Barry’s Suspect
After the funeral of Robert Gleason, Lane, his lawyer, went to the
Lindsay home, for the purpose of reading to the family the will of his
late client.
There was no one present except the three Lindsays and Doctor
Davenport. The physician was keeping watch over Millicent Lindsay, for
her volatile nature and nervous condition made him fear a breakdown.
But Millicent was quiet and composed, only an occasional quiver of her
lip or trembling of her fingers betrayed her agitation.
Phyllis’ eyes were bright with repressed excitement, but she, too,
preserved her poise.
Louis, however, was in a high state of nervous tension. He was jumpy
and erratic of speech and gesture, and again, he would relapse into a
sulky mood and become perversely silent.
The little party gathered in the library and Lane read the will of
Robert Gleason.
The terms were simple. Except for bequests to some personal friends
and some charities, the fortune was equally divided between Millicent,
his sister, and Phyllis, her stepdaughter.
No mention whatever was made of Louis, and the young man burst forth
into a torrent of angry invective.
“Hush, Louis,” Doctor Davenport said, sternly; “such talk can do you
no good, and it is a disgrace to yourself to speak so of the dead!”
“I don’t care,” Louis stormed, “why did he leave a lot to Phyllis, and
nothing to me? I’m no relative of his, but neither is Phyl!”
“But he was very much in love with Miss Lindsay,” Lane explained the
situation, “and as he had no expectation of this immediate death, he
hoped to make her his wife. But, he told me this when I drew up his
will—he provided for Miss Lindsay in case of premature death or
accident to himself. I feel sure he hoped to win Miss Lindsay’s
promise to be his wife—if he had not already done so.”
“He had not!” exclaimed Phyllis, but she looked thoughtful rather than
indignant at the idea.
“If he found that he could not do so,” Lane went on, “he planned to
change his will. It was, I think, tentative, and dependent on the
course of his wooing.”
“Never mind all that,” said Phyllis, speaking slowly and a little
hesitantly; “the will is valid and final, is it not?”
“Certainly,” returned Lane, but he gave her a searching glance.
“Then half the money is mine, and half Millicent’s,” Phyllis went on,
still with that thoughtful manner. “Don’t worry, Buddy, I’ll give you
part of my share.” She looked at her brother with fond affection.
“I suppose it’s all right,” Millicent said, her glance at Phyllis a
little resentful. “It would have been quite all right, if Phyllis had
meant to marry my brother—but she had no such intention!”
“You don’t know——” began the girl.
“I do know,” declared Millicent. “And what’s more, if you had any hand
in his murder——”
“Oh, hush!” cried Fred Lane, shocked even more at Millicent’s look
than at her words.
“I won’t hush! I’m going to find out who killed my brother! He was the
only human being whom I loved. These step-children mean nothing to
me—although we have always lived harmoniously enough. Now, if Phyllis
is innocent, that’s all there is about it. But her innocence must be
proved!”
Phyllis gave her stepmother a kindly, pitying glance.
“Now, Millicent,” she said, “you’re excited and nervous, and you don’t
know what you’re saying. Go and lie down, dear——”
“‘Go and lie down, dear!’” Millicent mocked her, eyes flashing and her
voice hard. “Yes, that’s just what you’d say, of course! You fear
investigation! No one would dream of suspecting you—unless they knew
what I know! and you say—‘go and lie down!’ Indeed, I _won’t_ go
and lie down! Now, look here, Phyllis Lindsay, you knew what was in
that will of my brother’s! I didn’t—but you did!”
“No, I didn’t, Millicent——”
“You did! You led my brother on—and on—letting him think you would
marry him—then, when he’d made a will in your favor, you killed him
to get the money! That’s what you did! And I’ll prove it—if it costs
me all my share of my poor brother’s fortune!”
She collapsed then, and sat, huddled in the big chair, shaking with
sobs.
Without a word, Doctor Davenport went to her, assisted her to rise,
and, summoning a maid to help him, took Millicent Lindsay away to her
own room.
“What ails her, anyway?” Louis growled, looking at Phyllis, curiously.
“Oh, she’s like that when she gets a tantrum,” the girl responded,
looking worried. “She’s really good friends with me, but if she takes
a notion she turns against me, and she can’t think of anything bad
enough to say to me.”
“I don’t like her present attitude,” Lane said, abruptly. “She may
make a lot of trouble for you, Miss Lindsay. _Did_ you know of
contents of the will?”
“No,” she returned, but she did not look at the lawyer. If, he mused,
she were telling an untruth, she would, doubtless, look just like
that.
“Are you sure?” he followed up.
