The Lindsays
“You’re sure no one in this building knew Mr Gleason any better than
you two did?” Prescott asked of the Mansfields, as he put them through
a course of questioning.
“Oh, no,” Mrs Mansfield informed him, volubly, “and we didn’t know him
much, but being on the same floor—there are only two apartments on
each floor, we saw him once in a while, going in or out, and he would
bow distantly, and mumble ‘good-morning,’ but that’s all.”
“You heard no noise from his apartment, during the last hour?”
“No; but I wasn’t noticing. It’s across the hall, you know, and the
walls are thick in these old houses.”
“Was he going out, do you think?” asked Jim Mansfield, thoughtfully.
“He always went out to dinner.”
“Probably he was, then. It’s evident he was dressing—he was in his
shirtsleeves—his day shirt—and his evening clothes were laid out on
the bed.”
“When did it happen?”
“As nearly as I can make out, he telephoned for the doctor about
quarter before seven. He must have expired shortly after. As I figure
it—oh, well, the medical examiner is in there now, and I don’t want
to discuss the details until he gets through his examination. It’s an
interesting case, but I’m only out for side evidence. What about
Gleason’s visitors? Did he have many?”
“No,” offered Mrs Mansfield, “but he had some. I’ve heard—well,
people go in there, and he was mighty glad to see them, judging by the
gay laughter and chatter.”
“Oh—lady friends?”
Mrs Mansfield smiled, but her husband said quickly, “Shut up, Dottie!
You talk too much! You’ll get us involved in this case, and make a lot
of trouble. He had callers occasionally, Mr Prescott, but we never
knew who they were and we’ve no call to remark on them.”
“Well, I give you the call. Don’t you see, man, your information may
be vitally necessary——”
Here Prescott was recalled to the Gleason apartment.
The medical examiner had concluded his task. He agreed with Doctor
Davenport that the shots could have been fired by Gleason himself,
though, but for the locked door, he should have thought them the acts
of another person. The presence of powder stains proved that the shots
were fired at close range, but not necessarily by the dead man
himself.
Still, the door being locked on the inside, it looked like suicide.
“No,” Prescott disagreed, “that doesn’t cut any ice. You see, it’s a
spring catch. It fastens itself when closed. If an intruder was here
and went out again, closing that door behind him, it would have locked
itself.”
“That’s right,” assented Gale. “So, it may be suicide or murder. But
we’ll find out which. We’ve hardly begun to investigate yet. Now, we
must let his sister know.”
“It’s pretty awful to spring it on her over the telephone,” demurred
Prescott, as Gale started for the desk.
“Got to be done,” Inspector Gale declared, “I mean we’ve got to tell
somebody who knew him. How about those men at the Club?”
“That’s better,” consented Prescott. “Just call the Camberwell Club,
and get any one of those Davenport mentioned. But, I say, Gale, use
the Mansfields’ telephone. I’m saving up this one for fingerprint
work.”
“Oh, you and your fingerprint work!” Gale grumbled. “You attach too
much importance to that, Prescott.”
“All right, but you let the telephone alone. And the revolver, too.
Why, I wouldn’t have those touched for anything! I’ll get them
photographed to-morrow. Shall I call the Club?”
“Yes,” grunted Gale, and Prescott went back to the opposite apartment.
“Sorry to trouble you people,” he said, with his winning smile, “but
if you object, say so, and I’ll run out to a drug store.”
“None around here,” vouchsafed Mansfield, looking a little annoyed at
the intrusion, however. “Isn’t there a telephone in the Gleason
rooms?”
“Yes; but I don’t want to use that.” Prescott had already taken up the
Mansfield receiver. “Please let me have this one,” and a bright smile
at Dottie Mansfield made her his ally.
Getting the Club, Prescott asked for the names Davenport had supplied.
Only one man was available, and Mr Harper was finally connected.
“What is it?” he asked, curtly.
“Mr Robert Gleason has been found dead in his home,” Prescott stated;
“and as you’re said to be a friend of his, I’m asking you to inform
his sister, or——”
“Indeed I won’t! Why should I be asked to do such an unpleasant
errand? I’ve merely a nodding acquaintance with Mr Gleason. Dead, you
say? Apoplexy?”
“No; shot.”
“Good God! Murdered?”
“We don’t know. Murder or suicide. I’m Detective Prescott. I want you
to tell his sister, or advise me how best to break the news to her.
She’s Mrs Lindsay——”
“Yes, yes—I know. Well, now, let me see. Dead! Why, the man was here
this afternoon.”
“Yes; apparently he returned home safely, and while dressing for
dinner, either shot himself or was shot by some one else.”
“Never shot himself in the world! Robert Gleason? No, never shot
himself. Well, let me see—let me see. Suppose you call up some closer
friend of his. Really, I knew him but slightly.”
