CONFLICTING EVIDENCE.
The library was a square room of moderate size, comfortably, though
simply furnished. An open desk stood against one of the walls, with a
rise of shelves on each side, partly filled with books. In the middle of
the room was a square, cloth-topped table, on which were several books
and newspapers, also an oil lamp with a green porcelain shade.
A large leather-covered armchair stood near the table, between it and a
swivel chair in front of the desk. A smaller chair near a window, the
roller shade of which was partly drawn down, was overturned on the
floor.
To the right of the window hung a portière consisting of two heavy
tapestry curtains, suspended from a black walnut rod. They were drawn
nearly together, but between them could be seen a double door with
small, leaded glass windows. It opened upon a side veranda overlooking
the tree-shaded grounds east of and to the rear of the dwelling.
Nick noticed that one of the curtains was awry, and, glancing up, he saw
that it had been torn from one of the pins that fastened it to the
transverse rod above the door.
On the floor between this door and the table lay the body of the
murdered priest. He was a man of middle size, wearing the conventional
black garments of his calling. He was lying on his back, with his arms
extended, his head nearly touching a leg of the table, and with his
smooth-shaved face upturned in plain view of the detectives, a face on
which the pallor and peace of death long since had fallen.
Father Cleary had been stabbed twice in the breast, nearly in a line
with his heart, and his garments and the rug on which he was lying were
saturated with blood, then dark and congealed.
Nick Carter saw at a glance that the priest had been dead for several
hours.
“The scene is suggestive, Fallon; very suggestive,” he said, after a few
moments. “We will proceed deliberately, however, since nothing can be
done for this man. It’s a case of murder, pure and simple, if that can
be. Let Grady wait in the hall. I will study the evidence in detail.”
Fallon nodded and glanced significantly at the policeman.
Nick crossed the room and raised the window curtain. In the brighter
light that entered, the scene was even more vividly tragic and gruesome.
“No weapon is here,” said he, with searching gaze while he crouched to
examine the corpse. “The assassin took care not to leave it. It
evidently was a dagger, or a knife with a broad blade. Note the two
gashes in the garments. Either thrust would have been fatal. This man
has been dead since last evening, probably as early as nine o’clock.”
Nick had lifted one stiffened arm while speaking and dropped it to the
floor.
“Surely,” Fallon said simply.
“Here are stains of ink on his middle finger. He evidently was writing
when----”
Nick did not finish the remark. He arose and turned to the open desk,
then approached it. A sheet of paper was lying on it, also a pen that
evidently had been abruptly dropped.
“Ah, here is proof of it,” said Nick.
He bent forward and read from the sheet of paper merely the following
lines:
“_To the Right Reverend Bishop Cassidy, Washington, D. C._
“MY DEAR BISHOP: I feel compelled to ask your consideration of a
matter of which I have just become informed. Though the sacred
secrecy of the confessional forbids----”
That was all, written with a firm and flowing hand, and Nick
straightened up and turned to his companion.
“Yes, this settles it, Fallon,” said he. “Father Cleary was writing when
his assassin entered. Observe that he quickly dropped his pen, instead
of placing it in this tray with the others.”
“Yes, obviously,” Fallon agreed.
“Plainly, then, he was startled, or even alarmed by some unexpected
noise. That would not have been the case, Fallon, if his bell had rung,
either that of the front or the side door.”
“But he may not have been alone at that time,” suggested Fallon. “The
person by whom he was killed may have been here.”
“That is not probable,” Nick quickly objected. “This letter which he
began to write denotes that he was alone, also that some person had just
left him, or only a short time before, and by whom serious information
of some kind had been imparted to him, so serious that he felt compelled
to write about it to Bishop Cassidy.”
“It must in that case have been something relating to the church.”
“Not necessarily. I do not, in fact, think that it was.”
“Why so?”
“Notice the next line: ‘Though the sacred secrecy of the confessional
forbids,’” Nick pointed out. “There he stopped and dropped his pen.
Forbids what? We know that it forbids his revealing what is imparted in
confession. That seems to have been the source of the information about
which he intended to write, judging from the beginning of the letter. It
may not, of course, have been part of a penitent’s confession. It may
have been something indirectly related with it, or referring to a
confession.”
“I see,” Fallon nodded. “There seems to be no way to definitely
determine.”
“Not at present,” Nick replied, folding the sheet of paper and putting
it in his pocket. “Let’s go a step farther.”
Nick turned and took up the lamp on the table, shaking it gently and
peering into the chimney.
“Empty,” said he tersely. “The wick is turned up and charred. The lamp
burned until the oil was exhausted. The assassin did not extinguish the
light. He left in a hurry, no doubt.”
“He remained long enough to close the door leading into the hall,” said
Fallon. “The housekeeper found it closed this morning.”
“Father Cleary may have closed it when he received his first visitor.”
“You think there were two?”
“I do,” said Nick.
“Here together?”
“No. One came after the other had departed.”
“But why did he close the hall door after letting them out?” questioned
Fallon, a bit doubtfully. “Mrs. Kane’s statements imply that she usually
found it open in the morning.”
“I don’t think that he let them out, not both of them at least,” said
Nick. “Here is another door.”
“Ah, I see.”
Nick pointed to the portière hanging across it.
“He may have let the first visitor out this way, instead of by the front
or side door,” said he. “This door leading into the hall, in that case,
still would have been closed.”
“I see the point.”
“He may have admitted his second visitor through this curtained door, or
perhaps have left it open a little for ventilation after letting out the
other,” Nick continued to reason. “It may have been violently forced
from outside, on the other hand, alarming him while he was writing.”
“I follow you,” nodded Fallon.
