COMMON SENSE
"Your wife has been murdered sir," repeated the butler, with growing
conviction of his sudden theory. "I am not a detective, but I am sure,
were it suicide, the door here would have been closed--locked. That is
only common sense, Mr. Kirklan."
Kirklan Gilmore forced his eyes to that lifeless, crimson-stained form
which so recently had been alive, that lovely creature whom he had
married only three weeks before. His face was set in a rigid paralysis
of horror, which did not change even when he turned his head away and
closed his eyes.
"No, Bates, no!" he cried thickly. "It--it couldn't be. Look! There
is the gun beside her, where it must have dropped from her fingers
after--after she pressed the trigger. Your first impression was the
right one; Helen has killed herself."
But the butler was not to be shaken.
"You heard the scream, sir," he argued; "the scream that sounded before
we heard the shot--the scream that I thought was Miss Joan's."
"What nonsense!" muttered Gilmore, pressing his hands to his temple. "A
scream is a scream, Bates; they all sound alike."
"Of course I was mistaken," the butler broke in hastily. "I had heard
Miss Joan scream once, the time you were thrown by the horse, and we
all thought you had been killed. It sounded so much like that, sir, I
thought for a moment----But naturally it could not have been Miss Joan."
"Certainly not," said Gilmore. "Why do you stand there arguing about
it? Go call the doctor, can't you? Tell Doctor Bushnell to come
quickly."
Yet Bates delayed another moment to press his theory.
"Do you remember the scream, sir?" he whispered. "There was terror in
it. Not at all the kind of a scream, Mr. Kirklan, that one would give
unless faced with a terrible danger. And people do not scream when they
are about to shoot themselves."
Gilmore groaned and tossed his hands wildly.
"Stop it!" he cried hoarsely. "Get out! Do what I tell you--call the
doctor. You're a butler, not a policeman. In Heaven's name, Bates, get
a move on you."
As the butler shambled into the hall, almost ludicrous in his haste, he
narrowly escaped a collision with Victor Sarbella, who appeared from
out of the darkness, a dressing gown thrown over his pajamas.
"What's happened?" demanded the guest of Greenacres. "I thought
I heard a shot." His voice was strained, excited; there could be
considered nothing strange in that, for there was certainly the
promise of sinister, tragic things when the after-midnight stillness
of a peaceable country house is shattered by the startling voice of
exploding gunpowder.
"The younger Mrs. Gilmore is dead, shot--murdered!" panted Bates, and
dashed on past so headlong that it seemed he would surely tumble down
the steps.
A smothered exclamation broke through Sarbella's lips, and for a brief
moment he did not move, as he stared toward the half-open door in front
of him. His face was set into tense lines. From within he heard the
sound of a groan, and, stepping forward, he saw Kirklan Gilmore, as his
body sagged in a chair, twisting his hands with such intensity that it
seemed he must snap the finger joints. And then the artist saw the dead
woman on the chaise longue.
"Great Lord, Kirklan----"
The novelist turned, flinging out an accusing finger in a wild gesture.
"You did this!" he screamed. "You----"
Sarbella's eyes narrowed, his face hardened. "Be careful what you say,
Gilmore," he broke in. "It is no light thing to accuse a man of murder."
"I say you did it! Helen has killed herself, and you--you drove her to
it--you drove her to her death."
Sarbella was naturally bewildered.
"Your butler says your wife has been murdered; then you accuse me of
it, and now you switch everything around by telling me that she has
killed herself. I don't know what it all means. What _has_ happened?"
"Bates is an old fool," muttered Gilmore. "Of course she has killed
herself. You see--there is the gun on the floor, where it dropped from
her fingers. Any one can see that it was suicide."
One might have thought that a look of relief came into the face of the
artist; he nodded his head slowly in agreement.
"Yes, that's the way it appears; but if that is the case, why is it
that your butler says----"
"Oh, what's the use of discussing my butler's notions. He seems to
think that he ought to be a detective, that's all. She killed herself,
and"--his voice became edged with bitterness--"it was you who drove her
to do it."
The artist tossed out his hands in an imploring gesture. "That is
unfair," he protested. "Perhaps her conscience, but am I responsible
for her conscience? Am I responsible for--for her sins?"
Kirklan Gilmore staggered to his feet. "What do you mean--her sins?" he
cried hoarsely. "Am I never to know the truth about her?"