“All right. Who was his nearest friend?”
“Humph—I don’t know. He wasn’t long on intimate friends!”
“Little liked?”
“I wouldn’t say that—but close friends, now—let me see; he was
talking this afternoon with a bunch—Doctor Davenport, Phil Barry,
Dean Monroe, Manning Pollard—oh, yes, Fred Lane. And maybe others.
But I know I saw him in the group I’ve just mentioned. Call up
Davenport.”
“Tell me the next best one to call.”
“Barry—but wait—they had a quarrel recently. Try Lane or Pollard.”
“Addresses?”
These were given and as soon as he could get connection, Prescott
called Pollard.
But he was out, and Philip Barry was also.
“Can’t expect to get anybody at the dinner hour,” Prescott said, and
looked at his watch. “After eight, already. One more throw, and then I
make straight for the sister.”
Fred Lane proved available.
“No!” he exclaimed at the news Prescott told. “You don’t mean it! Why
I was talking with him yesterday. And only to-night I heard—Oh, I
say,” he pulled himself together. “Tell me the details. Can I do
anything?”
“You sure can. Break it to Mrs Lindsay, Gleason’s sister.”
“Oh, not that! Don’t ask me to. I’m—I’m no good at that sort of
thing. I say—let me off it. Get somebody else——”
“I’ve been trying to, and I can’t. If you won’t do it, I’ll have to
call up the lady and tell her myself—or go there.”
“That’s it. Go there. And, I say, get her son—her stepson, you
know—young Lindsay. He’s not related to Gleason—and so——”
“That’s it! Fine idea. I’ll see the young man. What’s his name?”
“Louis Lindsay. There’s a girl, too. Miss Phyllis. She’s more of a man
than her brother—oh, not a masculine type at all—I don’t mean that,
but she’s a whole lot stronger character than the chappie. It might be
better to tell her. But do as you like.”
“Thank you for the information, Mr Lane. Good-by.”
“Oh, wait a minute. Do you think Gleason killed himself?”
“Dunno yet. Lots of things to be looked into. I don’t think it will be
a difficult case to handle, yet it has its queer points. Did you say
you heard something——”
“Oh, no—no.”
“Out with it, man. Better tell anything you know.”
“Don’t know anything. You going to the Lindsays’ now?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Well, there’s a dinner party on there. A big one—followed by a dance.
I mean it was to have been followed by a dance. Your news will change
their plans!”
“You’re rather unconcerned yourself! Didn’t you like Gleason?”
“Not overly. Yet he was a big man in many ways. But, come now, wasn’t
he bumped off?”
“By whom?”
“I’m not saying. But while you’re at the Lindsays’, look out Dean
Monroe—and ask him what he knows about it!”
“Dean Monroe! The artist?”
“Yes. Oh, he isn’t the criminal—if there _is_ a criminal. But
maybe he can give you a tip. I’m mighty interested. How can I hear the
result of your investigations?”
“Guess it’ll be in the morning papers. Anyway, I may want to see you.”
“All right; call me up or call on me whenever you like. I’m
interested—a whole lot!”
“Guess I’d better go right to the Lindsay house,” Prescott said, going
back to the Gleason apartment. “There’s a big party on there, and it
ought to be stopped. It’s an awkward situation. You see, Mrs Lindsay,
Gleason’s sister, has two step-children—they’re having the party, as
I make it out. But they’ve got to be told.”
“Yes,” agreed Gale; “go along, Prescott. And you’d better have
somebody with you.”
“Not at first. Let me handle it alone, and I can call Briggs if I want
him.”
“Go on, then. The sooner we start something the better. I incline more
and more to the murder theory, but if the sister thinks there was any
reason for suicide—well, run along, Prescott.”
Prescott ran along, and reached the Lindsay home, on upper Park
Avenue, shortly after nine o’clock.
He was admitted by a smiling maid, and he asked for Mr Lindsay.
“He’s still at dinner,” she returned, doubtfully, glancing at
Prescott’s informal dress. “Can you come some other time?”
“No; the matter is urgent. You must ask him to leave the table and
come to me here.”
His manner was imperative, and the maid went on her errand.
In a moment Louis Lindsay came to Prescott, where the detective
waited, in the reception hall.
“What is it, my man?” said Lindsay, looking superciliously at his
visitor. “I can’t see you now.”
“Just a moment, Mr Lindsay. Listen, please.”
Noting the grave face and serious voice of the speaker, young Lindsay
seemed to become panic-stricken.
“What is it?” he said, in a gasping whisper. “Oh, what _is_ it?”
“Why do you look like that?” Prescott said quickly. “What do you
_think_ it is?”
“I don’t know—I’m sure! Tell me!”