“Notice that one side of the curtain is awry and torn from one of the
pins supporting it. The location of the body, too, between the window
and this table, shows that Father Cleary probably was approaching the
window when he was assaulted and stabbed. There is no evidence of a
struggle. His assailant evidently flung aside those curtains so
violently that one was partly torn from its fastening, and he then
sprang at the priest and stabbed him before he could defend himself.”
“That certainly seems, Nick, to be a reasonable reconstruction of the
murder itself,” said Fallon, noting the points mentioned.
“Let’s see what more we can find in support of it,” said Nick.
He now approached the portière and examined it. On the edge of one of
the curtains, where a hand evidently had grasped it, was a plainly
discernible red stain, obviously a bloodstain.
Nick called Fallon’s attention to it, then gazed at it with a puzzled
expression on his earnest face.
“The miscreant’s hand was soiled with blood after the stabbing,” said
Fallon. “He tore the curtain from the pin when leaving, instead of when
he entered, as you were led to infer. What are you thinking about?” he
added, noting Nick’s look of perplexity.
Nick parted the curtains before replying. He then found that the door
was set in a narrow casement, just wide enough to permit the two
sections of the door to open inward.
Nick opened both and found on the woodwork of the right-hand section, or
that to the right of a person standing on the veranda and looking into
the room, four stains of blood, evidently from parts of the fingers of a
man’s hand that had grasped that section of the door. Though they were
too smeared to be of value as finger prints, in so far as revealing the
tissues of the skin was concerned, they showed plainly the size and
shape of the fingers, which could only have been those of a man.
“By Jove, I don’t quite fathom this,” Nick remarked, after a moment.
“Fathom what, Nick?” questioned Fallon.
“These bloodstains.”
“Why do they mystify you? I see nothing strange in them. The murderer
evidently drew the portière and closed this door with a bloodstained
hand.”
“I am not so sure of it.”
“How can you reason otherwise?”
“You overlook something,” said Nick. “It may be a very important point.”
“What is that? Explain.”
“Notice that it was the man’s right hand that grasped this section of
the window,” said Nick. “The relative size and position of the finger
marks show that, also that he must have been facing toward the room, not
coming out of it.”
“By gracious, that’s so!” said Fallon, gazing.
“That part of the portière which is stained and torn from the pin,
moreover, is on the same side of the window.”
“True.”
“To have grasped them with his right hand, therefore, the man must have
been backing out of the room, if leaving it.”
“True again.”
“There is one alternative,” said Nick.
“Namely?”
“That instead of backing out of the room--he was entering it.”
“But that is hardly tenable, Carter.”
“Why?”
“Because his hand was stained with blood. He must have been leaving the
room after the murder,” Fallon argued.
“Unless----”
“Unless what?”
“Unless his hand was soiled with blood before he entered and killed the
priest.”
“But----”
“Stop a moment,” Nick interrupted. “I now am convinced that this murder
was committed in just the manner that I have described. Father Cleary
heard some one back of the portière, or forcing the window, and he
sprang up to see who was here. The intruder flung aside the portière and
stabbed him.”
“Well?”
“Notice this point,” said Nick. “The murderer evidently did not remain
to accomplish anything more. He did not go to the desk to see what the
priest had been writing, or he would, if my previous reasoning is
correct, have taken away the letter Father Cleary had begun.”
“Surely,” Fallon quickly allowed.
“We can safely assume, then, that the assassin got out as quickly as
possible,” Nick proceeded. “Surely, then, he would not have backed out.
He would have hurried straight out, drawing the portière and closing the
double door.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“The side of the curtain which is stained, also the same section of the
door, would have been to his left, therefore, and naturally would have
been grasped with his left hand.”
“Certainly.”
“That gives rise to a very pertinent question,” said Nick. “Why was his
left hand stained with blood?”
“You mean?”
“Most men wield a knife with the right hand,” Nick went on. “That is the
hand that should have been covered with blood from the knife used, not
the left, which naturally would have been raised to seize his victim by
the throat or shoulder to prevent resistance.”
“By Jove, there’s no getting around that, Nick, as far as it goes,”
Fallon thoughtfully admitted, more deeply impressed and now more
mystified. “But these prints on the door show plainly enough that it was
the right hand that was soiled.”
“They also show that he must have been facing the room,” said Nick. “In
other words, Fallon, that he was backing out of it, which you admit is
improbable--or that he was entering it with blood on his hand, which you
also think is untenable.”
Fallon shook his head and frowned.
“Hang it, Nick, you’re mixing me all up,” he declared. “I won’t know in
another minute whether I’m afoot or horseback. You tell me what you
think. Never mind what I think. Your head is worth two of mine--yes,
half a dozen.”
“No, I think not,” said Nick, smiling faintly. “Plainly, nevertheless,
these bloodstains present inconsistencies not easily explained at this
moment.”
“They do so, for fair.”
“We will look a little farther. You saw that I found this door
unlocked?”
“Yes, I noticed that.”
“It was secured only by the latch, which can be lifted from either side.
It is safe to assume, since the lock is not damaged, that the assassin
found the door unlocked. Either that, or, as I have said, it was opened
a little for ventilation.”
“The latter seems quite probable,” said Fallon. “It was unseasonably
warm last evening.”
Nick stepped out on the veranda, instead of replying, Fallon following.
It extended from the side door, where two low steps led down to a gravel
walk running out to the street. The veranda was about twelve feet in
length, with a vine-covered trellis at the rear end of it, and with the
outer side protected with a scroll railing.
Near the trellis stood a large willow armchair, in which Father Cleary
had been accustomed to sit and read at times on warm, pleasant days.
Nick glanced in that direction and made another strange discovery.