THE GIRL IN THE SARBELLA CASE
As Doctor Bushnell unlocked the door and snapped on the lights,
the constable was close upon his heels, staring at the lounge with
its sheet-shrouded burden. From beneath the edge of the white linen
covering, where it almost touched the floor, was the automatic pistol.
"Do you know anything about finger prints?" asked the physician. "I
thought there might be finger prints on the grip of the gun; but I
doubt it. The weapon was left behind to give the appearance of suicide;
the murderer, being deliberate as that, would hardly have been fool
enough to leave his signature behind him."
Ham Griggs neither admitted nor denied knowledge of the finger-print
science; as a matter of fact, he knew precious little about it, but
that did not deter him from stepping promptly forward, with great show
of confidence, and picking the pistol up by the barrel. He did have
gumption enough for that.
Stepping close to the electric light burning from one of the wall
brackets, he turned the gun slowly, examining the butt plates at
various angles.
"Gotta have a smooth surface, doc, to get finger prints," he grunted,
tapping the corrugated rubber with his finger. "There ain't any--no,
sir, there just natcherally ain't any."
Doctor Bushnell nodded. "You're right about that," he agreed.
"Guess I better keep this for evidence," said Griggs, handling it
gingerly; ignorant of an automatic's mechanism, he did not know just
how easily it might be discharged.
"Careful there!" warned the doctor. "It's ready for firing; the
explosion, you know, ejects the shell and throws back the plunger for
another shot. There's a safety catch on the side; I'll attend to it for
you."
Griggs willingly surrendered the gun and glanced around the room.
"Don't look like there'd been no scuffle," he muttered. "None of the
chairs is turned over, or nothin' like that. Don't seem like there is
any clews."
Doctor Bushnell handed back the gun. "I understand that there are
always clews, Griggs. No doubt there are plenty of them right here, but
our eyes aren't trained for seeing them. We're just overlooking them,
that's all, and I am afraid that we shall continue to overlook them.
This is a job for a detective--a real detective."
Ham Griggs looked resentful.
"Just you hold your horses a little while, doc," he growled. "Gimme a
chance, can't you? You don't expect me to clear this thing up in the
battin' of an eye, do you? Mebbe if I'd been on the ground long as you
have, an' talked to all the folks in the house, like you've done, I'd
have got somewheres by this time."
"Yes--maybe," murmured Doctor Bushnell.
"Well, anyhow," retorted the constable, "I allow to ask a heap of
questions. I ain't gonna stand here suckin' my thumb. Where's Gilmore?"
"I gave him an opiate, Griggs; the poor chap's a nervous
wreck--naturally. Give him a chance to pull himself together. It would
be rank cruelty to subject him to an inquisition until he's had an
opportunity to come out from under the first shock. Remember, he had
been married but a few weeks; a terrible blow, Griggs."
"Who else did you say was in the house?"
"Bates, the butler, the elder Mrs. Gilmore, Miss Joan Sheridan, Mrs.
Gilmore's daughter by her first marriage, and a Mr. Sarbella, a
guest from New York. Mrs. Gilmore is in a state bordering on nervous
prostration, and, as her physician, I should certainly refuse to admit
her to be questioned just now."
"Seems like to me," grunted the constable, suspicion in his voice,
"they don't mebbe want to be questioned. The other three--they got
prostrations, too?"
"No; there is nothing to prevent your cross-examining the others."
"The butler feller, you said he was downstairs with Gilmore when the
gun was shot off?"
"Yes, that's right."
"An' that the two womenfolks an' this--whatcha say his name is?"
"Sarbella, Victor Sarbella."
"Sounds dago. So you say that Sarbella an' the two women was upstairs?"
In his slow-witted, blundering way, Ham Griggs was arriving at the
obvious. "That bein' the case, doc, I guess--hum--I reckon we better
have a look at this Sarbella. I hope you ain't give him no chance to
escape?"
"I'll call him," responded Doctor Bushnell, "but do you want to
question him here?"
"Best place I can think of, doc; if he done it he'll kinda give himself
away by bein' in the presence of the victim."
"Up to date," imparted the physician, "Sarbella thinks we believe she
took her own life."
"That's good; we'll spring a surprise on 'im. Go get 'im, doc."