The boy, for he was little more than a boy, was ghastly white, his
hands trembled and his lips quivered. He took hold of a chair back to
steady himself, and Prescott, remembering what he had been told of
Miss Lindsay, was tempted to ask for her. But he somehow felt he must
go on with this scene.
“It’s about your uncle—or rather your step-uncle—Mr Gleason.”
Lindsay slumped into a chair, and raised his wild, staring black eyes
to Prescott’s face.
“Go on,” he muttered; “what about him?”
“Didn’t you expect him here to-night?”
“Yes—yes—and he didn’t come—what is it? Has anything happened? What
has happened? Who did it?”
“Who did what?” Prescott flung the words at him, in a fierce low tone.
“What do you know? Out with it!”
His menacing air quite finished the young man, and he buried his face
in his hands, sobbing convulsively.
A slight rustle was heard, and a lovely vision appeared in the
doorway.
“What is going on?” said a clear young voice. “Louis, what is the
matter?”
Phyllis Lindsay faced the stranger as she put her query.
The sight nearly dazzled Prescott, for Miss Lindsay was at her best
that night.
She was a little thing, with soft dark hair, bundled about her ears,
soft, dark eyes, that were now challenging Prescott sternly, and a
slim, dainty little figure, robed in sequin-dripping gauze, from which
her soft neck and shoulders rose like a flower from its sheath.
“Who are you?” she asked, not rudely, but with her eyes wide in
dismay. “What are you doing to my brother?”
“Miss Lindsay?” and Prescott bowed politely. “I bring distressing
news. Your uncle—that is, Mr Robert Gleason, is—has—well, perhaps
frankness is best—he is dead.”
“Robert Gleason!” Phyllis turned as pale as her brother, but preserved
her calm. “Tell me—tell me all about it.”
She, too, placed her little hand on a chair, as if the grip of
something solid helped, and turned her anxious eyes to Prescott.
“I thought better to tell you young people,” he began, “and let you
tell your mother—Mr Gleason’s sister.”
“Yes; I will tell her,” said Phyllis, with dignity. “Go on, Mr——”
“Prescott,” he supplied. “The facts in brief are these. Mr Gleason
called up Doctor Davenport on the telephone, and asked the doctor to
come to him, as he was—well, hurt. When the doctor reached there, Mr
Gleason was dead.”
“What killed him?” Phyllis spoke very quietly, and looked Prescott
straight in the face. Yet the alert eyes of the detective saw her
fingers clench more tightly on the chair, and noticed her red lips
lose a little color as they set themselves in a firm line.
He thought her even more beautiful thus, than when she had first
arrived, smiling.
“The Medical Examiner is not quite sure, Miss Lindsay. It may be that
he took his own life—or it may be——”
“That he was—murdered,” she said, her gaze never wavering from
Prescott’s face.
It was a bit disconcerting, and the detective oddly felt himself at a
disadvantage. Yet he went on, inexorably.
“Yes; either deduction is possible.”
“How—how was he killed?”
At last her calm gave way a little. The tremor of her voice as she
asked this question proved her not so self-controlled as she had
seemed.
“He was shot.” Prescott watched both brother and sister as he spoke.
But Louis still kept his face hidden in his hands, and Phyllis was
once more perfectly calm.
“What with?” she went on.
“His own revolver. It was found close beside the body, and so as I
said, it might have been——”
“Yes, I know what you said.” Phyllis interrupted him impatiently, as
if deeming repetition of the theories unnecessary. “How shall we tell
Millicent?”
“Mrs Lindsay?” asked Prescott respectfully.
“Yes; we have never called her mother, of course.” She looked at
Louis. “Go to your rooms, if you wish, Buddy,” she said, kindly, and
Prescott marveled at this slight, dainty young thing taking the
situation into her own hands.
“No, I’ll stand by,” Louis muttered, as he rose slowly. “What shall we
do? Call her out here?”
“That would do,” said Prescott, “or take her to some other room. The
guests must be told—and the party——”
“The party broken up and the guests sent home——” Phyllis declared.
“But first, let’s tell Millicent. She’ll be terribly upset.”
At Phyllis’ dictation, Prescott and young Lindsay went into the little
library. Like the other rooms this was beflowered for the party and
scant of furniture, for dancing purposes. The Lindsay apartment was a
fine one, yet not over large, and sounds of conversation and light
laughter came from the dining room. Phyllis quickly brought Mrs
Lindsay from the dinner table, and they joined the men.
As the girl had predicted, her stepmother was greatly shocked and her
nerves utterly upset by Prescott’s story.
The detective said little after outlining the facts, but listened
closely while these members of the family talked. Though there on the
ungracious errand of breaking the sad news, he was also eagerly
anxious to learn any hints as to the solution of the mystery.
