SOME DISCOVERIES
But I was not yet permitted to begin my examination of the body and its
immediate surroundings. I had no sooner arrived at the landing than I
heard a man's voice, somewhere above in the second story, speaking with
a note of determination that demanded some sort of recognition from the
person addressed. The clear, ringing, resolute tone made me
involuntarily pause and listen.
"Where 's your headquarters man?" the voice was irately demanding. "I
want to see him, d' ye hear? You blithering idiot, I 'm going down
those stairs; if you want to rough it, just try to stop me."
Another voice was raised in expostulation. Stodger, at my elbow,
suddenly chuckled.
"That's him!" he whispered, with an unaccountable excitement. "That's
Maillot!"
"He must be a tartar," I observed.
At that instant a stalwart young man, very angry and with one
discolored eye that lent him an uncommonly truculent appearance, looked
down on us from the upper hall; then he deliberately ignored the
arguing policeman, strode to the head of the stairs and descended to
the landing.
"It's all right, Callahan," said Stodger to the discomfited blue-coat.
The young man halted before us.
"Ass!" he growled, staring hard at me.
Stodger made the epithet exclusively mine with a bow and a broad grin.
Instantly the young fellow flushed and stammered an apology.
"I didn't mean either of you chaps," he explained, in embarrassment.
"It's that chuckle-headed hod-carrier in a blue uniform. If he gives
me any more of his cheek, I 'll take his club from him and hand him a
wallop over the head with it--dashed if I don't."
He looked eminently capable of doing it, too. He paused, his look
resting upon me with an interrogation.
"Are you in authority here?" he bluntly demanded.
"I suppose so. Are you Mr. Maillot?"
"I am. And I 'd like to know how much longer I 'll have to stay in
this beastly cold-storage warehouse. I 'm plenty tired of it right
now, if you want to know."
I smiled at the resolute young fellow; there was something decidedly
likable in his frank and handsome countenance, and his blunt, intense
manner.
"It all depends, Mr. Maillot. You and Mr. Burke are the only ones who
can help me to some sort of solution of this crime--if crime it is; I
take it for granted that you are willing to do what you can."
He favored me with another stare, then stood thoughtfully pulling at
his lips and gazing at the body.
"Poor chap!" he muttered at length, in a hushed voice. "A ghastly way
to die; I 'd give a lot to know how it happened." Then he looked
brightly at me, and asked with an almost boyish impulsiveness:
"Are you a detective--like Stodger here?"
"I 'm a detective," I told him; "though I don't know how closely I
resemble Stodger." A sound came from that worthy that made me think he
was strangling. "Swift is my name."
Maillot suddenly thrust out his right hand.
"Glad to know you, Swift," he said heartily. "You look like a sensible
chap. I 'm willing to do all I can to help you--of course I am. It
won't be much, I 'm afraid. But if any thick-headed cop says I can't
do this or can't do that, there 's going to be trouble. They can't
bluff me, and I know they have n't any right to dictate what I shall
do."
All of which was quite true. Maillot glanced at the body again, and
lowered his voice.
"Say," he said, "can't we go to a more appropriate place to talk
matters over?"
"Yes--the library," suggested I.
He drew back, and his face darkened.
"Library!" he echoed.
"There 's a fire there now," I informed him, wondering at his
quick-changing moods. Next instant he was talking again, eagerly.
"But--look here, Swift--you have n't examined the body yet, have you?
I 'm curious to see whether you discover anything. Queer old chap he
was; I don't think anybody ever understood him."
He broke off and eyed Stodger severely.
"What the deuce are you laughing at, Stodger?" he demanded.
Stodger laid a hand upon his arm, and asked with husky eagerness:
"On the level, Maillot--between us, you know--just what did you say
last night when somebody pulled the shade down over that lamp of yours?"
"You go to thunder," Maillot retorted, turning his back upon him.
"Pshaw! I 'll bet it was hotter than that," said Stodger, in a
disappointed tone.
