THE LUMINOUS FACE
by
CAROLYN WELLS
Author of
“The Come Back,” “In the Onyx Lobby,” “The Curved Blades” etc.
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers :: New York
Published by arrangement with George H. Doran Company
COPYRIGHT, 1921,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I—Doctor Fell
CHAPTER II—The Telephone Call
CHAPTER III—The Lindsays
CHAPTER IV—Pollard’s Threat
CHAPTER V—Mrs Mansfield’s Story
CHAPTER VI—The Fur Collar
CHAPTER VII—Barry’s Suspect
CHAPTER VIII—Miss Adams’ Story
CHAPTER IX—Ivy Hayes
CHAPTER X—The Signed Letter
CHAPTER XI—Miss Adams Again
CHAPTER XII—Louis’ Confession
CHAPTER XIII—Philip and Phyllis
CHAPTER XIV—Hester’s Statement
CHAPTER XV—Phyllis and Ivy
CHAPTER XVI—Buddy
CHAPTER XVII—Zizi
CHAPTER XVIII—The Luminous Face
THE LUMINOUS FACE
CHAPTER I
DOCTOR FELL
“A bit thick, I call it,” Pollard looked round the group; “here’s
Mellen been dead six weeks now, and the mystery of his taking-off
still unsolved.”
“And always will be,” Doctor Davenport nodded. “Mighty few murders are
brought home to the villains who commit them.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” drawled Phil Barry, an artist, whose dress and
demeanor coincided with the popular idea of his class. “I’ve no head
for statistics,” he went on, idly drawing caricatures on the margin of
his evening paper as he talked, “but I think they say that only
one-tenth of one per cent, of the murderers in this great and glorious
country of ours are ever discovered.”
“Your head for statistics is defective, as you admit,” Doctor
Davenport said, his tone scornful; “but percentages mean little in
these matters. The greater part of the murders committed are not
brought prominently before public notice. It’s only when the victim is
rich or influential, or the circumstances of some especial interest
that a murder occupies the front pages of the newspapers.”
“Old Mellen’s been on those same front pages for several weeks—off
and on, that is,” Pollard insisted; “of course, he was a well-known
man and his exit was dramatic. But all the same, they ought to have
caught his murderer—or slayer, as the papers call him.”
“Him?” asked Barry, remembering the details of the case.
“Impersonal pronoun,” Pollard returned, “and probably a man anyway.
‘Cherchez la femme,’ is the trite advice, and always sounds well, but
really, a woman seldom has nerve enough for the fatal deed.”
“That’s right,” Davenport agreed. “I know lots of women who have all
the intent of murder in their hearts, but who never could pull it
off.”
“A good thing, too,” Barry observed. “I’d hate to think any woman I
know capable of murder! Ugh!” His long, delicate white hand waved away
the distasteful idea with a gesture that seemed to dismiss it
entirely.
There were not many in the Club lounge, the group of men had it mostly
to themselves, and as the afternoon dusk grew deeper and the lights
were turned on, several more went away, and finally Fred Lane rose to
go.
“Frightfully interesting, you fellows,” he said, “but it’s after five,
and I’ve a date. Anybody I can drop anywhere?”
“Me, please,” accepted Dean Monroe. “That is, if you’re going my way.
I want to go downtown.”
“Was going up,” returned Lane, “but delighted to change my route. Come
along, Monroe.”
But Monroe had heard a chance word from Doctor Davenport that arrested
his attention, and he sat still.
“Guess I won’t go quite yet—thanks all the same,” he nodded at Lane,
and lighted a fresh cigarette.
Dean Monroe was a younger man than the others, an artist, but not yet
in the class with Barry. His square, firm-set jaw, and his Wedgwood
blue eyes gave his face a look of power and determination quite in
contrast with Philip Barry’s pale, sensitive countenance. Yet the two
were friends—chums, almost, and though differing in their views on
art, each respected the other’s opinions.
