The Telephone Call
Every hour of every twenty-four is filled with amazing occurrences and
startling episodes. Astonishing incidents and even more startling
coincidences are happening every minute of every sixty minutes, but
the fact that those most interested are unaware of these deeds is what
makes the great cases of mystery.
Only an omniscient eye that could see all the activities of the few
hours following the events just related could pierce the veil of doubt
and uncertainty that overhung the ensuing tragedy.
The first human being to receive news of it was Miss Hester Jordan.
This capable and efficient young woman was the office nurse of Doctor
Davenport, and her position was no sinecure.
Of a highly nervous temperament, she yet managed to preserve the
proper calm and poise that nurses should always show, except when, at
the end of a long, hard day, she became mentally and physically
exhausted.
Though supposed to be off duty at six o’clock, her relief was
frequently late in arriving and in this instance had not yet put in an
appearance, though it was half past the hour.
Wearily, Miss Jordan answered telephone calls, striving to keep her
tired voice pleasant and amiable.
“No,” she would answer the anxious speakers, “Doctor Davenport is not
in.” “Yes, I expect him soon.” “Can you leave a message?” “Yes, I will
tell him.” “He will surely be in by seven.” “No, he left no message
for you.” “No, I don’t know exactly where he is.” “Yes, I will let you
know.”
Replies of this sort, over and over, strained her nerves to their
furthest tension, and when at six-forty the telephone bell jangled
again she took the receiver from its hook with what was almost a jerk.
“Hello,” she said, unable to keep utter exasperation out of her voice.
But instead of a summons from some impatient patient, she heard a
faint voice say, “Come, Doctor—oh, come quick—I’m—I’m done
for—shot——”
There were more incoherent words, but Nurse Jordan couldn’t catch
them.
“Who are you?” she cried, alert now. “Who is speaking?”
“Gleason,” came back the faint voice. “Wash’—t’n Square—come—can’t
you come quick——”
She could get no more. The voice ceased, and only blank silence met
her frantic queries.
She hung up her receiver, and a sudden realization of the situation
came to her. She seemed to see the scene—somebody shot—somebody
telephoning that he was shot—somebody’s voice getting weaker and
ceasing to sound at all—the picture was too much for her tired brain,
and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed hysterically from
sheer nervous excitement.
Only for a moment did she give way. Nurse Jordan’s training and
personality was not to be conquered by a sudden shock of any sort.
Pulling herself together, she set to work to find the doctor.
This meant telephoning to two or three places where she knew there was
a chance of locating him.
And at the third call she found him at Mrs Ballard’s, and, though
still shaken and quivering, she controlled her voice and told him
distinctly of the tragic telephone call she had taken.
“Gleason!” cried the Doctor, “Washington Square? What number?”
But Nurse Jordan didn’t know, and Doctor Davenport had to call up
somebody to inquire.
He tried Mrs Lindsay, who was Gleason’s sister, but her wire was busy
and after an impatient moment, Davenport called Pollard, at his hotel.
“Here,” he cried, handing the receiver to a staring butler, “take this
and when the gentleman answers, ask him the address of Robert Gleason.
Tell him Doctor Davenport’s inquiring.”
He then returned to the prescription he had been writing, and gave it
to Mrs Ballard, who was indignant at having her interview with her
doctor intruded upon.
“I’ll call to-morrow,” he soothed her; “you’ll be better in the
morning. Let fish alone, and stick to simple diet for a few days. Get
that address, Jenkins?”
“Yes, sir,” and the butler gave him a slip of paper.
“H’m—near Washington Square, not on it,” he murmured, looking at the
written number, and then he ran down the Ballard front steps, and
jumping into his waiting car, gave his chauffeur Gleason’s address.
“Wonder what’s up?” he thought, as his car rolled down Fifth Avenue.
“Accident, I suppose. Jordan is always on edge this time of night.
Have to take her excitement with a grain of salt.”
But when he reached the house, and pushed the button that indicated
McIlvaine’s apartment, there was no response from the closed street
door.
He rang again, long and insistently, then, still getting no
encouragement, he pushed another button.
The door gave a grudging grunt, and, unwillingly, as it seemed, moved
slowly inward.
Doctor Davenport was half way up the first flight of stairs, when a
woman’s head appeared through a doorway.
“What do you want?” she inquired, a little crisply.
