BERNARD OFFERS A HINT
Landis, who rather prided himself upon his habitual serenity during
the course of an investigation, found himself exasperated to a degree
that made it increasingly difficult to maintain his customary poise.
The circumstantial evidence against Miss Mount was physically without a
flaw. Psychologically it did not satisfy him. That the lady possessed
a temper was evident. Baited to sudden overwhelming rage she might
strike and damn the consequences. As a type to plan and perpetrate a
cold-blooded murder she was less convincing.
Inwardly dubious himself, he had been perversely irritated at Bernard’s
lack of interest in Miss Mount as the possible criminal. Yet he had
acquired an almost reverential confidence in the judgment of the
older man. So he relinquished, for the moment at least, his plan to
cross-question Miss Mount.
The only alternative was to plow blindly ahead and hope for a scrap of
fresh evidence which might point a clearer road. Possibly the gloves
might prove something. In the meantime, firmly convinced that Anita had
not killed her own father, he decided to question her anyway. There
seemed nothing else to do and she might drop a hint that would prove
enlightening in some other direction.
He followed Bernard down the main staircase, observing the figure of
his colleague with mixed emotions. Bernard’s big body lumbered as he
moved, one large hand smoothing the narrow, velvet handrail to steady
him. But the generous feet were light and sure as they impressed the
rich carpeting. Old as he was, Bernard still conveyed a suggestion
of tremendous physical power. Landis fleetingly conjectured that a
single wrench of that large hand could tear the handrail from its slim,
wrought-iron supports.
A flash of enlightenment read into that conjecture a symbolic meaning.
Rich and permanent though it seemed, ethically the house of Harrison
was built upon sand. At least some of its inmates despised as well as
feared Bernard. Yet the eternal verities hinted that the tide of his
sterling qualities was capable of sweeping them and their castle of
sand into oblivion.
At the foot of the stairs Bernard halted and turned.
“Suggest you give orders that nobody’s to leave the house today,” he
smiled. “After that I want Stimson.”
“I’ll do it, sir,” replied Landis, his tone almost a humble one. “I’ll
send the butler to you in the library.”
Bernard flung at him a quick, shrewd glance, then lumbered away,
growling under his breath.
Luckily the household had not yet scattered. Landis sought and found
Miss Mount in the kitchen and put his command to her in the form of
a request. She accepted it with stiff amiability and sent Stimson
upstairs to repeat it to Isabelle and Joel. She told Landis that he
would find Anita and probably the two young men in the billiard-room.
Landis waited for Stimson’ to return and dispatched him to find Bernard
in the library. He made his own way through the ground floor halls and
paused in the billiard-room door.
It was a brilliant blue October day. Across the end of the room from
him the door into the sunken garden stood open, admitting a shimmering
flood of light. His eyes narrowed to meet the glare. Beyond the door,
nature lay glittering and alert under the bright blue sky, as though
she had gathered herself for one recrudescent blaze of splendor before
her winter sleep. A puff of breeze with a sweet, chill tang swept in
through the open door and set the smoke-laden atmosphere aswirl.
Landis turned his head. In three deep chairs before a blazing fire,
Anita and Russell and Allen lay slumped on their shoulder-blades.
Anita, nearest the far windows, he could see in profile. She had turned
her head at his appearance and looked lazily away again, brushing her
skirt over her knees. The presence of the two men was betrayed by an
elbow a-piece, for the backs of their chairs hid the rest of them.
Far from being impressed by their obvious intention to ignore him,
Landis felt a touch of contempt at their method of passing such a
morning. His lips tightened a little as he approached the fire.
He found a position from which he could look down into their faces and
nodded shortly.
“Last night,” he said, “you three went for a drive, I believe. From now
on you’ll stay in the house until further orders. Is that clear?”
Russell sat up with a jerk.
“Damn your impudence!” he exploded. “Who the hell do you think you are,
anyway?”
Landis met his eyes and held them, then jerked his head toward the door.
“Clear out!” he snapped. “I want to talk to Miss Harrison alone.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” Russell sneered. “What if I don’t choose to clear
out, as you put it?”
“You’ll do as you’re told and do it quick,” retorted Landis evenly,
“or I’ll put you under restraint. Understand?”
Russell stared up at him, his eyes dangerous.
Landis took a step forward.
“Get out!” he snapped, the sum of his accumulated irritation crackling
in his voice.
With a sudden, furious oath, Russell yanked himself to his feet, glared
an instant and stamped out of the room.
At this point Allen lazily arose.
“Me, too?” he asked plaintively. “Can’t I stay and protect my wife?”
The sly amusement in his tone pricked the bubble of anger under which
Landis had momentarily labored.
“You, too,” he nodded. “Go look up Bernard in the library. I think he
wants you in there.”