“Of course, I’m sure!” she flung up her head and looked at him. Her
dark eyes were not flashing, but smoldering with a deep fire of
indignation. “How dare you question my statements!”
“Now, Phyl,” said her brother, “be careful what you say. Millicent has
it in her power to do you a bad turn, and she’s willing to do it if
she thinks you’re mixed up in her brother’s case. Do you know
_anything_ about it, old girl?”
Phyllis gave him a look of reproach, but he went on.
“Now don’t eat me up with your eyes, Sis. When I ask if you know
anything about the thing, I don’t mean did you kill Robert Gleason! Of
course, I know better than that! But—oh, well, don’t you think, Lane,
that Millicent can make trouble for us?”
“Us?” and the lawyer raised his eyebrows. “Where do you come in,
Lindsay?”
“Oh,” with an impatient shrug, “Phyl’s troubles are mine, of course.
And seems to me, Millicent has a very annoying bee in her bonnet.”
“Easy enough to settle the matter,” Lane said, briefly. “Where were
you, Miss Lindsay, when the—the tragedy took place?”
“Why, I don’t know,” Phyllis replied. “Here—at home—I think.”
But a sudden flood of scarlet suffused her face, and she was quite
evidently preserving her composure by a strong effort.
The small, slight figure, sitting in a tall-backed chair was a picture
of itself. Phyllis’ bright coloring, her deep, glowing eyes, scarlet
lips and rose-flushed cheeks were accented by the plain black gown she
wore and her graceful little hands moved eloquently as she talked, and
then fluttered to rest on the carved arms of the great chair.
“Sure?”
“Stop saying ‘sure?’ to me!” Phyllis spoke shortly, and then gave a
good-natured laugh. “Of course, I’m not sure, Mr Lane. I’ll have to
think back. I haven’t a—what do they call it—an alibi, but all the
same I didn’t kill——”
“Don’t say that,” Lane interrupted her, “nobody for a minute supposes
you killed anybody. Mrs Lindsay herself doesn’t. It’s hysteria that
makes her say so. But, she _can_ make trouble. And, so, I want
you to think carefully, and have your evidence ready. Where were you
last Tuesday at about half-past six or seven o’clock?”
Phyllis thought. “Here, I think,” she reiterated. “I was out—and I
came home and dressed for the dinner party.”
“What was the dinner hour?”
“Eight.”
“And you were dressing—how long?”
“Oh, I don’t know—an hour, probably.”
“That leaves some time yet to be accounted for. Where were you just
before you came home?”
“Look here, Mr Lane,” Phyllis’ eyes flashed now, “I won’t be quizzed
like that! If I’m suspected of a crime——”
“You aren’t,” Lane repeated, “but if Mrs Lindsay accuses you of a
crime, you must be prepared to defend yourself.”
“Wait till she does, then,” said Phyllis, curtly, and lapsed into
silence.
But Louis looked disturbed.
“What can Millicent do, Lane?” he asked. “She can’t make up any yarn
that will implicate my sister, can she?”
“Oh, no; probably not. All she can do, is to show that Miss Lindsay
knew what she would inherit, and, therefore, can be said to have a
motive for the——”
“Rot! As if Phyllis would shoot a man to get his money!” But Louis
Lindsay’s looks belied his words. While showing no doubt or distrust
of his sister, he had all the appearance of a man deeply anxious or
alarmed at his thoughts. “And, besides, Phyl knew nothing about the
will—did you, Sis?”
Phyllis looked at him without replying, for a moment, then she said,
“Hush, Louis; don’t keep up the subject. I’m going straight to
Millicent—and if she’s able to talk to me, I’ll find out what she
means.”
Phyllis left the room, and his business over, Lane went away from the
house.
As he walked along the street, he mused deeply on the matter.
Of course, Phyllis was in no way concerned in the crime—but Lane
couldn’t help thinking she knew something about it—or something
bearing on it. What could it be? How could that delicate, exclusive
girl be in any way mixed up with the deed done down in Washington
Square?
Lane made his way to the Club. He knew he’d find a lot of his friends
there at this hour, and he wanted to hear their talk.
He was not surprised to find a group of his intimates discussing the
Gleason case.
“Now the funeral’s over,” Dean Monroe was saying, “the detectives can
get busy, and do some real work.”
“They can get busy,” Manning Pollard agreed, “but can they do any real
work? I mean, any successful, decisive work?”
“You mean, discover the murderer,” Lane said, joining in the talk at
once, as he took his seat among them.
“Not a hard job, to my mind,” Dean Monroe said, slowing inhaling his
cigarette’s smoke. “_Cherchez la_ chorus girl.”
“Oh, I don’t know——” said Pollard.