“Have it your own way,” Lane returned, indifferently, and went off.
“Crime detection is not the simple process many suppose,” Davenport
was saying, and Monroe gave his whole attention. “So much depends on
chance.”
“Now, Doctor,” Monroe objected, “I hold it’s one of the most exact
sciences, and——”
Davenport looked at him, as an old dog might look at an impertinent
kitten.
“Being an exact science doesn’t interfere with dependence on chance,”
he growled; “also, young man, are you sure you know what an exact
science is?”
“Yeppy,” Monroe defended himself, as the others smiled a little.
“It’s—why, it’s a science that’s exact—isn’t it?”
His gay smile disarmed his opponent, and Davenport, mounted on his
hobby, went on: “You may have skill, intuition, deductive powers and
all that, but to discover a criminal, the prime element is chance.
Now, in the Mellen case, the chances were all against the detectives
from the first. They didn’t get there till the evidences were, or
might have been destroyed. They couldn’t find Mrs Gresham, the most
important witness until after she had had time to prepare her string
of falsehoods. Oh, well, you know how the case was messed up, and now,
there’s not a chance in a hundred of the truth ever being known.”
“Does chance play any part in your profession, Doctor?” asked Monroe,
with the expectation of flooring him.
“You bet it does!” was the reply. “Why, be I never so careful in my
diagnosis or treatment, a chance deviation from my orders on the part
of patient or attendant, a chance draught of wind, or upset
nerves—oh, Lord, yes! as the Good Book says, ‘Time and Chance
happeneth to us all.’ And no line of work is more precarious than
establishing a theory or running down a clew in a murder case. For the
criminal, ever on the alert, has all the odds on his side, and can
block or divert the detective’s course at will.”
Doctor Ely Davenport was, without being pompous, a man who was at all
times conscious of his own personality and sure of his own importance.
He was important, too, being one of the most highly thought of doctors
in New York City, and his self-esteem, if a trifle annoying, was
founded on his real worth.
He often said that his profession brought him in contact with the
souls of men and women quite as much as with their bodies, and he was
fond of theorizing what human nature might do or not do in crucial
moments.
The detection of crime he held to be a matter requiring the highest
intelligence and rarest skill.
“Detection!” he exclaimed, in the course of the present conversation,
“why detection is as hard to work out as the Fourth Dimension! As
difficult to understand as the Einstein theory.”
“Oh, come now, Doctor,” Pollard said, smiling, “that’s going a bit too
far. I admit, though, it requires a superior brain. But any real work
does. However, I say, first catch your motive.”
“That’s it,” broke in Monroe, eagerly. “It all depends on the motive!”
“The crime does,” Davenport assented, drily, “but not the detection.
You youngsters don’t know what you’re talking about—you’d better shut
up.”
“We know a lot,” returned Monroe, unabashed. “Youth is no barrier to
knowledge these days. And I hold that the clever detective seeks first
the motive. You can’t have a murder without a motive, any more than an
omelette without eggs.”
“True, oh, Solomon,” granted the doctor. “But the motive may be known
only to the murderer, and not to be discovered by any effort of the
investigator.”
“Then the murder mystery remains unsolved,” returned Monroe, promptly.
“Your saying so doesn’t make it so, you know,” drawled Phil Barry, in
his impertinent way. “Now, to me it would seem that a nice lot of
circumstantial evidence, and a few good clews would expedite matters
just as well as a knowledge of the villain’s motive.”
“Circumstantial evidence!” scoffed Monroe.
“Sure,” rejoined Barry; “Give me a smoking revolver with initials on
it, a dropped handkerchief, monogrammed, of course, half a broken
cuff-link, and a few fingerprints, and I care not who knows the
motive. And if you can add a piece—no, a fragment of tweed, clutched
in the victim’s rigid hand—why—I’ll not ask for wine!”