When Bushnell had responded to this command, Ham Griggs stepped to the
lounge and drew back the edge of the sheet, staring at the beautiful
face below him. He was surprised at the woman's beauty.
"Sure was a swell looker," he said to himself and drew the sheet back
in place. With his stubby, thick fingers clasped behind his back, he
took a turn across the room, so intent with his sluggish thoughts
that he did not notice the trodding of his heavy shoes upon a bit of
dark porcelain that lay upon the rug near the table which stood by
the north wall--a bit of porcelain no larger than a silver dollar. It
splintered beneath his weight, with a faintly crunching sound. In his
preoccupation he did not hear it.
A moment later Doctor Bushnell had returned with Victor Sarbella. Ham
Griggs turned and stared intently at the guest of Greenacres, who had
himself well under control.
"The doctor tells me that you wish to see me," murmured Sarbella. "I am
at your service."
"You betcha I want to see you," grunted the constable, motioning to a
chair that faced the sheet-covered lounge. "What do you know about this
case?"
Sarbella let himself into the indicated chair, facing the shrouded body
without flinching. "Nothing," he answered steadily.
Griggs whipped the automatic from his pocket and thrust it before the
man's eyes with what might have been considered an accusing gesture.
"Ever see this before?" he demanded, and, when Sarbella nodded, he went
on with a triumphant exclamation: "Oh, you admit it, do you?"
"Yes," answered the artist, "I saw it on the floor, where it must have
fallen from her hand, after she shot herself."
"She didn't do no such thing," the constable retorted belligerently.
"It was murder."
Sarbella's head jerked up, and his hands suddenly froze rigidly
about the arms of the chair. Into his intense black eyes there came
a startled, narrow-lidded gleam that Doctor Bushnell, watching him
closely, decided could have been guilt. But he recovered himself
quickly.
"I don't believe it," he said flatly. "I begin to understand. You are
hinting that I----"
"Matter of fact, now, ain't this your gun?" broke in Ham Griggs. "No
use lyin'; we can trace it easy enough."
Sarbella did not become angry; he did not bluster.
"I do not know what has given you this ridiculous idea," he said
quietly, "but I shall make a statement that, in so far as I am
concerned, covers everything. The gun is not mine; I have never seen
the gun until, aroused by the pistol shot, I saw Gilmore's wife dead.
Never in my life had I ever seen the woman until I was introduced to
her before dinner last evening. It did not for a moment enter my mind
that it was other than suicide. If, as you claim, it is murder, I did
not do it, and I do not know who did, or why. That is all I have to
say." His tone had a firm finality that was discouraging to further
questioning; over the room there fell a silence, a silence so tense and
absorbed that none of the three men heard the automobile that sped into
the Greenacres driveway and came to a halt beneath the portico.
Constable Griggs reached behind him and drew the sheet from the dead
woman's face. Even the bosom of her crimson-stained silk robe was
exposed to view. But no cry of guilty horror came from Sarbella; in
fact, he seemed a little contemptuous of this dramatic play. His face
was stonily hard.
Below, the taxicab bearing Wiggly, otherwise Jimmy Price, had arrived
at Greenacres, and Wiggly, bidding the driver wait, leaped across the
porch to the entrance. His finger pressed the bell button with one
brief, curt ring. He waited grimly.
Now, Wiggly Price was wise in the ways of his craft; he knew that
in a case like this, among such people, a reporter is emphatically
unwelcome. From countless previous experiences he had learned that the
big thing is to keep the door from being slammed in one's face. There
was an old trick that he had used with success before; possibly it was
chicanery, but the good reporter must get the story to hold his job.
There are times when the exigency of the situation demands a blind
eye toward strict ethics, and he knew that, unless he made good on the
Gilmore murder yarn, Scoggins would complete the fatefully interrupted
business of firing him.
There had been a day when New York newspaper men were given neat
nickeled and numbered badges, issued by the police department to
identify them in getting past the police lines at fires, parades, and
the like. They looked official, these badges, and, although they had
long since been withdrawn by the department, Wiggly Price had retained
his; that word "Police" stamped upon the metal in much larger lettering
than "Press" had more than once been the open sesame for him.
So when Bates, the Gilmore butler, opened the door in answer to the
ring, Wiggly Price flipped back the lapel of his coat so that the
servant might be misled by the brief flash and glisten of the metal.