“Oh, of course, he never killed himself!” declared the dead
man’s sister. “Why should he? He had everything life can offer to
live for. He was rich, talented, and engaged to Phyllis, whom he
adored—worshipped! How can any one think he would kill himself?”
“But the evidence is uncertain,” Prescott began; “you see——”
“Of course the evidence is uncertain,” Phyllis broke in. “It always is
uncertain! You detectives don’t know evidence when you see it! Or you
read it wrongly and make false deductions!”
“Why, Phyllis,” remonstrated her brother, “don’t talk like that! You
may——” he hesitated a long time, “you may make trouble,” he
concluded, lamely.
“Trouble, how?” Prescott caught him up.
“Don’t you say another word, Louis,” Phyllis ordered him. “You keep
still. Millicent, you go to your room, and let Martha look after you.
Louis, you either go to your room—or, if you stay here, don’t babble.
Mind, now! Mr Prescott, we must tell the guests. Come with me and we
will tell those at the table. They will go home, and those who come
later can be told at the door and sent away.”
“Very well, Miss Lindsay,” Prescott replied, feeling that here was a
strength of character he had never seen equaled in such a mere slip of
a girl!
They went to the dining room, and without preamble, Phyllis said:
“Listen, people. I’ve very bad news. Mr Gleason—Robert Gleason—has
just been found dead in his home. He was shot——” Her voice, steady
till this moment, suddenly broke down, and as her eyes filled with
tears, Philip Barry, who had already risen, hastened to her side.
There was a general commotion, the ladies rising now, and with scared
faces, whispering to one another.
“Wait a moment,” Prescott spoke, as some seemed about to leave; “I
must ask you all if you know anything of importance concerning the
movements of Mr Gleason this afternoon or evening. I am a detective,
the case is a little mysterious, and it may be necessary to question
some of you. Will any one volunteer information?”
Nobody did so, and Prescott, steeling himself against the entreaties
of Phyllis that all be allowed to depart, asked several of their
knowledge of the man.
Most of these declared they were unacquainted with Mr Gleason’s
whereabouts on that day, and some denied knowing the man at all. These
were allowed to go, and at last, Prescott found himself surrounded by
the men who knew Gleason and who had seen him that very day.
These included Barry, Pollard and Monroe, of the group that had talked
together at the Club in the afternoon, and one or two others who had
seen Gleason during the day.
Each was questioned as to the probability, in his opinion, of Robert
Gleason having shot himself.
“I can’t make a decision,” Philip Barry said; “to my mind, Gleason
would be quite capable of doing any crazy or impulsive thing. He may
have had a fit of depression, he sometimes did, and feeling extra
blue, may have wanted to end it all. But, also it’s quite on the cards
that somebody did for him.”
“Why do you say that, Mr Barry?” asked the detective.
“Because you asked me for my opinion,” was the retort. “That’s it. I
would believe anything of Gleason. I’m not knocking him—but he was a
freak—eccentric, you know——”
“Oh, not quite that,” Dean Monroe spoke very seriously. “Mr Gleason
was a Westerner, and had different ideas from some of ours, but he was
a good sort——”
“Good sort!” scoffed Barry. “I’d like to know what you call a bad
sort, then!”
“Hush, Phil,” Phyllis said, quietly. “Don’t talk like that of a man
who is dead.”
“Forgive me, Phyllis, I forgot myself. Well, Mr Prescott, I can only
say you’ll have to solve your mystery on the evidence you find; for I
assure you Mr Gleason would fit into almost any theory.”
Prescott questioned Dean Monroe next, remembering what Lane had told
him over the telephone.
But, though interested, Monroe told nothing definitely suggestive, and
at last Prescott said, directly, “Do you know anything, Mr Monroe,
that makes you suspect that Mr Gleason might have been killed by an
intruder?”
“Why—why, no,” stammered the young artist, quite palpably
prevaricating.
“I think you do, and I must remind you that I have a right to demand
the truth.”
“Well, then,” Monroe looked positively frightened, “then—I say,
Manning, maybe it’ll be better for me to speak out—I heard somebody
say to-day, that he meant to—to kill Gleason.”
“Indeed,” and Prescott, accustomed as he was to surprises, stared
wonderingly at the speaker. “And who said that?”
But Monroe obstinately shook his head and spoke no word.
Philip Barry raised his head with a jerk and looked straight at
Manning Pollard.
Pollard’s face was white, and his voice not quite steady, but he
stated, “I said it.”
“Why?” asked Prescott, simply.
“Oh—oh, because—I—I don’t—didn’t like Gleason.”
“And so you killed him?”
“I haven’t said so.”
“I’m asking you.”
“And I’m not obliged to incriminate myself, am I?” Pollard looked at
him coldly.
“Where were you between six and seven this evening?”
“I refuse to tell,” Pollard answered, with a belligerent look, and
Prescott nodded his head, with a satisfied smile.