“WITHOUT CONSULTING ANYONE”
While the expert examined the armor and then the door for
finger-prints, Landis went into the hall and once again sounded the
gong. Miss Mount appeared as promptly as before. He asked her to come
downstairs for a few minutes. When she consented he returned to the
library and posted Sergeant Forbes in the hall to watch Joel Harrison’s
door. The policeman he sent back into the reception-room.
When Miss Mount appeared he led her to a chair and sat down facing
her. “Sorry to bother you again, Miss Mount. But we want you to verify
Allen’s statement as to his quarrel with Mr. Harrison. Did Allen’s
disagreement with Harrison involve the question of his marrying Anita?”
Miss Mount relaxed a little.
“Mr. Harrison said that Mr. Allen had asked his permission to marry
Anita and he had refused point-blank.”
“Allen didn’t tell us why,” hinted Landis.
“Mr. Harrison had little faith in human nature. I believe he regarded
Mr. Allen as a fortune hunter.”
“What is your own opinion, Miss Mount?”
“On that subject I have none, Mr. Landis.”
“Thanks,” replied Landis dryly. “Didn’t Mr. Harrison also threaten the
young people in some way?”
“He did. He told Mr. Allen that if they married without his consent he
would cut Anita off without a penny.”
“That was rather strong, wasn’t it? How did it happen that Allen stayed
in the house after that?”
“I suppose Mr. Allen stayed on to be near Anita and possibly in the
hope that Mr. Harrison might relent. It was like his peculiar humor to
tell Mr. Allen that he was welcome to remain as a guest so long as he
chose.”
“Harrison liked to gloat, did he?” inquired Bernard.
“It’s possible,” replied Miss Mount in a dry tone.
At this moment the expert appeared, to interrupt their conversation.
“By the way, Lieutenant--”
“Yes, Thorpe? Find anything?” asked Landis.
“Nothing at all on the armor. It’s been wiped clean and quite recently,
I think. Dusting might account for that. The door’s a bit better. I
found blurred prints of three small fingers on the far side of the
jamb and a thumb on the near side. There are distinct, slightly larger
finger-prints on the inside knob.”
“The ones on the knob were made by Miss Mount here,” Landis explained.
“Have you got impressions of both sets?”
“Can’t get them very well. I’ll have to photograph them. I’ve dusted
them all with powder, though.”
“Take an impression of Miss Mount’s finger-prints and check them with
the ones on the knob. I want a clear impression or print of the others
if you can get it, Thorpe!”
Miss Mount submitted, passively pressing her finger-tips on the
expert’s inky pad and then on paper. Thorpe took the impressions to the
end of the library, studied them and the door knob with a magnifying
glass and came back to the fire.
“The prints on the knob were made by the lady,” he said. “I’ll get the
three views you want first and then the blurred finger-prints. They’ll
need a special lens.”
Landis nodded the man away and rose to his feet.
“Thanks, Miss Mount. Please ask Mr. Joel Harrison to get into something
and come down to the library as quickly as possible. Please say nothing
else to him whatever.”
Miss Mount stood up, flung him a glance out of dark eyes that sparkled
dangerously and moved out of the room.
For the first view, that of the full length of the library, Thorpe
wanted the room empty. So Landis and Bernard left it for the hall.
Presently Thorpe called to them and they returned to find him adjusting
his camera to photograph the armor. They were just sitting down by the
fire again when a tall, angular individual in a dressing-gown, his
white hair on end so that he looked like a cockatoo, moved into the
doorway from the hall and stood staring at them.
“You requested that I come down here?” he asked in a reedy voice. “It
seems very strange to me.”
“Come in and sit down!” ordered Bernard.
Spurred by the note of command, Joel Harrison obeyed, settled his bony
length in a chair and began to stare into the flames. Bernard and
Landis sat motionless, watching him curiously. The dead man’s brother
appeared to have forgotten entirely that he was not alone.