“Mr McIlvaine’s apartment.”
“That’s it, opposite,” she returned, more affable as she caught sight
of the good-looking man. “Mr Gleason’s in there now.”
“Yes, he’s the man I want. Thank you, madame.”
She still stood, watching, as he rang the doorbell of the designated
apartment.
There was no answer, nor any sound from inside. The doctor looked
apprehensively at the door.
“Your key wouldn’t let me in, I suppose,” he said, turning back to the
now frankly curious spectator.
“Oh, Lord, no! We don’t have interchangeable keys! He’s out, I expect.
He’s mostly out.”
“But I want to get into his place——”
“You do! And he not there! You a friend of his?”
“Why—yes; I’m his doctor—and I’m afraid he’s ill.”
“Oh—that. But look here—if you’re his doctor, why didn’t you know
which was his place? You’re pretty slick, mister, but it’s a bit
fishy—I think.”
She half withdrew back into her own doorway, but curiosity still
detained her, and, too, Doctor Davenport’s demeanor impressed her as
being quite all right.
“Nothing wrong—is there?” she whispered, coming across the small
hall, and peering into the doctor’s face.
“Oh, no—I think not. But he may be helpless, and I must get in. I’ve
never been here before, but I’ve been called by him just now. I
_must_ get in. Where’s the janitor?”
“Where, indeed? If you can find him, I’ll bless you forever. I’ve
wanted him all day.”
“Isn’t he on duty?”
“He doesn’t know the meaning of duty. It’s something he’s never on.”
She smiled at him, and noticing her for the first time, Davenport saw
that she was handsome, in a careless, rather blatant way.
Her ash-blonde hair was loosely pinned up, and her dress—negligee or
tea-gown—was fussy with lace, and not quite immaculate.
Her wide, light blue eyes returned his scrutiny, and for an instant
each studied the other.
“There is something wrong,” she nodded, at last, “What you going to
do, Doctor?”
“I’m going to get in. I’ve wasted precious time already.” He ran down
the stairs and opening the front door summoned his chauffeur.
“Come up here, Chris,” he ordered, and the two returned together.
“Can we break in that door?” he said, ignoring the woman now.
“My husband’ll help,” she volunteered, but Chris was already
delivering effective blows.
However, the lock held, and turning to her, Doctor Davenport said, “Do
ask your husband to help us, please. I assure you it’s an emergency.
I’m Doctor Ely Davenport.”
“Come here, Jim,” she obeyed orders. “This is Doctor Davenport.”
“I’ve heard of you,” said a big, commonplace looking man, appearing.
“I’m Mansfield. What’s up?”
“I have reason to think Mr Gleason is very ill. He just telephoned for
me. I must get in. These old doors are strongly built, so I’d like
your help.”
Mansfield looked at him sharply, and seeming satisfied, put his
shoulder to the door.
United effort succeeded, and the three men entered, the woman hanging
back in fear.
Gleason lay on the floor, in a crumpled heap, and the first glance
proclaimed him dead.
Stooping quickly, Doctor Davenport felt for his heart, and shook his
head as he rose again to his feet.
“He’s dead,” he said, quietly. “Shot through the temple. Suicide,
apparently, as the door was locked on the inside. Better take your
wife away, Mr Mansfield. She’ll be getting hysterical.”
“No, I won’t,” declared the lady referred to, but she was quite
evidently pulling herself together. “Let me come in.”
“No,” forbade Davenport. “You’ve no call in here. Go back home, both
of you. I shall send for the police and wait till they come.”
But the doctor hesitated as he was about to touch the telephone.
The matter was mysterious. “Suicide, of course,” he ruminated, as he
remembered the message received by Nurse Jordan. “Shot himself, then,
still living, cried to me for help. Wish I knew exactly what he said
to Jordan. But, anyway, I’m not going to disturb things—there may be
trouble ahead. Guess I’ll leave the telephone alone—and everything
else.”
“Sit right here, Chris,” he said, “and don’t move or stir. Look around
all you like—note anything and everything that strikes you. I’ll be
back soon.”
Closing the broken door behind him, he went to the Mansfield’s
apartment and asked to use their telephone. On this, he called the
police, while the two listened eagerly.
“Why did he do it?” broke out Mrs Mansfield, as the receiver was hung
up. “Oh, Doctor, tell us something about it! I’m eaten alive with
curiosity.”