“What rubbish you all talk,” said Pollard, smiling superciliously;
“don’t you see these things all count? If you have motive you don’t
need evidence, and _vice versa_. That is, if both motive and
evidence are the real thing.”
“There are only three motives,” Monroe informed. “Love, hate and
money.”
“You’ve got all the jargon by heart, little one,” and Pollard grinned
at him. “Been reading some new Detective Fiction?”
“I’m always doing that,” Monroe stated, “but I hold that a detective
who can’t tell which of those three is the motive, isn’t worth his
salt.”
“Salt is one commodity that has remained fairly inexpensive,” said
Barry, speaking slowly, and with his eyes on his cigarette, from which
he was carefully amputating the ash, “and a detective who could truly
diagnose motive is not to be sneezed at. Besides, revenge is often a
reason.”
“That comes under the head of hate,” promptly responded Monroe. “The
three motives include all the gamut of human emotion, and some of
their ramifications will include every murder motive that ever
existed.”
“Fear?” quietly suggested Doctor Davenport.
“Part of hate,” said Monroe, but he was challenged by Pollard.
“Not necessarily. A man may fear a person whom he does not hate at
all. But there’s another motive, that doesn’t quite fit your
classification, Monroe.”
Before the inevitable question could be put another man joined the
group.
“Hello, folks,” said Robert Gleason, as he sat down; “hope I don’t
intrude—and all that. What you talking about?”
“Murder,” said Barry. “Murder as a Fine Art, you know.”
“Don’t like the subject. Let’s change it. Talk about the ladies, or
something pleasant, you know. Eh?”
“Or Shakespeare and the musical glasses,” said Pollard.
“No musical glasses, nowadays,” bewailed Gleason. “No more clink the
canakin, clink. It’s drink to me only with thine eyes. Hence, the
preponderance of women and song in our lives, since the third of the
trio is gone.”
Gleason was the sort of Westerner usually described as breezy. He was
on intimate terms with everybody, whether everybody reciprocated or
not. Not a large man, not a young man, he possessed a restless
vitality, a wiry energy that gave him an effect of youth. About forty,
he was nearer the age of Doctor Davenport than the others, who were
all in their earliest thirties.
Nobody liked Gleason much, yet no one really disliked him. He was a
bit forward, a little intrusive, but it was clear to be seen that
those mannerisms were due to ignorance and not to any intent to be
objectionable. He was put up at the Club by a friend, and had never
really overstepped his privileges, though it was observable that his
ways were not club ways.
“Yep, the Ladies—God bless ’em!” he went on. “What could be a better
subject for gentlemen’s discussion? No personalities, of course; that
goes without saying.”
“Then why say it?” murmured Pollard, without looking at the speaker.
“That’s so! Why, indeed?” was the genial response. “Now, you know, out
in Seattle, where I hail from, there’s more—oh, what do you call it,
sociability like, among men. I go into a club there and everybody
sings out something gay; I come in here, and you all shut up like
clams.”
“You objected to the subject we were discussing,” began Monroe,
indignantly, but Barry interrupted, with a wave of his hand, “The
effete East, my dear Gleason. Doubtless you’ve heard that expression?
Yes, you would. Well, it’s our renowned effeteness that prevents our
falling on your neck more effusively.”
“Guying me?” asked Gleason, with a quiet smile. “You see, boys, before
I went to Seattle, I was born in New England. I can take a little
chaff.”
“You’re going to tell us of your ancestry?” said Pollard, and though
his words were polite his tone held a trace of sarcastic intent.
Gleason turned a sudden look on him.
“I might, if you really want me to,” he said, slowly. “I might give
you the story of my life from my infancy, spent in Coggs’ Hollow, New
Hampshire, to the present day, when I may call myself one of the
leading citizens of Seattle, Wash.”
“What or whom do you lead?” asked Pollard, and again the only trace of
unpleasantness was a slight inflection in his really fine voice.
