At the police station, where the investigators and the reporters
were sent by Dr. Simpson, they were told that Detective Brasher,
who had the case in hand, was still at the home of Morris Miller,
finishing his examination.
They had no difficulty finding the Morris home. He had built,
years before, a house which was called by the natives for miles
around, "Miller's Folly," to resemble a medieval castle. Miller
had gone to the extent of building a draw bridge in front of the
house, which was let down and drawn up regularly morning and
night.
The rear of the house was on a high point facing the western shore
of Lake Memphremagog, with only a narrow strip of land separating
it from the waters of the lake. The blankness of the entire rear
facade of the structure was broken only by one window, built into
a deep embrasure. Above the window was a small circular opening
about the size of a porthole.
Detective Brasher was cordial to the visitors. He had been
notified of their coming.
He led the way to the room on the third floor where the body had
been found that morning.
"Nothin' to it, Professor," said Brasher, "nothin' to it. Mr.
Miller used this room to write and read in and the next room for
sleeping. You see it is a sort of suite, with a bath room and
everything.
"This room is just as we found it this mornin' when we broke in.
Mr. Miller was lyin' on the couch there, the bed in the next room
is made up like the maid left it; it hadn't been slept in. He was
lyin' on his back with a hole in his temple--oh, you saw that. All
right.
"Well, his arm hung down over the edge of the couch, and the
revolver was on the floor where he dropped it. There was his
finger marks on it all right and no one else's. The gun is there,"
pointing to a table, among miscellaneous odds and ends, "and
nobody touched it. The door was locked from inside and so was the
window of the bedroom. They tell me he always slept with the door
and window locked."
"How did he get air during the night?" asked McCall.
"Through that." Brasher was standing on the threshold separating
both rooms and was pointing to the porthole in which was fixed a
circular fan. Brasher continued:
"We came here about eight o'clock, or mebbe a quarter after. Mr.
Miller used to get up very early. When he wasn't down for
breakfast this mornin' and the people down stairs knowin' he had
an appointment with Judge Higginbotham, they came up and called.
When there was no answer to their callin' and knockin' they called
us up.
"Me and another man from headquarters, we broke the door open and
we found him like I tell you. Doc Simpson says he was dead about
five or six hours when we found him. That makes it about three
o'clock when he kills himself. You see the servants had all gone
after dinner; gone to a movie. A shot fired in this room couldn't
be heard down stairs. I tried it.
"No, there's nothin' to it, Professor. It's a dead open and shut
case. Mr. Miller committed suicide, don't need any scientific
sharps to tell that."
Professor Brierly nodded absently. He was gazing about the room.
Then he walked to the library table, on which lay the revolver. He
stooped over it and turned to the detective.
"May I examine this weapon, Mr. Brasher?"
"Sure, help yourself."
"It is certain, Mr. Brasher, that there are no finger prints on
this weapon other than those of Mr. Miller?"
"That's certain. Our finger print man hasn't had the experience of
the big city men, but he's a good man, just the same, and knows
what he's talkin' about."
"And he said what, about the finger prints?"
"He said that there were Mr. Miller's finger prints all over the
gun, that part of Mr. Miller's thumb print, his right thumb was on
the trigger, showin' that that's the way he must have pulled the
trigger, with his thumb, understand?"
"We will take this for granted, Mr. Brasher. Now, did any one
disturb the barrel of the weapon, remove the shells or--"
"No, Professor, nothin' like that was done, the gun is there just
as we found it. We know a little about guns but we ain't expert,
get me, and we thought we'd leave it till--"
Professor Brierly was not listening. He gingerly picked up the
weapon from the table, using his handkerchief, and removed the
cylinder, which held one empty shell and five loaded ones.
With a deftness and a certainty of movement, remarkable in a man
of his age, he removed one of the bullets from a shell, using his
knife for the purpose. He first examined the bullet and compared
it with one he took from his vest pocket. Then he spilled the
powder into the palm of his hand, examined and sniffed that. He
looked up.
Brasher was beginning to show a little impatience. He said:
"Like I said, there's nothin' to it, Professor, nothin' at all.
Miller committed suicide."
Professor Brierly shook his head gently.
"I am afraid you are wrong, Mr. Brasher. There is a great deal to
it. One thing, seems certain. If Mr. Miller killed himself, it is
reasonably certain that it was an accident; that he did not intend
to do so. And, off hand, although I am not prone to giving snap
judgment, I should say that the chances are enormously against his
either having shot himself by accident or design."
"But, Professor, there was Mr. Miller on the couch, his gun near
his hand, where he dropped it. The door and window were locked,
not only locked, but bolted, from inside; Mr. Miller was a very
suspicious man; that's why he built this tower.
"In addition to this, he had a burglar alarm on the door, he
didn't need one on the window.
