A Gold Sequin
“Does this revolver belong to you?” the coroner repeated.
“Why, yes,” Corole said huskily. “That—is mine.”
“Can you explain its presence in the closet in which your cousin’s
body was found?”
She ran her tongue nervously over her lips.
“No,” she said. “No.”
“When did you see it last.”
“I—don’t know. It was usually kept in the drawer of the table in
Louis’ study. I—don’t remember just when I saw it last.”
“You didn’t bring it to the hospital, then?”
“Certainly not,” flashed Corole. Her eyes narrowed so suddenly that I
almost expected her to flatten her ears and spit like a cat.
“When did you last see your cousin, Dr. Letheny?”
“When I went upstairs at a little after twelve.” Mentally I figured
that their quarrel must have been short and to the point.
“Where did you leave him?”
“He was sitting in his study.”
“When you answered the telephone when Miss Day called, did you search
the house?”
“Yes.”
“Had his bed been disturbed?”
“Apparently not.”
“You can swear, then, that he was not in the house at—two o’clock?”
“If that was when Miss Day telephoned, yes. I did not look at my
watch.”
There were a few more, rather unimportant, questions, then Corole was
dismissed.
After that the inquest rather dragged for awhile, although Huldah
telling very succinctly of Jim Gainsay taking out the Doctor’s sedan a
short time before the storm broke was one of the points of interest.
Several policemen had to tell just what they found; during the
description of finding Dr. Letheny’s body, I saw Corole wince for the
first time and raise her laced handkerchief to her face.
Then Dr. Balman was summoned to tell of his movements following the
dinner party. He had gone directly to his room, it appeared, and was
asleep when the telephone rang.
“Asleep?” said the coroner astutely. “Not in your dinner jacket,
Doctor.”
“I was very tired that night, having worked hard all day. I sat down
in an armchair to rest and went to sleep. The first thing I knew the
telephone was ringing.”
“And what did you do then?”
“Miss Day sounded frightened—and it had been my impression that Mr.
Jackson was doing very well indeed. I took my coat, for it was
raining, got into my car and drove as fast as I could to St. Ann’s.”
Dr. Hajek, too, corroborated as far as possible every feature of the
testimonies Maida and I had given. No, he had not heard any knocks on
the door of his room, until I knocked. The lights were out and he did
not understand at once what was wanted. However, when he did
understand that there was some trouble in Room 18, he hurried to that
room. He had only time to make the briefest of examinations, when Dr.
Balman arrived. Dr. Balman came by the south door into the wing,
instead of going around to the main entrance. The south door had been
closed and the key in the lock and Miss Day had let Dr. Balman into
the corridor. Yes, they had immediately agreed as to the cause of
death.
Mr. James Gainsay was the next witness. As he advanced a queer little
stir crept over the room.
He admitted freely that he had been walking in the orchard previous to
the storm. The night was hot and sultry, he said, and he had thought
it might be cooler outdoors. As freely he admitted that the cigarette
case belonged to him.
“I’m certainly glad it was found,” he said, grinning a little. “I
value that cigarette case and did not know where I had lost it.”
The coroner frowned; this levity was out of place. He moved the slim,
gold case to the side of the table farther away from Gainsay.
“Was it you who collided with Miss Keate, there at the porch steps?”
he asked.
Jim Gainsay’s sun-tanned eyebrows drew closer together, but his mouth
retained a half-amused smile.
“I think it likely,” he said easily. “At least I—collided with some
one.”
His candid air did not remove, to my mind, any of the significance of
his presence near the hospital.
“Why were you running?”
“I was in a hurry,” said Gainsay simply.
“Where were you going?”
“To Dr. Letheny’s garage.”
“Did you go directly to the garage?”
There was the barest possible hesitation. Then:
“Yes.”
“What did you do, then?”
“Took Dr. Letheny’s car and drove into town.”
“How long were you gone?”
“About an hour, I should say. The roads were new to me and the rain
made it bad driving.”
“You wanted to send a telegram?”
If Jim Gainsay was surprised, he gave no sign of it.
“Yes,” he said quietly. I don’t know what it was in the tightening of
his mouth and the quality of his voice that made me quite sure that
the question had, in some manner, put him on his guard.
“What was the telegram?”
“A matter of business,” replied Gainsay smoothly.
At this point Lance O’Leary reached over the coroner’s table and
pushed something across it to the coroner. The coroner took it in his
hands, a slip of yellow paper, and adjusted his spectacles. After
reading what was written there, he glanced disapprovingly over his
glasses at Gainsay, deliberately read the message again and finally
spoke.
