FACTS AND FANCIES
A short while later the inspector addressed them mildly:
“I very often get a great deal of blame because I won’t do things
in a regulation way. But, even while I get the blame, I also get
the results—sometimes, not always.” The inspector looked around him
thoughtfully, and repeated: “Not always. As most people know, the first
thing we must do in locating a crime is to find out who could have done
it; next, who wanted to do it. The opportunity is valueless without
the wish; the wish is not enough without the opportunity. But, of the
two essential points, the opportunity is the big thing. For instance,
some one standing in Miss Merivale’s position—I mean, of course, her
physical position—might have that opportunity. It also seems to me that
some one standing on the stage level, on the right of the steps, and
reaching upward, would have practically the same opportunity.”
He took the little pistol and balanced it lightly in his big hand. Then
he walked over to the point at which the weapon had been found at the
side of the steps which was farthest from the front.
He raised his arm and pointed at Barrison, who still stood where
Mortimer had been standing.
“You see,” he said, “it could have been done this way. The bullet would
have entered the body under the right arm as he picked Miss Merivale
up, supposing her story to have been true.”
“Then,” exclaimed Norman Crane eagerly, “that eliminates both Miss
Merivale and myself from the suspects!”
“It surely eliminates you,” rejoined the police officer calmly,
“because you couldn’t have thrown this gun through the door so that
it fell where it did fall, unless you were a particularly skillful
baseball pitcher; and then you couldn’t! But, as for Miss Merivale—Miss
Merivale, we will suppose that you are going to shoot this man; please
consider Mr. Barrison in that light. He is taller than you; the weapon
you use may be held close to your side to avoid detection.”
“I had no weapon!” she flashed.
“Naturally not, naturally not!” agreed the inspector, with a pacific
wave of his hand. “But you might have had, you know——”
“How could——”
“Pouf, pouf, my dear Miss Merivale! How you carried it—or, rather,
could have carried it, is a secondary matter. I never saw a woman’s
costume yet in which she could not secrete anything she wanted. Your
dress is one of the very modern, extra loose coat affairs; there are a
hundred ways in which you _could_ have secreted anything you wished. I
didn’t say you had; I merely said that you were foolish to say it was
impossible. As I was saying, if you did happen to have a pistol and
did happen to shoot it off at Mr. Mortimer, the angle would be very
much the same as that taken by the bullet of some one standing somewhat
below and reaching upward as far as they could.”
“Oh!” cried Sybil breathlessly. “You forget—he would have been shot
squarely in front, if I had done it—or Norman!”
“Yes?” said Lowry, pleasantly attentive.
“Why, yes!” she reminded him. “He was facing me.”
“We have only your word,” said the officer gently.
“I——” began Norman Crane impulsively, then stopped in discomfort. He
recalled that he had sworn not to have seen anything through the open
door.
Lowry, on the other hand, restrained himself from reminding him
that his testimony under the circumstances would be rather worse
than nothing. To cover up any awkwardness, he went on: “Without any
discourtesy to you, we are bound to consider any and all possibilities.”
“But,” protested Norman Crane, “you said all that would be settled by
the doctors!”
“I said your part of it would be; not, necessarily, Miss Merivale’s.
Doctor Colton?”
The little man with spectacles stepped forward, and, after a brief
interchange of words with the inspector, bent over the body of Mortimer.
Lowry turned to Dukane. “I should like to have the murdered man carried
in somewhere, just as soon as the medical examiner arrives and sees it.
The dressing room? Is that the closest? Quite so—quite so! That will do
excellently. Very near, isn’t it? Quite convenient.” His eye measured
the distance between the door of the room and the spot where the murder
had taken place. “Just a moment first, though. I want to——Oh, here’s the
medical examiner now. In a minute I think you may dismiss your people,
most of them, that is. We shall know where to reach them, if necessary,
eh?”
“Of course—at any time.”
“Then they may all go—except Miss Merivale, and—let me see—the man
who was on guard at the door between the front and back. And your
stage door keeper; I shall want to speak to him a bit later. But the
rest—what do you call them—supers?”
“Extras. I may dismiss the extras?”
“I think so. They were all on the stage, or upstairs in the upper tier
of rooms, weren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Then I doubt if we want them——”
Barrison, though unwillingly, was obliged to whisper that Claire
McAllister should be held. He knew that she was bound to talk sooner
or later about Sybil’s attitude toward the dead man, and he felt that
it might as well be sooner as later. Barrison, looking toward the star
dressing room, saw that the door was a little open, and that old Wrenn
was standing in the aperture, with an expression of intense agitation
upon his wrinkled face. Whether the look was horror, grief, or fear, it
would be impossible at that juncture to say. Barrison rather believed
it was the latter. Though of what could that old man be so acutely
afraid?
There was another person who was taking an exceptional interest in the
proceedings, the uniformed guard who had been placed on duty at the
communicating door, the young man whom the inspector had said he wished
to question later. Lowry suddenly turned upon him.
“Is that where you stood at the time of the shooting?” he demanded.
The young man started and flushed.
“N-no, sir,” he stammered; “I was over there by the door.”
“Then go back there over by the door, and stay there until you are told
to move.”
The man retreated hastily, looking crestfallen, and muttering something
under his breath.
Somehow, although the extras had been dismissed, and the body was to
be removed, Barrison felt that Lowry had not yet quite finished with
his reconstruction work, so scornfully stigmatized by young Crane as
“theatrics.” His instinct was not at fault.
The inspector wheeled very suddenly toward Sybil Merivale. “Miss
Merivale,” he said, “you have already given us some testimony which
doubtless was unpleasant to give. I am going to beg you to be even
more generous. You have said that you stood there at the head of the
steps, waiting for your cue. I should like you now to be more detailed.