If you look out the window in the next room you'll see that it
would take a bird, or anyhow, something that can fly, to get at
it. A monkey couldn't get at the window, to say nothing of getting
in.
"When we came this morning, the door was bolted and the alarm was
on. The window was as you see it, bolted from inside. As for that
ventilating thing, a baby couldn't get in. There were powder marks
around the bullet hole. So, how--"
Professor Brierly was not listening. He walked into the bedroom,
followed by the others. He examined the walls and floors. He went
to the window, submitting each pane to a careful scrutiny. He
looked carefully at the sill. Then he went to the door, with its
jagged scars showing from the recent assault upon it by the
police. He returned once more to the window. He opened it--it swung
outward on a hinge--and looked out a long time.
When he withdrew his head from his long scrutiny, even Matthews,
who knew him best, could not tell from his demeanor if he had what
he was seeking. For that matter, Matthews was completely in the
dark as to what his mentor and foster father was looking for.
Professor Brierly turned to Brasher, who had followed him into the
room and was following his movements with cynical amusement.
"Who takes care of these rooms, Mr. Brasher; I mean who cleans
them?"
"I don't know, but there's a sort of housekeeper. I'll get her up
here."
"Do so, please."
A thin, middle-aged woman, dressed in somber black, appeared. She
looked from one to the other of the group of men. There was no
emotion visible on her thin features, except for a tinge of
defiance. She was introduced as Mrs. Horsnall.
"Mrs. Horsnall," asked Professor Brierly, "who cleans these
rooms?"
"The maid, Ella."
"When did she clean these rooms last?"
"Yesterday afternoon."
"Are you sure she cleaned them properly?"
"She did that, or she would have heard from me. I looked at the
rooms myself after she was through. I always look after the work
of the help around here."
No one present doubted that she did a thorough job of looking
after things.
"Have any repairs been done in these rooms recently, Mrs.
Horsnall?"
"Repairs, how do you mean?"
"Well, such things as locks, hinges, lights, windows, and so
forth."
"No. We've got a man of all work who takes care of such things. He
hasn't been in these rooms since last spring; he replaced that fan
in the hole there." She pointed to the ventilator.
"How is it there is no screen on the window? There are mosquitoes
around here, are there not?"
"Yes, sometimes. But Mr. Miller never opened the window, except at
night sometimes, when there wasn't any light in the room and that
only for a short time. You see, he was queer that way. He was
afraid of being shot at."
"Did Mr. Morris have any revolvers, Mrs. Horsnall?"
"Yes, he had three or four."
"Is that one of them?"
"I don't know. I wouldn't know one from the other. I never touched
them; I was afraid of them."
"And you are quite certain, Mrs. Horsnall, that no repairs were
made in the rooms since last spring and that no one except you,
the maid, Ella, and Mr. Miller himself were in these rooms since
last spring?"
"I'm sure of that, sir."
"Will you send the maid, Ella, up here, Mrs. Horsnall, and, thank
you."
Ella, a sulky young woman of Irish extraction, came and verified
everything Mrs. Horsnall had said. Professor Brierly took her over
practically the same ground as he had the older woman.
Professor Brierly dismissed her and went back to the window, which
he submitted once more to a careful scrutiny. He absently picked
at the outer edges of the panes with his fingers. He turned to
Detective Brasher, saying, apologetically:
"I came up to this beautiful country for a rest and a vacation; I
did not think I should have any need for any revolvers. Can you
tell me where I can get one like this and shells like these?" He
pointed to the table.
Brasher looked at him suspiciously.
"Sure, Professor, you can get them at Hinkle's sporting goods
store, in town. Hinkle carries everything, but," belligerently,
"what about your sayin' that Miller didn't kill himself?"
"If you mean by 'killing himself,' that he committed suicide, I
can safely say, even now, with the incomplete information I have,
that he did not kill himself. There is a possibility that he was
handling the weapon and accidentally discharged it. But the
surrounding circumstances make that highly improbable."
He paused for a moment and asked, abruptly: "Is there any
objection to my looking about the grounds?"
"None at all, Professor, but do you mind telling me what you want
a gun like this for?"
"Certainly not. I should like to make some tests with it."
"Professor, I've heard a lot about you. I'd like to work with you.
I'm a rough neck, a man without education, just a hard working
detective, but I do the best I can. I'd like to--"
Brasher paused, floundered and reddened. There was a soft gleam in
the deeply sunken bright blue eyes of the old scientist. He
nodded.
"Of course, I'll be happy to have your help. I will just look
about--"
"I'll go with you, Professor, and there's no reason why you can't
have this gun, if it will help you."
"That will be fine, Mr. Brasher. It is just the thing I need." He
waited while the weapon and the shells were wrapped in a paper.
Matthews took the parcel and the five men went outside.