Now, then, here were the parts of the puzzle I had to piece together in
order to gain some conception of the manner in which Felix Page met his
death.
The still form lay, as I have already stated, on the landing which
extended across the rear of the hall like a balcony. The stairs
continued thence up to the second story, but in a direction exactly the
reverse of the first flight and on the opposite side of the hall
therefrom.
Standing midway upon this landing, I had a view not only of the entire
spacious hall, but could also see the top of the _étagère_ tipped
forward at the head of the stairs. It had evidently been a receptacle
for old magazines and newspapers, all of which, that had not been
checked by the balusters, now lay in a confused heap upon the floor
just as they slid from the shelves.
Even across the distance which then separated me from this article of
furniture--twelve feet, I should say--I could see that the top was
coated with dust, save for two spots where the rich red lustre of the
polished mahogany shone conspicuously: one about five inches in
diameter and forming a perfect octagon, the other much smaller, and
ragged in outline.
Here at my feet was the explanation. The base of the iron candlestick
accounted for the octagonal design; while the fragments of a shallow,
saucer-like sea-shell, which had been utilized as a match holder,
accounted for the smaller spot. These two articles manifestly had
reposed upon top of the _étagère_. The matches, to the number of half
a dozen or so, were strewn upon the stairs and landing.
I picked up the candlestick from where it lay upon the landing, and
examined it with much interest. It was a solid affair of ornamental
iron, about fifteen inches high, and weighed some six or eight
pounds--clearly a nasty weapon if wielded by a strong arm.
The bit of candle which it had contained lay nearby, one end flattened
out from having been crushed under somebody's foot.
At the time of his tragic death Mr. Page was in his sixty-first year,
but a large and very vigorous man. He had been garbed in his street
clothes (save for a frayed and faded purple smoking-jacket), thus
contradicting Burke's belief that the household had retired. On the
right temple the mark clearly showed where the candlestick's base had
crushed the skull beneath. Death certainly had been instantaneous.
While I held the candlestick in my band, Maillot suddenly exclaimed:
"By George, Swift! the old gentleman's death may have been owing to
accident, after all!"
I looked keenly at him.
"Suppose he was here on the landing," the young fellow went on
enthusiastically; "suppose somebody knocked that book-case affair
suddenly forward--might 've stumbled against it in the dark, you
know--why, that heavy candlestick would have put a quietus on any man,
falling on his head that way."
But I could not encourage this idea.
"I thought of that as soon as I saw the overturned whatnot," said I;
"but several circumstances disprove it.
"In the first place, if the candlestick slid off the top, the dust
would show it. Now the shell did slide, for you can plainly see where
it scraped the dust in doing so.
"Again, considering your supposition, the candle-stick would have
struck about half-way up the flight; if Mr. Page had been at that point
on the stairs--in the line of its fall--his head would have been too
high to have encountered it. And then, Maillot, look here." I pointed
to the object of interest itself.
"If you were carrying it while the candle was lighted," I said, "your
thumb would be uppermost, and your little finger nearest the
base--would n't they?"
"Naturally."
"Very well. Suppose, now, I reverse my grasp--my thumb toward the
base, the little finger toward the top--I now have it in a pretty
effective position for use as a bludgeon, eh?"
He was following me intently, and now nodded his head in token of
comprehension.
"Look at those drippings," I went on; "the hand that last grasped the
candlestick did not try to avoid them, although they were yet soft and
warm from the flame. It does n't require a trained eye to determine
that the _thumb_ was nearest the base."
"I declare!" he wonderingly interrupted. "Blest if you 're not right,
Swift. The candle was burning when somebody grabbed it up for use as a
club. Whoever it was he caught hold of it with a pretty firm grip."
"An additional argument," I added, "that it was put to some violent
use. It is n't necessary to hold it anything near so tight merely to
carry it.