“Well, I know!” Monroe came back quickly. “Oh, I don’t mean I
know—but who else could it have been? You may say Pollard, here,
because he announced his intention of killing Gleason. But we all know
Pol’s little smarty ways. He didn’t even defend himself, because,
secure in his innocence, he let the old detectives themselves find and
prove his alibi! A silly grandstand play, I call it!”
Pollard smiled. “It was silly, I daresay, but if I had eagerly
defended myself, they might have thought me guilty. So, why not let
them find out the truth for themselves? But, as to the chorus
kiddies—I doubt if the bravest of them would have the nerve to shoot
a man. Remember they’re only babies.”
“Not all of them,” offered Barry.
“Oh, well, those who have arrived at years of wisdom are not the ones
Gleason favored,” Pollard said. “However, there’s a possibility that
some man—some bold, bad man may have done it for the sake of a girl.”
“Then he must be found through the discovery of the girl,” declared
Lane. “And with that fur piece to work on, it’s a funny thing if they
can’t get the lady.”
“It would be coincidence, I think,” Pollard said, seriously. “I don’t
know much about real detective work, but it seems to me, if I found a
fur collar at the scene of the crime, the owner of that would be the
last person I’d look for.”
“You give the collar too much importance, Monroe, and you, Pollard,
give it too little,” Lane spoke in his most judicial manner. “I’m no
detective myself, but I am a lawyer, and I modestly claim a sort of
knowledge of criminal doings. The fur collar is a clew. It must be
investigated. It may lead to the truth and it may not.”
“Hear, hear!” cried Barry. “What wisdom! Oh, what sagacity! It may and
it may not! Lane, you’re a wizard at deduction!”
They all laughed, but Fred Lane was in no way dismayed.
“All right, you fellows,” he said; “but which of you can make any
better prognostication? Come now, here are four of us; let’s make a
bet—or, no, that’s hardly decent—let’s each express an opinion
regarding the murderer of Robert Gleason, and see who comes nearest to
the truth.”
“Sure we’ll ever know the truth?” asked Monroe.
“Well, if we don’t there’s no harm done. Go ahead, and let it be
understood that these are merely thoughts—private opinions and
absolutely confidential.”
“All right,” agreed Dean Monroe, “I’ll speak my mind first. I’m all
for the chorus girl—and when I say chorus girl, I use the term
generically. She may be a Movie Star or a Vaudeville artist. But some
chicken of the stage, is my vote. Yet I don’t claim but she did the
deed herself—it may well have been her stalwart gentleman friend, who
was jealous of the rich man’s friendship with his girl. There’s my
opinion.”
“Good enough, too,” appraised Lane. “Moreover, you’ve got the fur
collar in evidence. You may be right. You next, Pollard?”
“I’m inclined to think it was somebody from Gleason’s Seattle home.
Seems to me there must have been people out there who felt as I did
about the man—who really wanted him out of the world; and, too, they
may have had some definite grievance—some conventional motive—what
are they? Love, hate, money?”
“Revenge is one.”
“All the same, revenge and hate. Well, doesn’t it seem more like a
wild Westerner to come there and shoot up his man than for a New
Yorker to do it? I don’t take much stock in the chorus girl theory.”
“Wait a bit, Pol,” put in Barry. “Seattle isn’t wild and woolly and
cowboyish and bandittish! It’s as civilized as our own fair city, and
as little given to deeds of violence as New York itself!”
“Your logic is overwhelming,” Pollard laughed. “Ought to have been a
lawyer instead of an artist, Barry! But I stick to my guns—which are
the guns of the Westerners who knew Gleason—the inhabitants of
Seattle and environs. I may be all wrong, but it seems the most
plausible theory to me. Perhaps I’m prejudiced, but I think Seattle is
mighty well rid of its leading citizen.”
“Hush up, Manning,” reproved Monroe; “your foolish threat was bad
enough when the man was alive, it’s horrid to knock him now he’s
dead.”
“That’s so—I’ll shut up. But Lane asked for my opinion, and now he’s
got it.”
“Yours, Barry?” asked Lane, without comment on Pollard’s.
“I don’t want to express mine,” said Philip Barry, with such a serious
look that nobody smiled. “You see, I have a dreadful suspicion of—of
some one I know—we all know.”
“Me?” asked Pollard, cheerfully.
“No”; Barry grinned at him. “You’re just plain idiot! But, truly,
haven’t any of you thought of some one in—in our set?”
Apparently no one had, for each man present looked blankly inquiring.
“Oh, I’m not going to put it into words,” and Barry gave a shrug of
his shoulders. Slightly built, his dark, intense face showing his
artistic temperament, Philip Barry had a strong will and a high
temper.