Suddenly Landis remembered the sergeant still on duty in the hall. He
went out, suggested that he join the policeman in the reception-room
and returned to the library fire. As he drew near, Joel Harrison
glanced up at him in surprise.
“How do you do?” he said with some formality.
“Very well indeed, thank you,” replied Landis as he sat down. “How are
you, Mr. Harrison?”
“Oh, quite well. I’m always well!”
Landis nodded and let the conversation lapse, watching the old fellow
intently. In spite of many wrinkles, the long, lean face had something
of the child, or rather, something of extreme youth in it. Landis then
and afterwards thought of Joel Harrison in terms of a bird or an animal
rather than as a human being. Everything about the man, his sudden
silences, his relaxed immobility, his dreamy or bird-like glances,
belonged to the woodland rather than to civilized mankind. Remembering
the dead man’s face it was difficult to imagine the two brothers
getting on together.
“Mr. Harrison,” he began at last, “did you lock the door at the end of
the wing on this floor tonight?”
Joel turned his head slowly.
“Why, no. Stimson takes care of that sort of thing,” he explained.
For the last time, Landis embarked upon his list of questions. Joel
Harrison answered them clearly but slowly and with a sort of absent,
equable courtesy. He had not closed the library door or seen any
stranger about the place lately. He understood that his brother had
been hurt but had not been told, as yet, who did it.
Thoroughly puzzled as to the extent of the man’s mentality, Landis
tried a new tack.
“Mr. Harrison,” he said, “we’d both be interested to hear how you spent
your day today?”
“I’ll tell you with pleasure,” answered Joel politely. “I walked about
my brother’s extensive grounds or sat in quiet contemplation. What a
lucky fellow he is to preserve so much of nature from contamination,
gentlemen!”
“You took your lunch with you?”
“Oh, yes. I was away almost all day and did not return until evening
began to close in.”
“What time did you return, Mr. Harrison?”
“I have no idea. It’s no matter anyway.”
“Can you tell us through what door you entered the house when you came
home?”
This question seemed to catch Joel’s full attention. He looked at
Landis.
“I cannot see how that is of the slightest importance!” he replied.
“It is important!” snapped Bernard. “We want to know and we want to
know at once, Harrison!”
Joel shook his head helplessly.
“I really can’t remember. I think I came in the kitchen door and went
up the back stairs to my room, but I’m not entirely sure.”
“I understand,” said Landis, “that you are interested in shooting with
bows and arrows, eh?”
This time, to their amazement, Joel obviously found cause for offense.
“Pardon me! I am interested in archery!”
“I suppose then that you have noticed the Japanese bow at the end of
the room here?”
“I have, of course, seen and handled the long bow there. The design
ruins it for distance.”
“Was it usually strung?”
Joel was roused at last. He turned on Landis a glance of protesting
rebuke.
“Strung? There is no such word in archery, sir! If you mean
_bent_, that is, the bowcord in its nocks, then it was not! No one
with any respect for a bow would leave it in that condition!”
The effect of this dignified pronouncement was somewhat marred by the
sudden explosion of Thorpe’s flashlight. At the glare and puff of it,
Joel crouched and turned his head with the swiftness of an animal.
“What is that?” he exclaimed.
“Nothing. He’s taking photographs.” Landis paused to nod at the
expert as he carried his camera and flashpan past them toward the
reception-room. Then he turned back to Joel.
“Can you tell us how many arrows the quiver contained?”
“It’s of no consequence and I have no idea,” answered Joel with a touch
of impatience. “They are self-arrows, round steeled and with swine-back
vanes, white-webbed. They are V-nocked and have short shaftments. I
judge they are sheaf arrows as they have iron piles.”
“Would you be kind enough to tell us your movements since you entered
the house this evening?”
Once roused, however, Joel was not so easily calmed.
“I cannot see how my movements are of any importance to my brother’s
guests!” he retorted distantly.
“Oh, but they are,” said Landis. “We are not exactly guests; we are
detectives. And your brother is dead!”
