THE APARTMENT ACROSS THE HALL
After replacing the padlock and snapping it closed, Morgan pressed
the electric button of the apartment across the hall. Footsteps
sounded in immediate response, and the next moment the door was
furtively opened. Morgan, who by that time was leaning carelessly
against the jamb, quietly moved one foot forward into the opening.
Although the light in the hallway was dim he could see that the
woman who stood there was young and remarkably pretty. Removing his
hat, he asked politely, "Are you the tenant here?"
"Yes," came in a soft but nervous voice.
"May I come in and talk with you a few minutes?" inquired Morgan.
"What is it you want?" the girl inquired.
Morgan threw back his coat and disclosed his badge. "I am a city
detective, and I would like a few words with you about this affair
across the hall."
"What affair is that?" asked the girl.
Morgan smiled. "Didn't you know there was some trouble across the
hall last night?"
"No," she returned. "I retired early and have heard nothing about
it."
Morgan was at a loss for a moment. The girl was not of the type that
one would associate with persons of a criminal sort. Her replies had
been given in a tone of voice so candid and wondering that it hardly
seemed possible she could be acting. Whatever the situation,
however, Morgan wanted to get inside this apartment and study the
girl more closely.
"Well, I'll tell you all about it," he said, gently, "if you'll let
me come in for a moment or two."
"I know nothing about it," she maintained, with a touch of
irritation in her voice, and Morgan's foot signaled to him that she
was attempting to close the door.
Morgan never liked to be rough in his methods. He hesitated over
forcing himself into the presence of this young woman, and yet he
now had an impression that an interview with her was imperative.
There was a slight pause, as he ran over in his mind some way to
gain his entrance without force.
"Do you know Mr. Marsh downstairs?" he inquired, suddenly, his eyes
keeping a keen watch on her face.
"I do not know any of the tenants in the building."
"That's strange," said Morgan, thoughtfully. "I was just talking
with Mr. Marsh, and he told me that you knew all about the trouble
last night. He suggested that if I would come and see you I could
get just the information I wanted."
"I don't know this Mr. Marsh, and I can't understand why he should
make such a statement." Surprise was apparent in her voice.
Morgan was quite sure that her surprise was genuine. At the same
time his remarks had just the effect he had hoped they would. It
brought a new element into the matter and added to the girl's
natural curiosity. She opened the door wider, and nodding toward the
front room, said, "Step in and tell me what you wish to know."
The room into which Morgan entered was a counterpart of the one
across the hall, though as he rapidly observed the furnishings, he
was impressed with the greater taste displayed and the homelike
atmosphere. A piece of embroidery, on which she had evidently been
working, lay on the arm of a chair near the window.
Conjecturing that she would resume her seat in this chair, Morgan
seated himself where he could keep his back to the window, while the
girl whom he was about to question would directly face the full
light. Morgan's guess was correct. The girl went directly to the
chair she had left to answer his ring, and taking up her embroidery,
picked nervously at its edges, meanwhile watching Morgan
expectantly.
Surmising that a direct attempt to question her at once might defeat
his purpose, Morgan immediately broke into an account of the
previous night's occurrence. As he brought out the various details
of what was reported to have taken place, he slyly watched her face.
At the end of his recital, he felt convinced that what he told the
girl had previously been unknown to her. Moreover, Morgan became
sensible of a growing feeling of interest and confidence in the
girl. Her sweetness seemed so genuine, her dark blue eyes so frank
and honest in the straightforward way they met his.
"It seems very strange that I heard none of the excitement,"
remarked the girl, when Morgan had finished his story. "I had a
rather busy day yesterday with my studies and retired early."
Morgan had decided upon his line of questioning while relating the
incidents of the night before.
"May I ask your name?"
"Certainly," she replied. "My name is Atwood."
Morgan, having noticed the absence of a wedding ring, assumed that
she was unmarried. Therefore, he said, "Is your mother at home, Miss
Atwood?"
A shade of sadness passed over her face. "My mother died some months
ago," she replied.
"I am sorry. I know what it is to have a good mother," sympathized
Morgan. Then he inquired, "Perhaps your father heard the
disturbance?"
"Oh no," she replied. "My father is away."
"He travels?"
"Yes; my father is a salesman."
"For some Chicago house, I suppose."
"No; for a business house in St. Louis. We formerly lived there."
"St. Louis is a pleasant city," commented Morgan. "Still, many
people prefer Chicago."
"Oh, I think I should prefer to live in St. Louis, because I have a
few friends there," she said. "But I am studying music, and when my
mother died, father suggested that I live in Chicago where I could
attend a better musical college. Then, too, father could get home
more often as he travels in this vicinity."