“Was this the message you sent?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Jim Gainsay, good-naturedly, though
there was a wary look in his half-closed eyes.
A little gust of laughter was frowned upon by the coroner, who poised
his spectacles again to read in a measured way: “‘Delayed owing to
unexpected development stop cannot make the _Tuscania_ stop may not
get away soon signed J. Gainsay.’ That yours, huh?”
I was astounded to see that Gainsay had gone rather white and his jaw
was set.
“Yes,” he said very quietly.
“What do you mean, ‘unexpected development’?”
“I—am not at liberty to state.”
Something in Gainsay’s manner seemed to irritate the coroner.
“Not at liberty to state! Well, see here, young man, you’d better be
at liberty to state and that mighty fast! You’ve admitted to skulking
around St. Ann’s, at a time of night when respectable people are in
bed and leaving cigarette cases——”
“Now, now,” remonstrated Jim Gainsay gently. “I object to the word
‘skulking.’”
“You object! You object!” The coroner removed his eyeglasses for freer
gesticulation and somehow they detached themselves from the ribbon and
flew out of his hand. He paused in slight discomposure and Lance
O’Leary stooped, returned the eyeglasses, and as he did so, leaned
over and said something in a low voice.
“H’m-m. R’r’h’m!” remarked the coroner weightily, fixing a profound
gaze upon Jim Gainsay, as if his blackest doubts of this young man had
been justified.
“That is all, Mr. Gainsay. For the present.” He surveyed Gainsay
unpleasantly and added, as if he liked the sound of the words: “For
the present.”
The rest of the inquest was not interesting and was mostly a matter of
repeating things that I already knew. The coroner seemed rather addled
but very determined to catch somebody in an untruth. I knew where his
trouble lay; it was not that he lacked clues, it was rather that he
had too many of them and they all seemed to point in different
directions. I was glad that Lance O’Leary appeared to have kept his
own counsel about certain matters of which I had told him, though I
should have liked to see the faces of the board members if it had been
brought to their attention that the morphine had very likely been
stolen from our own south wing.
The bell was ringing for lunch when the coroner concluded his somewhat
pointless inquiries, and after a few moments in which the room was in
utter silence the decisions were given. I was not surprised to hear
that Dr. Louis Letheny had come to his death at the hands of a person
or persons unknown. And a little later, in a hush so tense that we
could hear the dripping of rain from a gutter pipe outside the
windows, the same decision was given as to the death of our patient,
old Mr. Jackson.
We stirred our cramped muscles, rose slowly and straggled out of the
room by twos and threes. To tell the truth I felt as if nothing but a
formality had been accomplished. But as I left the room I turned for a
look backward and saw Lance O’Leary’s smooth brown head bending close
over the coroner’s bald spot in earnest consultation. That one glimpse
convinced me that O’Leary actually, if not openly, controlled the
inquest and did so to suit his own inexplicable motives. I longed to
tell him of the mysterious visitor the south wing had had the previous
night but had no opportunity until later in the day.
What with one thing and another troubling me I did not rest well that
afternoon. By the time I had napped spasmodically, had a bath, and got
into a fresh uniform and cap it was four o’clock and I wandered
through the curiously hushed corridors, down the stairs and into the
general office. Miss Jones was writing in the record book of incoming
cases and I paused to find out who had been entered. It was something
to know that even the disagreeable publicity we had been given had not
affected St. Ann’s prestige.
“I’m putting him in Eighteen, in your wing,” she said as I bent over
her shoulder.
“In Eighteen!”
“Why, yes. The room is available for use, isn’t it? He wants a
downstairs room and that is the only one left.”
“Whose patient?”
“Dr. Balman’s, I think—yes.” She referred to the typed card.
At the moment Dr. Balman entered the room from the inner office.
“Just copy this history, please, Miss Jones, and let me know if——” he
glanced at the record she was preparing. “Are you putting him in
Eighteen?” he asked sharply.
“Yes. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
His long fingers sought his beard perplexedly.
“This affair is so recent——” he said doubtfully. “But, if there is no
other room?”
“He especially asked for a downstairs room.”
“Very well, then,” he agreed after a moment during which his
thoughtful, rather kind eyes studied the record. He spoke wearily.
“Put him in Eighteen. We will have to use the room sooner or later, in
any case. Oh—Miss Keate. Better warn the nurses to say nothing of
Eighteen’s—er—history. The patient will be here at least two or three
weeks, perhaps longer.”
“Yes, Doctor,” I said as meekly as if I shouldn’t have known that I
must do that, anyway. And I must say I did not relish the idea of a
patient in Eighteen, knowing, as I did, that if it proved to be a
surgical case with no private nurse, much of the care would fall on my
shoulders, which meant many errands into Room 18.