Her big blue eyes shone with excitement, which her husband tried to
suppress.
“Now, be quiet, Dottie,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder.
“I won’t be quiet,” and she shook off the hand. “Here’s a great big
mystery right in my own house—on my own floor—and you say, ‘be
quiet!’ I’ve got a right to know all about it, and I’m going to! I’m
going up now, to tell Mrs Conway!”
Her husband held her back forcibly, but Doctor Davenport said, “Of
course, it must become known, and if Mrs Mansfield enjoys spreading
the news, I suppose she has a right to do so. No one may enter the
Gleason rooms, though—understand that.”
“Go on, then, Dottie,” Mansfield said; “maybe you’d better.”
“She’s very excitable,” he sighed, as his wife ran up the stairs.
“She’s better off, unburdening her news, than being thwarted,” said
the doctor, indifferently. “Let her do what she likes. What can you
tell me, Mr Mansfield, of your neighbor, Gleason?”
“Not much, Doctor. He kept to himself, as far as the people in this
house were concerned. We didn’t know him socially—no one in the house
did—and though he said good-day, if we met in the halls, it was with
a short and unsocial manner.”
“Nobody actively disliked him?”
“Nobody knew him well enough for that—unless—well, no, I may say
none of us knew him.”
“Yet you hesitated,” the doctor looked at him keenly; “why did you?”
“A mere passing thought—better left unspoken.”
“All right, Mr Mansfield—perhaps you are wise. But, if asked to,
you’d better speak your thought to the police.”
“Oh, sure. I’m a law-abiding citizen—I hope. Will they be here soon?”
“Nothing happens soon in matters like this. It’s delay, linger and
wait on the part of everybody. I’m bothered—I’ve important affairs on
hand—but here I must stick, till the arm of the law gets ready to
strike.”
Davenport returned to Gleason’s apartment, where the stolid Chris kept
guard.
“Well?” said the doctor, glancing at his man.
“Looks like a suicide to me, sir. Looks like he shot himself—there’s
the revolver—I haven’t touched it. And then he fell over all in a
heap.”
“It seems he telephoned after he shot——”
“He did? How could he?”
“Look again at his position. Near the desk, on which the telephone
sits. He might have shot, and then——”
“Not that shot in his temple!”
“No; but there may be another. I haven’t looked carefully yet. Ah,
yes—see, Chris, here’s another bullet hole, in his left shoulder.
Say, he fired that shot, then, getting cold feet, called off the
suicide idea and telephoned for me. Then, getting desperate again,
fired a second shot through his temple, which, of course, did for
him—oh, a fanciful tale, I know—but, you see, the detective work
isn’t up to me. When the police come they’ll look after that and I can
go.”
But the police, arriving, were very much interested in this theory of
Doctor Davenport’s.
Prescott, an alert young detective, who came with the inspector
especially interested the physician by his keen-witted and clearly put
questions.
“Did you know this man?” he asked among his first queries.
“Yes,” returned Davenport, “but not well. I’ve never been here
before. He’s Robert Gleason, a very rich man, from Seattle. Staying
here this winter, in this apartment which belongs to McIlvaine, a
friend of Gleason’s.”
“Where’s McIlvaine?”
“In California. Gleason took over the place, furnished and all, for
the winter months.”
“Any relatives?”
“Yes”; Davenport hated to drag in the Lindsays, but it had to be done.
“His sister, Mrs Lindsay, lives in upper Park Avenue.”
“Have you called her up?”
“No; I thought wiser to do nothing, until you people came. Also, I’m a
very busy man, and outside my actual duty here, I can’t afford to
spend much time.”
“I see. Then the sister is the only relative in New York?”
“I think so. There are two Lindsay children, but they’re not hers. She
married a widower.”
“I see. And the address?”
Doctor Davenport gave it, and then started to go.
“Wait a minute, please,” urged Prescott. “Had the dead man any
friends, that you know of?”
“Oh, yes. Many of them. He was put up at the Camberwell Club, by
McIlvaine himself. And he had many friends among the members.”
“Names?”
Doctor Davenport thought quickly, and decided to give no names of the
group that had been with Gleason that same afternoon.
He gave the names of three other Club members, and sending Chris down
ahead, again endeavored to depart himself.
Again Prescott detained him.