Moreover, unlike his type, he had a desperate tenacity of opinion, and
once convinced of a thing would stick to it through thick and thin.
“Just because an idea came into my head,” he went on, “is no reason I
should give it voice. I might do an innocent man a desperate
injustice.”
“As you like, Barry,” Lane said, “but to my way of thinking, if you
have such an idea it’s your duty to give it voice. If your man’s
innocent it can’t harm him. If he’s guilty he ought to be suspected.
And, among us four, your views are an inviolable secret, unless
justice requires them to be told.”
“Well,” Barry began, reluctantly, “who first heard of this murder?”
“Doctor Davenport,” said Monroe, quickly. “His nurse telephoned from
the office——”
“Did the nurse tell you that?” Barry shot at him.
“Why, no, of course not. I haven’t seen the nurse.”
“Has anybody?”
“I don’t know. I suppose the police have.”
“You suppose! Well, they haven’t. I found that out. No, the police
have not thought it worth while to check up Doctor Davenport’s story
of his nurse’s message to him. They take it as he told it. It was nine
chances out of ten they would do so. I say, fellows, don’t you
remember that conversation we had about murder that afternoon—last
Tuesday afternoon?”
“I do,” answered Pollard. “It was then that I made my famous speech.”
“Yes; and that was remembered because it was unconventional and
damn-foolishness besides. But Doctor Davenport’s speeches, though of
far greater importance, are all forgotten.”
“I haven’t forgotten them,” said Pollard, thoughtfully. “He said the
detection of crime depended largely on chance.”
“Yes, and he minimized the chances.”
“But, good Lord, Barry, you’re not hinting——”
“I’m hinting nothing,” said Barry, speaking decidedly now, “I’m
reminding you what Davenport said; I’m reminding you of his whole
attitude toward the matter of murder; I’m reminding you of his
psychological mind, and that it might have been swayed in the
direction of crime; I’m reminding you that Pollard’s fool remark about
killing Gleason might have started a train of thought in the doctor’s
mind——”
“Making me accessory before the fact!” suggested Pollard.
“Unconsciously, yes, maybe. Well, there it is. You asked me for my
guess. You have it. It isn’t a suspicion, it isn’t even a theory—it’s
merely a guess—but it’s at least a possible one.”
“Barry, you’re batty!” Dean Monroe declared. “Us artists get that way
sometimes.” He beamed round upon the group. “Don’t mind Phil. He’ll
come out all right. And for heaven’s sake, fellows, forget what he has
said.”
Monroe was always looking out for his fellow artist and friend.
Barry’s impulsiveness had often been checked or steadied by Monroe’s
better judgment and clearer thought. And now, Monroe was truly
distressed at Barry’s speech.
“But where’s the motive?” Lane was asking, interested in this new
suggestion, and determined to look into it.
“That I don’t know,” said Barry. “I’ve no idea what his motive could
have been. But, for my part, I don’t believe in hunting the motive
first. A motive for murder is far more likely to be a secret than to
be something that anybody can deduce or guess.”
“Guessing is foolishness,” Pollard remarked, “but don’t you all
remember that Davenport mentioned fear as a common motive. I recollect
he did, and while I don’t for one minute incline to Barry’s
suggestion, yet I can admit the possibility of fear.”
“You mean Doc was afraid of Gleason? Why?” Lane spoke sharply.
“I don’t know why. I don’t know that he _was_ afraid—of Gleason
or anybody else. But I do say that he might have been—there are a
hundred reasons why a man may be secretly afraid of another man. Who
knows the secrets of his neighbor’s heart? I’m making no claim,
educing no theory, but it’s at least a fact that Davenport did speak
of fear as a motive. Now, I merely say, if you’re going to suspect
him, you may as well use that tip. That’s all.”
Pollard smoked on in silence, and each of the four thought over this
new idea.
“It’s shocking, that’s what it is, shocking!” exclaimed Dean Monroe,
at last. “I’m ashamed of you all, ashamed of myself, for harboring this
thought for a minute. Forget it, everybody.”
“Not so fast, Dean,” Barry rebuked him. “Any thought has a right to
expression—at the right time and place. I’ve given you this
suggestion for what it’s worth. I’ve nothing to base a suspicion
on—except that the first man to hear of a crime or to go to the spot
is a fair topic to think about.”
“But a doctor—called there!” Monroe went on, “You might as well
suspect the police themselves!”
“Yes, if they gave us a surprising story of a man killed by a shot and
_afterward_ telephoning for help.”
“That story is fishy,” admitted Lane.
“You bet it is,” assented Barry. “I can’t _see_ that telephoning
business at all!”