it all,—might have
committed the murder and might have written the scribbled paper to turn
suspicion away from himself. As for the handwriting, that trembling,
shaky scrawl can’t be identified with anybody’s ordinary writing.”
“Oh, I can’t think it,” Richard objected. “Why, Bob Moore couldn’t do
such a thing, and, besides, what would be his motive?”
“We haven’t come to motive yet. We’re finding out who had opportunity.”
“Any passer-by had that,” Miss Prall said, positively; “while Moore was
up in the elevator, what was to prevent any pedestrian going by from
stepping in and killing Sir Herbert?”
“Nothing; but there are few pedestrians at two o’clock in the morning,
and fewer still who have a reason for a murder.”
“Oh, it must have been prearranged,” said Bates, thoughtfully. “There’s
not the slightest doubt,” he went on hurriedly, “that whoever killed
him,—man, woman or child!—came in from the street to do the deed.”
“Why, of course,” agreed Miss Prall; “where else could they have come
from? Nobody in the house would do it!”
“No; I suppose not,” admitted Corson. “Well, then, ma’am, we have the
assassin coming in from the street, while Moore is upstairs. And,
according to the victim’s own statement, the assassin was feminine and
there were two, at least, of them. For I’ve studied that paper, and it
says, clearly, ‘women did this.’ Want to see it?” his hand went toward
his breast pocket.
“No,—oh, no,” and Miss Prall shuddered.
“Well, supposing a couple of women came in, having, we’ll say, watched
their chance, what more likely than that it was two chickens,—beg
pardon, ma’am, that means gay young ladies,—with whom Sir Herbert had
been dining? Why, like as not they came in with him. They didn’t hang
round outside waiting for him. You see, they’d been with him, and he had
in some way offended them, let us say, and they wanted to kill him——”
“Seems to me you’re drawing a long bow,” and Bates almost smiled at the
mental picture of two gay chorus girls committing the gruesome deed.
Corson spoke seriously. “No, Mr Bates, I’m not. If we take this written
paper at its face value, and I don’t know why we shouldn’t, it means
that women killed that man. And _if_ women, who more likely than the
chorus girls? Unless you people up here can suggest some other
women,—some, any women in the man’s private life who wished to do him
harm or who wished him out of the way. That’s why I’m here, to learn
anything and all things you may know that might aid me in a search for
the right women—the women who really killed him. Chorus girls are
wholly supposititious. But the real women, the women who _are_ the
criminals, must and shall be found!”