“Sorry, Doc,” he said, pleasantly, “but you’re here now, and something
tells me it’ll be hard to get hold of you again, once I lose you.
Inspector Gale, here, is putting through the necessary red tape and
all that, and he’ll see to notifying relatives and friends, and he’ll
take charge of the premises—but—well, I’ve a hunch, this isn’t a
suicide.”
“What, murder?” cried the doctor, his quick acceptance of the
suggestion proving the thought had been in his own mind.
“Well, you never can tell. And I want to get all the sidelight on the
case I can. Was Mr Gleason happy—and all that?”
“Yes; so far as I know. I tell you I was not an intimate—scarcely
enough to be called a friend—merely an acquaintance.”
“I see. Had the man any enemies?”
The direct glance that accompanied these words discomfited Davenport a
little.
“Why do you ask me that?” he said, shortly. “How should I know?”
“Oh, it’s a thing anybody might know—even a mere acquaintance. And
your desperate hurry to get away makes me think you don’t take kindly
to this catechism.”
“Rubbish! I’m a busy man—a doctor sometimes is. I’ve numerous and
important engagements for the evening. Now, if that’s incriminating,
make the most of it!”
“Fie, fie, don’t get peeved! Now, tell me once again, what the injured
man said to your nurse and I’ll let you go.”
“I don’t know the exact words. I’ve not seen her. But he called my
office, said he was shot, and for me to come right here and quickly.
That’s all I know of the message. Now as to my report—it’s that the
man received two shots—whether by his own hand or another’s. One, in
his left shoulder—and another—the fatal one—through his temple,
producing instant death. You can get me at any time—if necessary. But
I don’t want to be hauled over here, or summoned to headquarters to
repeat these facts. I’ll send a typed report, and I’ll do anything in
reason—but I know how you detectives mull over things, and how your
slow processes eat up time—which though it seems of little account to
you, is mighty valuable to me.”
“Yes, sir—yes, sir. Now if you’ll speak to Inspector Gale a minute,
you can go.”
Grunting an assent, Davenport waited for the Inspector to finish
writing a bit of memorandum on which he was busily engaged.
The doctor was sitting in a big easy chair, and as he squirmed
impatiently, he felt something soft beneath his heavy frame.
Feeling about the chair cushions, he found it was fur, and a fleeting
thought that he had sat on a cat passed through his mind.
A second later he knew it was a fur strip, probably a neck piece,
doubtless belonging to some woman.
Now, the doctor had a very soft place in his heart for the feminine sex
in general, and his mind leaped to the idea of this fur, left there by
some indiscreet girl visitor, and the possibility of its getting the
doubtless innocent young lady into a moil of trouble.
Also, he had a dim, indistinct notion that he recognized the fur, at
which he had stolen a furtive look.
At any rate, unseen by the Inspector or either of his two colleagues
present, Davenport adroitly slipped the small fur collar into his
capacious overcoat pocket, and sat, looking as innocent of duplicity
as a canary-fed cat.
“Now, Doctor,” and Inspector Gale frowned importantly, “this may be a
simple case of suicide, and again it may not. So, I want your opinion
as to whether it is possible that both those shots were fired by Mr
Gleason himself.”
“Quite possible, Inspector, and, it seems to me, decidedly probable,
as I cannot see how the victim could have telephoned, with a murderer
in the room.”
“That’s apparently true, but we have to think of even the remotest
possibilities. If the murderer—granting there was one—had been
merely intending to frighten his victim, maybe a robber, he might have
been—and if after that call for help, the intruder finished off his
victim—oh, well, all these ideas must be looked into, you know. The
case is not entirely clear to me.”
“Nor to me,” returned Davenport, “but I cannot feel that I can help
you in your deductions. Answering your questions, I say it would have
been quite possible for Mr Gleason to have fired those two shots
himself. You see the first one hit his left shoulder, leaving his
right arm available to fire the second shot.”
“Why did he merely maim himself first?”
“Heavens, man! I don’t know. Missed aim, perhaps—or, just shooting
for practice! Such questions make me mad! If you want any more medical
statements, say so—if not, for goodness’ sake, let me go!”
“For goodness’ sake, let him go,” repeated Prescott, and Dr Davenport
went.
“Some mess,” Prescott said, after the doctor’s angry footsteps tramped
down the stairs.