"I'm here on the case," Wiggly announced briskly, knowing full well
that if he revealed his true identity he would get about so far as "I
am a reporter." Then the door would have closed in his face.
Bates readily admitted him. "Doctor Bushnell is expecting you?"
Wiggly, having no notion of committing himself, evaded the question.
"Hum!" he said. "Bad business, I understand. How long since it
happened? I'll hear what you know about it before I see Doctor
Bushnell."
Thus Bates, who would have let his tongue be cut out before he would
have divulged so much as a grain of information to a reporter,
was misled into telling all he knew. Thinking he was talking to
a detective summoned by the doctor, he pridefully told of his own
deductions of murder; he omitted nothing, and Jimmy Price's animated
ears wiggled delightedly, as he realized how lucky he was.
"Fine!" he murmured. "You're a pretty good detective yourself. Now just
between us--strictly confidential, y' understand--who do you think
killed her?"
Bates looked around cautiously, and then lowered his voice to a mere
thread of a whisper.
"Things began to be queer, sir, after Mr. Sarbella arrived. Mind you,
I don't say that he did it, but----" His voice tailed off meaningly.
Jimmy Price's ears moved rapidly--swift thinking.
"Sarbella?" he said under his breath. "Sarbella? I've heard that name
somewhere before." And then aloud: "Where is the doctor now?"
"Upstairs with the constable; I think they are in the room where it
happened. Who shall I tell him is here, sir?"
"Oh, don't bother about that," Wiggly Price said carelessly. "I'll go
right on up. No, don't bother. Which room?"
"At the head of the stairs."
"Gee, but I'm one lucky bird!" chuckled Wiggly, as he hurried up the
steps. "Now what's going to happen? Get pitched out on my ear, most
likely."
Reaching the top of the stairway, there was no need for him to seek
further directions. The door of the tragedy chamber was not fully
closed, and there came to his ears the voice of Constable Griggs,
badgeringly insistent, as he sought in vain to batter down Victor
Sarbella's brief statement.
The guest of Greenacres remained calm. "I have told you all that I can
about the case--the murder, as you insist," he was saying. "I have
nothing more to say."
Wiggly edged closer to the crack of the door, peering within, and saw
the face of the dead woman across which Griggs had not replaced the
sheet. As he stared, his ears began to wiggle violently. Without any
more hesitation he walked into the room. Ham Griggs looked up with a
hostile and questioning frown.
"Who're you?" he barked. "Where'd you come from?"
"Price, Price of _The Star_," Wiggly murmured mechanically, as he
continued staring at Helen Gilmore.
Doctor Bushnell took an angry step forward. "Mr. Gilmore issued
specific instructions that no newspaper men were to be admitted," he
said. "I don't know how you managed to get in, but I know how you're
going to get out."
"Wait a minute!" muttered the reporter. "I've seen her somewhere. I
never forget faces, and she----Wait a minute, I tell you, and I'll
place her. Let a fellow think, can't you!" He moved a little closer,
staring at the beautiful features. Victor Sarbella had strained forward
in his chair, and there was something so tense in his attitude that
Doctor Bushnell signaled to the constable that the intruding newspaper
man was not to be interfered with for a moment. The constable did not
notice that; he seemed little short of hypnotized by Price's animated
ears.
"She must have figured in some story that I worked on," went on Jimmy
Price, hardly conscious that he was thinking aloud. "And it must have
been some time ago, or I wouldn't have so much trouble remembering."
The doctor made a suggestion that bore more fruit than he could have
expected.
"Take a look at this gentleman," he said, pointing to the artist; "you
don't happen to remember him, I suppose?"
Jimmy Price shook his head slowly and positively. "I am quite sure," he
answered, "that I have never seen Mr.--Mr.----"
"Mr. Sarbella," supplied the doctor.
The effect of that name on Jimmy Price was startling. It seemed that
his ears would surely work themselves loose from the side of his head.
"Sarbella?" he exclaimed, turning swiftly and looking again at the dead
woman. "Sarbella? Yes, I know her now; she was the girl--the girl in
the Sarbella case!"
A grunt of elation escaped Constable Griggs, as he stared triumphantly
at the artist; this reporter had supplied the missing link between
the dead woman and the suspect. Victor Sarbella's body stiffened and
relaxed, as his shoulders moved with a sigh of weariness and defeat.
The secret which he had guarded with his silence was out.