“I lead the procession,” and Gleason smiled, as one who positively
refuses to take offense whether meant or not. “But, I can tell you I
don’t lead it here in New York! Your pace is rather swift for me! I’m
having a good time and all that, but soon, it’s me for the wildness
and woolliness of the good old West again! Why, looky here, I’m living
in a hole in the wall—yes, sir, a hole in the wall!”
“I like that!” laughed Doctor Davenport. “Why, man, you’re in that
apartment of McIlvaine’s—one of the best put-ups in town.”
“Yes, so Mac said,” Gleason exploded. “Why, out home, we’d call that a
coop. But what could I do? This old town of yours, spilling over full,
couldn’t fix me out at any hotel, so when my friend offered his
palatial home, I took it—and——”
“You’d be surprised at the result!” Barry broke in. “That’s because
you’re a Western millionaire, Mr Gleason. Now we poor, struggling
young artists think that apartment you’re in, one of the finest
diggings around Washington Square.”
“But, man, there’s no service!” Gleason went on, complainingly. “Not
even a hall porter! Nobody to announce a caller!”
“Well, you have that more efficient service, the——”
“Yes! the contraption that lets a caller push a button and have the
door open in his face!”
“Isn’t that just what he wants?” said Barry, laughing outright at
Gleason’s disgusted look. “Then, you see, Friend Caller walks
upstairs, and there you are!”
“Yes, _walks_ upstairs. Not even an elevator!”
“But your friends don’t need one,” expostulated Davenport. “You’re
only one flight up. You don’t seem to realize how lucky you are to get
that place, in these days of housing problems!”
“Oh, well, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door,
but it will serve,” said Gleason, with one of his sudden, pleasant
smiles.
“I see your point, though, Mr Gleason,” said Dean Monroe. “And if I
were a plutocrat from Seattle, sojourning in this busy mart, I confess
I, too, should like a little more of the dazzling light in my halls
than you get down there. I know the place, used to go there to see
McIlvaine. And while it’s a decent size, and jolly well furnished, I
can see how you’d prefer more gilt on your ginger bread.”
“I do, and I’d have it, too, if I were staying here much longer. But
I’m going to settle up things soon now, and go back to home, sweet
home.”
“How did you, a New Englander, chance to make Seattle your home?”
asked Monroe, always of a curious bent.
“Had a chance to go out there and get rich. You see, Coggs’ Hollow, as
one might gather from its name, was a small hamlet. I lived there till
I was twenty-five, then, getting a chance to go West and blow up with
the country, I did. Glad of it, too. Now, I’m going back there, and—I
hope to take with me a specimen of your fair feminine. Yes, sir, I
hope and expect to take along, under my wing, one of these little
moppy-haired, brief-skirted lassies, that will grace my Seattle home
something fine!”
“Does she know it yet?” drawled Barry and Gleason stared at him.
“She isn’t quite sure of it, but I am!” he returned with a comical air
of determination.
“You know her pretty well, then,” chaffed Barry.
“You bet I do! I ought to. She’s my sister’s stepdaughter.”
“Phyllis Lindsay!” cried Barry, involuntarily speaking the name.
“The same,” said Gleason, smiling; “and as I’m due there for dinner,
I’ll be toddling now to make myself fine for the event.”
With a general beaming smile of good nature that included all the
group, Gleason went away.
For a few moments no one spoke, and then Monroe began, “As I was
saying, there are only three motives for murder—and I stick to that.
But you were about to say, Pollard——?”
“I was about to say that you have omitted the most frequent and most
impelling motive. It doesn’t always result in the fatal stroke, but as
a motive, it can’t be beat.”
“Go on—what is it?”
“Just plain dislike.”
“Oh, hate,” said Monroe.
“Not at all. Hate implies a reason, a grievance. But I mean an
ineradicable, and unreasonable dislike—why, simply a case of:
‘I do not like you, Doctor Fell,
The reason why I cannot tell;
But this I know and know full well,
I do not like you, Doctor Fell.’