“I hear and obey,” said Allen and took his departure.
Landis moved across and stood with his back to the fire, looking down
at Anita. She returned his regard admiringly, confident of her own good
looks and a becoming sports outfit.
“My, what a forceful personality you have!” she cooed. “I do love it so
in a man!”
Landis felt his irritation return. The impudence of her attitude, half
teasing, half inviting, left him unmoved. It was the lack of any firm
foundation of facts from which to attack her that roused his annoyance.
He put a bold face on it.
“Miss Harrison,” he said crisply, “I want to know why you lied to
us about the time you left Allen’s room the night your father was
murdered. You left it _before_ the gong sounded!”
Obviously startled, she drew in her feet and sat up.
“Why, I didn’t either!” she declared. “I was in my husband’s room when
Susan screamed!”
Landis smiled tolerantly.
“More lies, eh? Don’t you realize how foolish you are to lie to me?”
He leaned forward abruptly. “You left Allen’s room _before_ the
gong sounded. You ran along the upper hall and into Miss Mount’s room
_before_ the gong sounded. That much we know! Now, where were you
when Susan screamed? Careful! We know that, too!”
“You don’t know anything of the sort! I _was_ there when the gong
sounded! I didn’t leave Fred’s room until after Susan screamed. I’ll
admit I ran along the hall. But that was after she screamed. Why, you
know I came down the near flight after she screamed! Do you think I
hung around up there in the wing hall all that time?”
“Not in the wing hall--in Miss Mount’s room!”
“I was _not_ in Miss Mount’s room! What on earth would I be doing
there? I never even looked at her door as I passed!”
“You just can’t tell the truth, can you?”
Anita stared up at him.
“What about you?” she flared. “You _don’t know_ that I ran along
the hall before Susan screamed--because I didn’t! So you’re telling
whoppers yourself! You’re a fine one to throw stones!”
Landis looked down at her inscrutably.
“You propose to stick to your story, eh?” he inquired.
“You bet I do,” she flashed, “because it’s true!”
“You didn’t show any marked respect for veracity the last time we
questioned you here, Miss Harrison!”
Anita leaned back in her chair.
“Well,” she murmured, “I just couldn’t bring myself to lie to a man
like you any longer! It’s your forceful personality that’s done it!”
Landis felt such an overpowering impulse to slap her that it showed in
his eyes. Anita flopped back in her chair and drew up her pretty knees
in self-defense.
“Don’t you dare!” she warned, with a quaver of excited laughter.
Disgusted with her and himself as well, Landis turned on his heel and
paced the length of the room, at a loss and bitterly aware of it. At
length he turned back to her, composed again.
“All right, Miss Harrison,” he said quietly. “If you persist in your
story I’ve nothing more to say to you at present. But don’t leave the
house, please!”
“I do stick to my story and I won’t leave the house,” replied the girl
demurely. “Please walk--do not run--to the nearest exit, Mr. Landis!”
He stared down at her with an open disgust that was not without its
effect.
“For a girl whose father has just been murdered,” he said slowly, “you
seem somewhat flippant, Miss Harrison. His death may appear to you to
be more a gain than a loss. But it isn’t wise to make that fact so
obvious!”
Anita’s eyes flew to meet his. “I think you’re a beast!” she flared, “a
self-satisfied beast!”
Landis smiled contemptuously.
“I’ll keep my opinion of you politely shrouded in silence,” he
retorted. “But I’ll trouble you for your finger-prints!”
He took a personal letter from his pocket, withdrew it from the
envelope and held it out to her.
“My--my finger-prints! Why?”
With a gesture of impatience he caught her hand, pressed her four
finger-tips and then her thumb on the letter, restored it to its
envelope and walked out of the room.
Anita sat rigid for a moment, a prey to rage and fright. Finally she
jumped to her feet, ran through the curtains and along the wing hall
and pounded on Allen’s door, careless of whether anyone saw her there
or not.
Landis found Bernard pacing the library, puffing at his pipe in a
brown study and an atmosphere of fine content. He looked up as Landis
appeared.
“Get Anita’s finger-prints?” he inquired mildly.
“I did,” snapped Landis. “Did you get the others?”
“I did. Any luck with Anita? I judge not!”
“Not a bit. She swears that she was in Allen’s room when Susan
screamed. She’s such a liar that it hardly seemed worth while to
question her about last night. I couldn’t shake her story. Maybe she’s
telling the truth. In that case, who the hell did run along the hall?”
“You can search me. Isabelle perhaps.”
“Shall we question her?”
Bernard shook his head.
“Not just now, I think. It’s almost lunch time. Let’s go up and see
Graham again.”
He led the way up to the wing, Landis trudging doggedly at his heels.