"I suppose your father travels for some well known St. Louis house?"
suggested Morgan.
"Well, really, I don't know the name of his firm," returned the
girl. "Business has never held any interest for me."
It struck Morgan as strange that even a girl who did not take an
interest in business should be ignorant of the name of the firm by
whom her father was employed, yet he seemed to find many things that
were contradictory in this girl. The chatty line of conversation he
had taken was bringing out information in a manner highly
satisfactory to Morgan. He was about to make another comment, that
might elicit further facts, when he was interrupted by a question
which he had been expecting.
"Tell me," inquired Miss Atwood, a slight color coming to her
cheeks, "what this man Marsh said about me."
Morgan was pleased. This gave him an opening for some questioning
which he had hesitated to take up before. He wanted to know just how
much this girl knew about Marsh. "Don't you really know Mr. Marsh?"
he began.
"No," she replied. "I didn't even know there was such a person in
the house."
"Well, that is certainly strange. I'm sure that he told me to talk
to the young lady on the top floor. Perhaps he meant some young lady
who lived across the hall. Still, there doesn't seem to have been
anyone there since the trouble."
Miss Atwood smiled. "He could not have meant anyone in that
apartment, for I understand it is occupied only by an elderly
couple, a Mr. Ames and his wife. I understood father to say that he
had heard they were traveling in Europe. I am sure no one has lived
there since we have been in this apartment."
"How long have you been here?" asked Morgan.
"Let me see," said Miss Atwood, thoughtfully. "This is almost the
end of October, and we have been here since the middle of July. That
is a little over three months, isn't it?"
"July," repeated Morgan. "That isn't a renting season. You must rent
this apartment furnished."
"We do," she replied, promptly. "Father was too busy to spend any
time on moving, so we stored our things in St. Louis and took this
apartment."
"Real estate agents have been making lots of money these days. I
hear a great many people have to pay them a bonus for finding
apartments. I suppose they stuck you that way, too."
"No," returned the girl. "I understand that father rented direct
from the tenant. I believe the tenant was a friend of his, or
someone he knew in a business way."
The embroidery which had been lying in Miss Atwood's lap had
gradually slipped forward and at this moment dropped to the floor.
As she reached down to pick it up, Morgan's alert eyes noted a
purplish mark on her forearm.
"You seem to have bruised your arm, Miss Atwood," he said, in a tone
that was intended to express sympathy.
"Oh, did you notice that mark?" she exclaimed. "That has been
puzzling me all day. I awoke suddenly last night with a feeling as
if something had bitten me, but almost immediately went to sleep
again. During the morning I noticed this mark and the swelling. I
can't imagine what could have done it."
"May I look at it?" asked Morgan, as he rose and approached her.
"Perhaps I can suggest something."
She extended her arm, and Morgan, taking her hand, drew the arm
close to him. He carefully studied the spot. The only time he had
ever seen such marks before was on the arms of drug addicts who had
not been particularly careful in the application of the hypodermic
needle.
"So you think it is a bite of some kind?" asked Morgan, looking
keenly at her.
"I can't imagine what else it could be," she replied.
Morgan dropped her hand and looked out of the window for a moment.
There was no doubt in his mind that the mark had been made by a
hypodermic needle, yet it was the only mark of the kind that he
could see on her arm, and therefore would hardly seem to indicate
that the girl was a drug fiend. Moreover, there had bean no
indication of embarrassment or nervousness in her reference to the
mark, as would undoubtedly have been the case had she been addicted
to the use of a drug. Morgan realized, too, that the fresh pink and
white skin of this girl, and the bright eyes, could not be
maintained if drugs were taken. The case was growing more puzzling
every minute. Had the use of a hypodermic needle on this girl
anything to do with the supposed tragedy across the hall?
After this discovery, Morgan hesitated to ask further questions at
this time, so he turned to the girl again and remarked, simply, "It
is possible that some kind of spider bit you in the night. If you
have any peroxide in the house, I would suggest that you bathe the
spot with it. And now I must be going. If I have your permission,
Miss Atwood, I would like to drop in again sometime to let you know
about any further discoveries I may make on this case."
"Thank you," she returned. "I shall be interested."
As he turned to say good-bye at the door, she added, apologetically,
"I am sorry I had no information to give you."
"Oh, that's all right," Morgan assured her, "I appreciate your
courtesy in letting me have this little chat with you." But as he
drew the door to after him, Morgan smiled and said to himself, "Poor
little girl; you don't realize what a lot of information you have
given me."