Joel frowned.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I was told something of the sort. It is a great
pity, gentlemen. But my poor brother was always headstrong--very,
very headstrong! I have no doubt that he died without--er--consulting
anyone!”
At this moment they caught the light of Thorpe’s flash from the little
reception-room. Again Joel turned his head in swift alarm. A moment
later the expert came back into the library and started to prepare his
camera to photograph the finger-prints. Joel seemed to connect the man
with the flash for he relaxed in evident relief.
Bernard had been fuming inwardly for some time.
“Harrison!” he snapped. “Where did you go and what did you do from the
time you entered this house tonight?”
Joel became instantly submissive.
“I went to my room and remained there,” he answered quickly. “Cook
sent me up my dinner. I read a book.”
“Did you hear a scream?” Bernard demanded.
“Oh, yes! I did!”
“Well, what did you do about it?”
“I thought at first it might be Mrs. Graham screaming again. Then I
thought of Anita. She is good to me. I went to her room to see if she
was all right. But she failed to answer my knock. So I returned to my
bed and my book.”
“You made no attempt to investigate further?”
“No. I went back to my book.” Joel glanced about the library and began
to look puzzled and annoyed. “Excuse me,” he diverged, “I don’t wish to
seem discourteous or inhospitable. But it seems strange that you should
ask me to rise and come downstairs after I was in bed. Would it not
have been possible for you to call tomorrow?”
Humor deserted Landis, giving place to a shadow of pity.
“You know,” he said quietly, “we owe you an apology about that. But now
we’re here, we may as well have a chat, Mr. Harrison. You just said
that you thought the scream you heard might be Mrs. Graham again. Has
she screamed before?”
“Yes. She screamed a few nights ago. Miss Mount told me it was she when
I inquired.”
“When was it that she screamed, do you know?”
“A few nights ago. I believe it was Wednesday as I was in my bath.
Wednesday and Saturday are my bath nights.”
“Have you ever used the Japanese bow?” asked Landis.
“I bent it one day. My brother asked me not to use it so I refrained.”
“Ever try the arrows?” asked Bernard suddenly.
“No, sir. We have plenty of others in the lockers.”
“Where are the lockers?”
“Why, in the billiard-room!”
“Have you done any firing with bows and arrows on the third floor?”
Landis inquired.
Joel winced.
“Firing!” he exclaimed. “There is no way to ‘fire’ a bow! One speaks
of drawing and letting fly. Pardon me, but one doesn’t like to make
mistakes.”
“Of course not! Well, then, have you done any letting fly with bows and
arrows on the third floor?”
“Early this week we were practicing up there. The young people lost
interest too soon, I consider.”
“That was on Tuesday,” said Landis. “Have you done any shooting up
there since Tuesday, Mr. Harrison?”
Joel shook his head.
“No. It was not necessary. The weather has been fine. Of course one
prefers butt-shooting for the added hazard due to windage in the open.”
“All right, Mr. Harrison. We’re enormously obliged to you. Now I
suggest you go back to your bed and your book. If we need anything
more, we’ll see you tomorrow.”
Joel rose obediently and started out of the room, paused to bow a
courteous good night and vanished.
At precisely that same moment, Thorpe came hurrying along the library
to Landis.
“Look here, Lieutenant,” he exclaimed. “This is an amazing thing!
While I was taking those photographs, somebody has wiped the blurred
finger-prints off the door!”
Landis leapt from his chair and strode to the end of the library.
Finger-prints, picked out with white chalk, were plainly visible on the
knob of the half-closed door. But the woodwork was smooth and unmarked.
He hurried into the hall to look at the other side. Door-knob and
door-edge bore no traces of chalk. He looked swiftly about the deserted
hall. At the end of it nearest the swinging doors and the butler’s
pantry, something tiny and crumpled and white caught his eye. He ran
to it and picked it up, carrying it back to Bernard in the library.
It was a woman’s lace handkerchief. Landis explained swiftly where
he had found it. He carried it to the desk lamp where they studied
it together. The crumpled folds were ridged with white chalk. In one
corner they found the initials: “I. H.”