At sight of them Graham’s anxious face lightened with a smile.
“Anything new?” he asked.
“Quite a bit, I think,” rumbled Bernard as he sat down. “For one thing,
there are at least two distinct finger-prints in those gloves and we’ve
got the prints of the rest of the household. I’m not going to risk
doing anything to compare them until the expert gets here. He hasn’t
shown up yet and I don’t expect him now until after lunch. For another
thing, I’ve worked out a brand new theory!”
Landis groaned.
“Another theory!”
“Hold your tongue,” retorted Bernard good-naturedly, unconsciously
quoting a favorite affectionate command of his wife’s. “This theory is
a dandy!”
“What is it?” inquired Graham.
“It’s just this. Maybe the finger-prints will help us, maybe not. But
the gloves are torn and torn recently. If they were used to prevent
finger-prints when Harrison was killed and you were shot, they were
torn at the wrists because the wearer’s hands were too big for them!
That may help us eliminate, at least!”
“Joel--Miss Mount--Russell,” murmured Landis thoughtfully.
“And Brent!” said Bernard. “His hands are surprisingly large!”
“Mr. Brent!” exclaimed Graham. “You don’t mean--”
Bernard shook his head.
“I mean nothing--yet!” he said. “Unfortunately, we can’t have the
gloves tried on until the expert has seen the finger-prints. In the
meantime, I’m going to put them back in Joel’s den so they won’t be
missed. It’s almost lunch time. I propose to pull off our experiment
with the cross-bow as soon as everyone is in the dining-room. I’ll
have to borrow your guard, Graham. But we won’t keep him more than
ten minutes and you can lock your door. As to my theory--” he paused,
teasingly.
“Well?” they demanded in unison.
Bernard turned away to Graham’s desk, sat down, found a blank sheet of
note paper and a pencil and busied himself at writing for a moment.
Then he rose and returned to the bedside, smiling his quizzical smile.
“I’ll just put myself on record for you both,” he said and handed the
sheet to Landis.
After reading it eagerly enough, Landis snorted and passed it to
Graham.
“Call that a theory?” he queried.
Graham read the scribbled lines more slowly, his brows furrowed by a
puzzled frown. Bernard had written:
“Is there anyone in any way connected with this case who might be
more cunning and unscrupulous than is apparent, who has no alibi
whatever and who could have accomplished the murder so far as
knowledge, skill with a bow and opportunity are concerned?”
When he finished reading, Graham looked up.
“Mr. Brent?” he murmured. “Or Joel Harrison?”
Bernard held out his hand for his record and put it in his pocket.
“I didn’t say so,” he denied.
A knock on the bedroom door distracted their attention. In answer to
Graham’s summons, Stimson opened the door and stood on the threshold,
his eyes on Bernard.
“Mr. Brent has arrived in answer to your call, sir,” he announced.
“Will he be staying to lunch, sir? It’s just ready.”
“He will, Stimson,” said Bernard. “Tell him I’d like a word with him
after the meal.”
“Very good, sir,” said Stimson and withdrew.
Landis and Graham were staring at each other with a wild surmise that
was worthy of stout Cortez. The musical clamor of the gong floated up
to them from the hall below. Bernard got briskly to his feet.
“Now for our experiment,” he said. “I’m going to replace these gloves
and go down for an arrow. Miss Mount will be in the dining-room by this
time.”
“All right,” answered Landis. Graham nodded absently. The mention of
Brent’s name seemed to have shocked him into a train of absorbed and
startled conjecture.
Outside the door, Bernard ordered the policeman on guard there
to follow him down to the library. He led the way along the hall
to the wing stairs and thence through the lower wing hall and the
billiard-room to the rear library door.
Here he selected an undamaged Japanese arrow from the quiver, explained
his wishes to the sergeant and presently retraced his steps to the
upper wing hall. He knocked on Miss Mount’s door and getting no answer,
entered, laid the arrow on the desk, passed through the bathroom, put
the gloves on Joel’s work-bench and after a moment crossed the hall to
Graham’s room.
During his absence, Landis had remarked that Bernard loved a mystery
as he loved a man-hunt and the two men had smiled at each other. The
conversation lapsed after that, but each looked up with a reminiscent
smile as Bernard entered.
“All ready,” announced Bernard. “The arrow’s across the hall. Come
on, Landis.” To Graham he added: “I’ve borrowed your guard for a bit,
so lock your door if you like, though I don’t believe you’re in any
danger.”
“I will. But look here, Mr. Bernard, do you think this experiment of
yours is safe? This whole business is such a mystery! Drat this arm! I
wish I could get up and help!”