Sarbella shook his head. "Not from my lips," he answered; "she is dead.
Let what past there be buried with her. It will be better that way,
Kirklan--better for every one."
"Who is dead?" came a tremulous question from the hall. The novelist
recognized the voice of Mrs. Gilmore, his stepmother, and leaped
forward to prevent her entrance. He knew, high-strung, nervous woman
that she was, the gruesome sight would be a tremendous, perhaps even
dangerous, shock to her.
"You--you mustn't come in here, mother. Something--something has
happened to Helen."
"You mean," gasped Mrs. Gilmore, clutching at the casing of the door
for support, "that she is dead?"
"Yes, Helen is dead," finished Kirklan. "Go back to your room, please."
"I was awakened by something. I am not certain just what it was,"
whispered the little, gray-haired woman. "And then there was a shot.
You mean, Kirklan, that your wife----"
The novelist inclined his head. "Helen has--has killed herself. Bates
has gone to telephone Doctor Bushnell; there is nothing you can
do--nothing. Now please return to your room."
Mrs. Gilmore began to sob wildly, perhaps not so much from grief as
from the hysteria of horror.
"She has killed herself--suicide! Oh, the disgrace, the scandal of it;
three weeks married and--a suicide. I--I knew that something awful
would happen. It was in the air. I had a presentiment of it at dinner.
All of you acted so strangely, so tragic. Kirklan, what made her do it?"
"I don't know," he answered thickly. "Perhaps the reason for it died
with her. I--I don't want to talk any more about it, mother; it's all I
can do to hold myself together. Won't you please go back to your room?"
Mrs. Gilmore, making a move to obey him, released her fingers from the
support of the door casing and staggered; thus, unintentionally, she
reeled just within the door. As she saw the crimson-stained form on the
lounge, a scream tore up through her throat. She swayed dizzily, her
knees crumpled beneath her, and she would have fallen to the floor in a
limp heap, had not Kirklan reached out and caught her in his arms.
"Sarbella!" he called. "She--has fainted. I knew that would happen
if--if she saw it. Won't you help me with her? I--I suppose we'd better
take her to Joan's room; she can't be left alone in this condition."
Victor Sarbella rushed forward to lend his assistance, and between
them they supported the limp, gray-haired figure down the hall to the
wing of the house where Joan Sheridan's belongings had been banished by
the coming of Kirklan's bride to Greenacres. This, the room of tragedy,
had been Joan's until the coming of the house's new mistress.
"You'll find a light button there, near the corner of the turn,"
directed Gilmore, and Sarbella fumbled for the switch. "It's the last
door to the right. She--she's heavier than I thought."
As the two men came to the door that Kirklan had indicated, there
reached both of their ears the muffled sound of sobbing--convulsive,
hysterical sobs. A tremor went through Gilmore.
Joan's room being somewhat removed from the other part of the house, it
was reasonable that the sound of the shot might not have awakened her,
but, being awake, how could she have failed to hear it? And she was not
asleep! She was awake--weeping!
Apprehensive terror clutched at Gilmore's heart--the terror of a
sinister something that he could not explain. Was it possible that,
after all, it had been Joan who had screamed? Sarbella, too, looked
startled and darted his host a quick, uneasy, questioning glance. His
arms being occupied, Gilmore kicked his shoe against the foot of the
door, as a substitute for rapping. On the other side of the panel the
choking sobs suddenly ceased.
"Yes?"
"It's Kirklan, Joan. Something has happened, and your mother has
fainted. We thought we ought to bring her here to you."
"Just--just a moment, Kirk," came the tremulous answer, "and I will let
you in."
There was a brief wait and the sound of running water, as the girl
within the room turned on a faucet. Then the door opened, and Joan
stood before them. Although it was now almost one o'clock in the
morning, she had not taken down her hair for the night; she had, late
as it was, not yet retired. Evidently the sound of running water had
marked her effort to undo the evidence of tears, but her eyes were red
and her face was ghastly! After a first furtive glance her gaze avoided
Gilmore's eyes.
"You can put her on my bed," she said in a shaking voice, but she did
not ask why her mother had fainted.
"Something very terrible has happened, Joan," the novelist said
hoarsely. "Didn't you hear it?" He had placed his stepmother on the bed
and mechanically began to rub her wrists.
"Didn't I hear--what?" Joan asked so faintly that her voice was hardly
audible.