One Tom Brown wrote that, and it’s a bit of truth, all right!”
“One Martial said it before your friend Brown,” informed Doctor
Davenport. “He wrote:
‘Non amo, te, Sabidi,
nec possum dicere quore;
Hoc tantum possum dicere,
non amo te.’
Which is, being translated for the benefit of you unlettered ones, ‘I
do not love thee, Sabidius, nor can I say why; this only can I say, I
do not love thee.’ There’s a French version, also.”
“Never mind, Doc,” Pollard interrupted, “we don’t want your erudition,
but your opinion. You say you know psychology as well as physiology;
will you agree that a strong motive for murder might be just that
unreasonable dislike—that distaste of seeing a certain person
around?”
“No, not a strong motive,” said Davenport, after a short pause for
thought. “A slight motive, perhaps, by which I mean a fleeting
impulse.”
“No,” persisted Pollard, “an impelling—a compelling motive. Why,
there’s Gleason now. I can’t bear that man. Yet I scarcely know him.
I’ve met him but a few times—had little or no personal conversation
with him—yet I dislike him. Not detest or hate or despise—merely
dislike him. And, some day I’m going to kill him.”
“Going to kill all the folks you dislike?” asked Barry, indifferently.
“Maybe. If I dislike them enough. But that Gleason offends my taste. I
can’t stand him about. So, as I say, I’m going to kill him. And I hold
that the impulse that drives me to the deed is the strongest murder
motive a man can have.”
“Don’t talk rubbish, Manning,” and young Monroe gave him a frightened
glance, as if he thought Pollard in earnest.
“It isn’t altogether rubbish,” said Doctor Davenport, as he rose to
go, “there’s a grain of truth in Pollard’s contention. A rooted
dislike of another is a bad thing to have in your system. Have it cut
out, Pollard.”
“You didn’t mean it, did you, Manning?”
Monroe spoke diffidently, almost shyly, with a scared glance at
Pollard.
The latter turned and looked at him with a smile. Then, glaring
ferociously, he growled, “Of course I did! And if you get yourself
disliked, I’ll kill you, too! _Booh!_”
They all laughed at Monroe’s frightened jump, as Pollard Booh’d into
his face, and Doctor Davenport said, “Look out, Pollard, don’t scare
our young friend into fits! And, remember, Monroe, ‘Threatened men live
long?’ I’ve my car—anybody want a lift anywhere?”
“Take me, will you?” said Dean Monroe, and willingly enough, Doctor
Davenport carried the younger man off in his car.
“You oughtn’t to do it, Pol, you know,” Barry gently remonstrated.
“Poor little Monroe thinks you’re a gory villain, and he’ll mull over
your fool remarks till he’s crazy—more crazy than he is already.”
“Let him,” said Pollard, smiling indifferently. “I only spoke the
truth—as to that motive, I mean. Don’t you want to kill that Gleason
every time you see him?”
“You make him seem like a cat—with nine or more lives! How _can_
you kill a man every time you see him? It isn’t done!”
The two men left the Club together, and walked briskly down Fifth
Avenue.
“Going to the Lindsays’ to-night, of course?” asked Barry, as they
reached Forty-fifth Street, where he turned off.
“Yes. You?”
“Yes. See you later, then. You gather that Gleason has annexed the
pretty Phyllis?”
“Looks like it, doesn’t it? I suppose the announcement will be made
to-night at the dinner or the dance.”
“Suppose so. How I hate to see it that way. I’m in love with that
little beauty myself.”
“Who isn’t?” returned Pollard, smiling, and then Barry turned off in
his own street, and Pollard went on down toward his home, a small
hotel on West Fortieth.
Held up for a few moments by the great tide of traffic at Forty-second
Street, he glanced at his wrist watch and found it was ten minutes
after six. And then, a taxicab passed him, and in it he saw Phyllis
Lindsay. She did not see him, however, so, the traffic signal being
given, he went on his way.