“It’s safe enough,” smiled Bernard. “And it’s really necessary. It will
reproduce all the stresses and strains on the black thread and prove
whether the theory Landis advanced would work out in practice. Don’t
you worry about us. You lock your door until we get back and we’ll tell
you all about it.”
“All right,” agreed the young lawyer dubiously.
Out in the hall with Graham’s door closed, Landis turned on Bernard.
“Have you traced Brent’s movements the night of the murder?” he
demanded.
“Certainly not! But he told us he was out for a stroll at the time,
if you remember. He’s hard up and Harrison’s death means a big income
to him. Also, Joel showed Brent his treasures a week ago Sunday,
including, presumably, the cross-bow. Brent has plenty of motive, no
alibi and is a very good shot, Landis. Remember how he hung about that
first night when we were questioning Miss Mount? Finally, it’s just
possible that Graham knows too much about his financial affairs!”
Landis nodded uncertainly.
“Not much better and no worse than our other theories,” he muttered.
“Oh, well, let’s try out the cross-bow, eh?”
They entered Miss Mount’s room and moved quietly through the bathroom
into Joel’s den. Five or six minutes later they had wound up the
cross-bow, adjusted it to the recent scratches on Miss Mount’s desk,
propped up the butt with a book and set the Japanese arrow in the
groove of the stock. They sighted along the arrow to find that it
pointed straight through the open top of the middle library window and
through the reception-room door beyond.
Satisfied on that point, Landis carefully fastened his thread to
the trigger, passed it around the knob of the closed bathroom door
and holding the thread, dropped the spool out the window into the
garden-bed below.
They descended the stairs at the end of the wing, passed out into the
grounds, found the spool and carried it to the reception-room window,
paying out their thread as they went.
Now Landis, who had carefully tested the pull of the trigger, drew
the black thread as taut as he dared and fastened it, with a stout
thumbtack, to the lower sash of the window which Miss Mount had
closed. The window was open again, the lower sash high above the sill.
“You could simply pull our thread from out here,” he observed to
Bernard, “but to prove our theory up to the hilt, the window ought to
be actually lowered as Miss Mount lowered it that night.”
“_Your_ theory,” corrected Bernard. “You’re right, of course. I’ll
lower the window from here and you can watch from indoors. Never mind
about people blundering into the library to get shot. They’re all at
lunch and I’ve stationed the policemen out of sight. If someone came
nosing about, it might give us a hint and we don’t want our cops in
evidence on that account. So you take up your stand in the far corner
of the reception-room and keep out of the line of fire. Let me know
when you’re ready and I’ll pull down the window!”
Bernard waited, one elbow on the sill, until Landis had passed around
through the wing and the library to his post. He took that route to
avoid being seen from the dining-room.
“Ready?” called Bernard.
“Shoot!” replied Landis alertly.
With a sudden grin, Bernard raised both his arms, avoiding the thread,
put his weight on the sash and pulled the window down with a bang.
From his position in the reception-room, Landis caught a distant and
musical twang. To his utter amazement, however, no Japanese arrow
flashed through the reception-room doorway. Instead, he was startled by
a bellow of rage from outdoors and glancing through the closed window
was further amazed to see no sign of Bernard.
With a sense of sickening dread he sprang into the main hall, ran to
the front door, flung it open and dashed round the corner of the house.
He was just in time to catch Bernard wallowing on his face in the
flower-bed under the window. A moment later his elderly colleague had
scrambled to his feet and turned.
“My God, are you hurt?” Landis shouted.
“Not a bit of it! Just dirty!” snapped Bernard. “There’s your arrow! It
worked!”
Landis followed his pointing finger. A few feet behind where Bernard
had been standing, the arrow had glanced from the stone foundations of
the house and buried two feet of its length in the soft, moist earth of
the garden-bed.
He looked back at Bernard. The old detective’s face was pale under its
accumulated tan and his mouth was grim.
“It just missed you!” cried Landis. “How in hell--”
“Come on!” snapped Bernard. “We’ve got our criminal--and a damned
clever one, Landis--_too_ clever, that’s all!”
Momentarily bemused with astonishment, Landis saw that his companion
was running heavily toward the door at the end of the wing. He came to
himself with a jerk and sprang in pursuit. Bernard had gained the foot
of the wing stairs when Landis overtook him. Landis made no attempt to
pass but hung on his heels, marveling alike at Bernard’s words and his
lumbering speed as he climbed. They burst into the second-floor hall
and Bernard pounded away toward Miss Mount’s room. Landis drew level
with him but fell back as they reached her door.
Bernard’s massive figure blocked the doorway for an instant, then moved
aside to reveal Sergeant Forbes and one of his men half way between the
door and the desk. Landis stared at them in amazement.
Gripped firmly between them, erect and pale, stood Graham.