"The pistol shot--just--just a few minutes ago," answered Gilmore.
The girl shuddered, her head averted. Her hands were clenched at her
sides, and her lower lip was imprisoned between her teeth, obviously in
an effort to keep it from trembling. She was making a tremendous effort
to keep her self-control.
"I did not hear a pistol shot," she said, her voice still very low. "I
did not hear any shot. Why do you ask?"
"Helen has killed herself, Joan; she shot herself with a pistol."
There was no startled cry of horror from Joan's lips, as she heard what
might have been supposed to be her first news of tragedy. But was it
news to her? There was not so much as an exclamation of surprise, not
so much as a murmured word of sorrow or sympathy.
Standing a little to one side, Victor Sarbella stared at the girl in
narrow-eyed, intent interest, evidently greatly puzzled by her peculiar
attitude. Joan still said nothing; almost absently she began massaging
her mother's ice-cold fingers.
"She faints very easily," she murmured. "It is never serious. She will
be all right presently. Mr. Sarbella, will you please dampen a towel
under the cold-water tap?"
"I had been out at the studio," Gilmore went on, the words tumbling
out jerkily. "I think I must have fallen asleep out there. When I came
to the house I found that I didn't have my keys, and had to ring for
Bates to let me in. My nerves were in a bad way, so I asked Bates to
mix me a toddy, a nightcap. I was drinking it, when both of us--Bates
and I--heard a scream. Right after that there was a shot. Bates and I
rushed upstairs to find Helen dead; that's all I know."
As his voice trailed off to a dull, lifeless stop, Joan gave a start
and looked up to take the damp towel that Sarbella offered her. She
placed it across her mother's forehead; Mrs. Gilmore stirred under this
application and moaned faintly.
"I think mother will be all right now," said Joan. "I don't think it
will be necessary for either of you to stay. If I need you I will
call."
"Bates has telephoned to Doctor Bushnell. I will have him see mother
when he comes, Joan."
Joan nodded.
"Perhaps it would be best," she agreed. "She is very high-strung, and
may need an opiate. It was a tremendous shock to her--of course."
Kirklan began a retreat from the room, and Sarbella, after another
queer glance at Joan, followed. No word was spoken until they had come
to the room of the tragedy.
"I can't stand to go back in there!" Gilmore cried hoarsely. "It--it's
all that I can do to hold myself together as it is. I think I'll go
downstairs and have another drink."
Victor Sarbella, frowning so deeply that his eyes seemed to be closed,
put out his hand impulsively.
"Don't do that, my friend," he murmured; "for your own sake--don't.
Liquor will not help any at a time like this, and it will look bad,
very bad, for you to be under the weather at a time like this."
The butler came hurrying up the stairs.
"I have had Doctor Bushnell on the wire, sir," he reported. "He had
just got home from a call, and he says that he will be here as quickly
as the car can bring him--a matter of minutes. It is only two miles
from the village."
Kirklan Gilmore glanced shudderingly toward the door of his wife's
room. "It doesn't seem right," he muttered, "leaving her in there
alone, but I can't stand to look at her again. I----"
"There no use torturing yourself," advised Sarbella. "It is quite
certain that she is beyond all human help. There is nothing that can
be done until the doctor comes. Here, man, you're wabbly--all in; sit
down here on the top step. Hold yourself together the best you can, my
friend."
Kirklan laughed harshly, mirthlessly. "Stop calling me 'my friend,'
Sarbella," he said unsteadily. "I won't have any more of that from you.
If it hadn't been for your coming down here, Helen would----" He broke
off abruptly, as he realized that Bates was within earshot, and that
very little missed the butler.
Sarbella shrugged his shoulders, but made no verbal response. The house
had become intensely still again. From the foot of the stairs there
was the steady, measured ticking of the tall clock on the first floor,
as the long pendulum moved to and fro. Gilmore sat down on the steps,
shoulders slumping forward, as he laced and unlaced his fingers.
Why had Joan been sobbing in her room? What was the reason for her
strange behavior? Why had her face been so ghastly pale, even before he
had informed her of Helen's death?
He pondered this.
"Listen!" said Bates, breaking the uneasy silence. The other two men
jerked into an attentive attitude. There came to their ears the hum
of a powerful motor. An instant later an automobile horn blasted the
stillness in brief announcement. Doctor Bushnell had arrived.