"However," I pursued, "the circumstance is in a way unfortunate. While
I can gather the idea that the hand was n't inured to hard labor, and
that it was a rather long and slender one, it closed so powerfully upon
the drippings that the pattern of little lines--the vermiculations
which differentiate one man's hand from everybody else's--is merely a
blur. As a wax impression of the murderer's hand it is not a success."
My audience seemed to be immensely interested.
But I was not yet through with the wax impression.
"One peculiarity is suggested, though: this is unmistakably the impress
of a right hand, and the owner of the hand wore a broad ring on the
second finger--an unusual place for a man to sport that sort of
jewelry."
The third finger of Maillot's _left_ hand was adorned with a modest
signet ring, while the private secretary's abnormally long, bloodless
digits bore no sign that they had ever been encircled by any ring at
all.
The situation was serious enough, however; the imprint which I assumed
to have been made by a ring was so blurred as to leave wide latitude
for error respecting any deduction that I might make from it.
I gravely regarded young Maillot, and tried to picture him to myself in
the role of a murderer, but was obliged to own that such a thing was
exceedingly difficult to do. Still, all things are possible; and the
next few minutes had to determine whether I should take him or Burke
into custody--maybe both--or permit them to go about their business.
"Mr. Maillot," I said by and by, "I 'll tell you frankly: this business
looks pretty bad for you and Burke--unless between you you can help me
to place it in an entirely different light."
He paled, but met my level look steadily enough.
As I have already said, he was a good-looking chap, dark of hair, his
eyes gray, and he possessed an honest, open countenance that stood a
whole lot in his favor. He was tall, with a well-knit, athletic figure
that made me fancy he had been an heroic member of his university
football team.
But I have known just such men--steady, upright and governed by high
standards of conduct--to become in the twinkling of an eye red-handed
assassins.
Your man of lofty ideas and honor, in truth, is the more deeply
sensible of injury and sometimes the easiest incensed. He is the more
keenly hurt when his most sacred feelings are suddenly outraged.
Finish off his equipment with a hot, passionate temper, and his
resentment is likely to strike as blindly and as effectively as a bolt
from a surcharged thunder-cloud. It is the motive that either
palliates or makes the crime. A moment's previous reflection often
stays the hand from a deed which a lifetime of after regret can not
recall.
I could associate these possibilities with Maillot, and yet extend to
him my sympathy; for controlling impulses are infinitely various and
sometimes not to be held to account.
And so, too, could I have done with Burke, if he had betrayed one trait
of a nature to inspire sympathy or engage my goodwill. Still, I meant
not to be in the least influenced by my own feelings in the matter, nor
do I now believe that I was; I determined to be as just and impartial
as possible. Bear in mind that, as yet, I had been given no hint of
possible motive.
After a bit Maillot said very soberly:
"The possibility of such a thing never for instant occurred to me;
but--Swift--I suppose must meet it somehow."
"You 're beginning excellently," I returned sincerely. "That's the way
to look at a thing of this kind. If you 'll not forget that I 'm
inclined to be kindly disposed toward you, why, I dare say we can,
between us, clear up whatever mystery there is in one-two-three order.
"For example, why you came here last night--your business with Mr.
Page--when you tell me that perhaps--"
I stopped. Maillot's face had suddenly become a mirror of
consternation.
"Good God, Swift!" he gasped, recoiling, "I--I can't do that!"
I promptly grew grave. And then, from the head of the stairs, came the
slow, colorless voice of Alexander Burke.
"How about the Paternoster ruby, Mr. Maillot?" inquired he.
Maillot's hands closed spasmodically; his teeth clicked together; and
he slewed round like a released spring.
Next instant, had it not been for the intervening stairs and Stodger's
and my quick interposition of our bodies between the two men, matters
certainly would have gone hard with the private secretary. Maillot's
temper was like gunpowder; the quiet question seemed to sting him to an
unreasonable fury.
"You--you spy! You dirty sneak!" he snarled viciously.