You are relating, remember, what occurred within the last two minutes
of Alan Mortimer’s life. There could scarcely be two minutes more
important, and I must ask you as solemnly and urgently as I can to omit
nothing that could possibly throw any light upon the problem of how he
met his death. Will you repeat what you said before, with any additions
that come to you as you strain your memory?”
“I don’t understand,” she faltered wearily. “What more is there to
tell?”
“Try to remember!” said the inspector.
Barrison was convinced that he was bluffing, and that he had no idea of
anything further that the girl could tell, but to his surprise Sybil
flushed painfully and looked away. The younger detective shook his head
in silent admiration. The inspector might be old-fashioned, but he had
his inspirations.
“I was waiting for my cue,” she began, in a low voice, “and looking at
the stage through the open door. I have told you that.”
“What was your cue, Miss Merivale?”
“But you know that—after the lantern was broken, there were to be six
shots, and he”—she would not mention his name—“was to carry me on in
his arms.”
“Well, go on,” said the inspector gently enough. “It is true that we
have heard this before, Miss Merivale, but in my experience even the
most honest witness—even the most honest witness”—he repeated the words
with faint emphasis—“seldom tells a story precisely the same twice. You
were standing there——”
“I was standing there, and I heard him come up behind me.”
“How did you know it was Mr. Mortimer if you were not looking in his
direction?”
“I heard him speak.”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t know. He was muttering to himself. He seemed horribly
angry—upset. I thought——” She checked herself.
“What did you think?”
“That—he had been drinking. He—he was—very much excited. He kept
muttering things under his breath, and once he stumbled.”
Dukane interposed. “Mortimer—drank—occasionally; but he was cold sober
to-night. I know.”
“Ah!” The inspector nodded dreamily. “Then it was something else
which had upset him; quite so. You see, one gets more from the second
telling than the first. Go on, if you please, Miss Merivale. You knew
from his voice that he was excited. Did he come up onto the steps at
once?”
“I—I don’t know.” She looked at him appealingly; she seemed honestly
confused. “When he spoke to me—I should think perhaps he had taken a
step or so up—I don’t know. I didn’t turn round at once.”
“Ah, he spoke to you. And said—what?”
“Do I have to tell that?” She flushed and then paled. “It hasn’t—truly,
it hasn’t—anything to do with—all this!” she pleaded.
“I’m afraid we will have to be the judge of that,” Lowry said, quite
gently; Barrison had an idea that the old sleuth was truly sorry for
the girl, but he never willingly left a trail. “What did he say?”
“He said—he said: ‘If you knew the state of mind I’m in, you’d think I
was showing great self-control toward you, this minute!’ That’s exactly
what he said.”
“What did he mean by that?” demanded the inspector, surprised and not
taking the trouble, for once, to hide it.
She was silent.
“I asked you, Miss Merivale, if you have any idea what he meant by so
peculiar a greeting? Can you think of anything in your acquaintance—in
your relation with him—which might explain it?”
“Yes!” she said, lifting her head and answering boldly. “I know
perfectly well what he meant. He was excited or probably he would not
have said it then, for he cared awfully about his profession, his work
on the stage, and he would ordinarily have been thinking most of that,
just then. But he meant—I am sure he meant that—the darkness gave
him—opportunities.”
“Opportunities?”
“Opportunities—such as—such as—he had abused before.”
There was the pause of a breath.
“You mean,” said Inspector Lowry, “that he had forced his attentions
upon you in the past?”
“Yes.”
“Against your will? I asked you—against your will?”
“I had always refused his attentions,” she answered, with hesitation.
The detectives noted the change of phrase as she answered, but the
inspector made no comment.
“Very well,” he said. “What did you answer then? I presume you turned
round to face him?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What did you answer?”
“I didn’t say anything—then.”
“Ah—not then! What did you do, Miss Merivale? Did you hear me?”
“Yes, I heard you. I did not do anything. I stood still. I was
frightened.”
“You stood still, facing him. Could you see him?”
“Yes. He was just below me. I could see him, and I thought I heard him
laugh in a—a dreadful way. He came up two of the steps, and I could see
his face.”
“It was not the dark scene yet?”
“No; the lantern was not yet out. It was dark, but not pitch dark. His
face frightened me. He had frightened me before.”
“And did Mr. Mortimer speak to you again?”
“Yes.”
The answer came in a gasping breath, and Norman Crane seemed to echo
it unconsciously. He was following every syllable that she spoke with
a terrible attentiveness, and at that last “yes” he shuddered and drew
his breath quickly. Lowry fixed him with that disconcerting, unexpected
look of his.
“So that was what you heard through the open door!” he said, making it
a statement, not a query. “Well, Miss Merivale, he was coming up the
steps toward you, and he said——”
“He said, ‘When I pick you up to-night to carry you onto the stage—I
shall kiss you!’”
The shudder that came with this admission shook her. Her eyes turned
toward the body which, for some reason, had not yet been taken away,
and in their gaze there was fear and loathing, and—it might be—contempt.
“Ah!” said Inspector Lowry, apparently unsurprised. “And what did you
answer, Miss Merivale?”
She hardly seemed to hear. Her eyes were still fixed upon that dead
face, awful in its paint and powder, such a handsome face, lately so
full of compelling charm, even now a face that one could scarcely pass
without a second look.
“What did you say, Miss Merivale?”
She paused for only a moment; then, looking straight at the inspector,
she replied very deliberately indeed:
“I said: ‘If you do that—I shall kill you!’”