“Very good,” he said and turned toward the door.
“Oh, Dr. Balman,” Miss Jones called him back hastily. “Did you not
want me to copy that history?”
Dr. Balman wheeled, glanced at the typed paper still in his hand.
“I forgot,” he said abstractedly. “Thank you, Miss Jones.” He handed
her the paper. “The patient will be in about six o’clock, I think,” he
added, as he disappeared.
He had not any more than got out of the room, when Dr. Hajek entered.
“Was there a telephone call for me—thank you,” as Miss Jones handed
him the pad with a number scribbled on it.
He took down the telephone.
“Main 2332, please,” he said into the mouthpiece, adding aside to Miss
Jones, “Any new cases this afternoon?”
“Yes, Doctor. A Mr. Gastin is coming in. I have put him in Eighteen.”
“In Eighteen! What? Oh, yes—Main 2332—” he turned again from the
telephone. “Did you say you put him in Eighteen? Eighteen in the south
wing?” he asked sharply.
“Why, yes,” said Miss Jones. “That was the only downstairs room left.”
“But——” began Dr. Hajek, only to be interrupted by the operator’s
voice again. “Yes. Main 2332—Oh, there you are. Yes, this is Dr.
Hajek. What’s that? . . . Did you take his temperature? Oh—yes I
see. . . . Try a hot water bag and a little warm milk. . . .
Yes. . . . Yes.” He hung up with a click. “About that new patient,
Miss Jones, I really don’t think it wise to put him in Eighteen. If he
is inclined to be nervous——”
I was tired of discussing the matter.
“He will not know a thing about what has happened there,” I
interrupted very rudely and not at all in accordance with professional
etiquette. “We’ve got to use the room sometime. Why not now?”
“Yes,” agreed Dr. Hajek, surveying me absently. “Yes, I suppose so.
Yes. Did you say he comes this afternoon?”
“About six o’clock,” said Miss Jones, and with a nod he swung toward
the inner office.
Thinking that I must see that Room 18 was in order, I hurried toward
the south wing. The room had not been cleaned beyond a brief
straightening up, so I sent two nurses to clean it and went along
myself to superintend the affair.
It was not pleasant to open that door, but I had opened it under still
less agreeable circumstances. The room was very gloomy and cold with
dismal shadows on the white walls, and the window panes so beaded with
moisture that the gray light from outside filtered but faintly into
the place. I relented so far as to turn on the electric light, which
threw the whole room into sharp relief, and the two girls set to work.
The air was stale, so I crossed to the low window near the porch,
unlocked the catch and flung it wide, letting in the damp mist. I
stood there, thinking of the intruder of the previous night. Who had
been in this room? What had been his purpose? What would O’Leary say
when I told him of it? Had the visitor escaped by this window? I
looked at the wide sill. There was a screen there, to be sure, but it
worked on a spring catch and could easily be opened from either side,
this to facilitate the shaking of rugs and dusters and the adjusting
of awnings. Idly I pushed back the screen, running my finger along the
sill. I was about to close it again when a faint reflection of light
from something in the corner of the sill caught my eye. I leaned
toward that corner to look more closely, reached out and slowly turned
the tiny flat thing over with my fingernail.
It was a gold sequin!
I should never have seen it save for that minute reflection of light,
for the upper surface was all tarnished and stained, though the under
side was still bright. A wisp of frayed green thread still clung to
the small hole for a needle at the top of the flimsy bit of metal.
I needed no one to tell me from where the thing had come; the night of
June seventh Corole Letheny had worn a dress of gold sequins cunningly
arranged over net with flashes of green here and there.
And it did not seem probable to me that she had worn the gown since
that night.
By the time I had digested this amazing fact the girls, to whom fear
seemed to lend astonishing speed, had got the room cleaned.
“A patient is coming,” I explained to them. “That is all now.” They
were glad to be dismissed and hurried away.
I did not remain alone in that room. Strolling down the corridor, the
tiny sequin still in my hand, it occurred to me that it would be a
fine thing to be able to tell Lance O’Leary, when I gave him the
sequin, whether or not Corole had worn her gold gown since the night
of her dinner party. Huldah would know, and somehow in the face of
this last development, I had no scruples as to inquiring of Huldah
concerning the affairs of her mistress.
It was a matter of only a few moments until I was on my way.
The path through the orchard squdged wetly under my feet; the trees
dripped steadily on my starched, white cap, and the mist lay so heavy
and close that I could not see more than ten or fifteen feet ahead of
me. The shrubs massed around the trees were hazy, shadowy outlines,
and the raw air fairly hurt my throat.
I walked on slowly through the wet alfalfa field, passed the clump of
pines that made a black blot amidst the fog, and through the gate. The
porch of the Letheny cottage still looked dreary and Huldah had not
swept it that day.
Corole came to the door.
“Oh,” she said unenthusiastically. “Oh, hello, Sarah. Come in. I was
boring myself over a book.” She threw my cape on a chair and I
followed her into the study.
“You decided not to go to New Orleans, then, with the—that is, for the
funeral?”
“There was no need to.” Her face darkened. “He has relatives there
who—never cared for me.”
“Mr. Jackson’s body was sent East,” I said. We lapsed into silence.
Presently Corole stirred.
“I’d give you tea but Huldah is in bed with a headache. She went to
sleep right after lunch but I suppose is awake by now. I told her not
to worry about dinner; I’ll drive in to the Brevair. I’ve been wanting
to get out, anyhow, and they say there’s a wonderful new chef there.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake, Corole, don’t make yourself conspicuous.
There’s that matter of the revolver at the inquest, you know.”
Corole glanced curiously at me and laughed.
“But my dear, I don’t know a thing about that revolver getting over to
St. Ann’s. And I do happen to know that there are other, far more
intriguing things, that might bear a little investigation.” She
smoothed the flat wave in her hair gently. “A little investigation, at
least,” she murmured as if amused, but her expression was not
pleasant. Indeed a look in her flat, yellow eyes reminded me that this
woman had lived in strange places, had seen strange things, was likely
familiar with dark secrets and black rites and primitive
passions—product of the twentieth century though she seemed, with her
laces and jewels and sophisticated eyebrows. Jungle nights, tom-toms
and the word “voodoo” came into my mind—and though I have never been
at all sure just what voodoo means, I found my skin crawling.
“I think I’ll go up to see Huldah,” I said, rising abruptly, and
feigning a professional interest.
“Do,” said Corole, smiling not at all tenderly into the fire. “You
know the way to her room? I’m too lazy to go along.” At my nod she
continued indolently: “Huldah highly approves of you, Sarah. She has
never quite trusted me, you know.” She laughed again.
I found Huldah very drowsy and her headache worse.
“It is on account of the cloudy weather,” I said, and we talked for
some moments very pleasurably of our experiences with neuralgia; my
own were much more interesting than Huldah’s but I listened
forbearingly to her tale.
“I felt better for awhile after Miss Letheny gave me some medicine she
has,” went on Huldah. “I went right off to sleep. She gives it into
your arm so it doesn’t take long to——”
“Into your arm!” I cried, struck by the phrase. “What do you mean?”
“Why with one of them—what do you call them? Sort of like a needle.”
“You don’t mean a hypodermic needle?”
“Yes!” Huldah smiled happily. “That is it. I just couldn’t think of
what she called it. It is fine. You see, that way the medicine goes
directly into your——”
“Huldah! Do you mean to say that Miss Letheny gave you a hypodermic?”
She nodded, pulling up the sleeve of her outing-flannel wrapper and
showing me the tiny scar. I scrutinized it closely. It had been most
deftly done. There were no skin abrasions, the vein had been carefully
avoided, the needle quite evidently had been thrust into the flesh by
a practised and unfaltering hand. And that hand belonged to Corole
Letheny!
“Wasn’t that all right, Miss Keate? It didn’t hurt at all——”
I recalled myself to the present.
“Huldah,” I said severely, “never let anyone but a doctor or a trained
nurse give you a hypodermic. Never!” And as her face turned rather
green I added, “That was likely just some headache medicine that Dr.
Letheny, or some one, had given Miss Letheny. So it is all right this
time.” And, indeed, I could tell that Corole had actually given her
only a mild opiate to relieve, most unwisely, her headache.
“Now,” I went on, as I caught sight of my wrist watch pointing to five
o’clock. “Can you tell me something that I want to know, and forget
that I asked you?”
Huldah is shrewd; she raised herself on one gray flannel elbow and
looked at me keenly.
“I can keep a secret, Miss Keate. There’s many a thing I could tell if
I wanted to.”
“What I want to know is this: Has Miss Letheny worn her gold dress
lately?”
“You mean that green and gold, snaky thing with the scales on it?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see. She wore it last the night Dr. Letheny was killed.”
“Are you sure, Huldah?”
“Yes’m. I remember well. Poor Dr. Letheny!”
“Feeling better, Huldah?” said a voice from the doorway.
It was Corole, of course.