Miss Adams’ Story
In the offices of the District Attorney, Lane discussed the case with
Belknap. Without giving names or making any definite accusations, the
lawyer asked the Assistant District Attorney what he thought of Dr
Davenport’s story.
“True on the face of it,” replied Belknap, promptly.
“Yes,” Lane reminded him, “because it has not occurred to you to think
otherwise about it. But, how can you explain that telephoning?”
“It can’t be explained, so far as we know about it now. But, look
here, if Doctor Davenport killed Gleason—which, by the way, is the
most absurd idea I ever heard of—the last thing he would do would be
to make up such an unbelievable yarn as that of the man telephoning
after he had been fatally shot.”
“Doctor didn’t quite say that.”
“Circumstances say that. Gleason called up the doctor’s office and
said he was shot. The fatal shot was fired first. Elucidate.”
“I can’t. That’s the reason I’m here. We’ve got to find out about it.
I’m the Lindsays’ lawyer, and Mrs Lindsay is having hysterics and all
that. She’s of a revengeful temperament and wants the murderer of her
brother punished. This is not an unnatural feeling, and I want to do
all I can to push matters along. I don’t want the case to drift on and
on, until it’s laid on the shelf with lots of other unsolved
mysteries.”
“I don’t either, Lane,” Belknap said, earnestly, “and we’re working on
it night and day. Any news, Prescott?”
The query was addressed to the detective, who entered at the moment.
“No, Mr Belknap. But what you folks talking about? Doctor Davenport?”
Guardedly, Lane spoke of the strange story the doctor had told and
Prescott caught the drift at once.
“Where’d you get that dope?” he asked, his shrewd eyes scanning Lane’s
face.
“It isn’t dope—if you mean evidence; it’s merely scouting for
possible clews.”
“Yes, and it may be a boomerang clew! It may rebound against the man
that started it. Who did?”
“Nobody in particular,” and Lane looked stubborn.
“Yes, they did, now,” persisted Prescott. “Somebody started that lead,
and did it on purpose. Who made the suggestion? Manning Pollard?”
“No,” said Lane. “I’m not sure I know who spoke about it first.”
“Well, _I’m_ sure you know, and you’d better tell. Unless you’re
shielding somebody yourself. Better speak up, Mr Lane.”
“All right, then, it was Philip Barry. I believe it’s wiser to say so
than to conceal it. You can’t suspect him.”
“Why can’t I? I can suspect anybody that can’t prove his innocence.
And I’ve been thinking about Mr Barry myself. Isn’t he in love with
the heiress?”
“What heiress?”
“Miss Lindsay—half heiress of Mr Gleason’s big fortune.”
“What if he is? I could name a dozen young men in love with Miss
Lindsay. She’s a belle and has numberless admirers.”
“Yes, but Philip Barry’s a favored one, I’ve heard. Now, didn’t he
know Miss Lindsay would inherit?”
“I don’t know whether he did or not.”
“You knew it—you drew up the will.”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell anybody?”
Lane stared at him. “I’m not in the habit of babbling about my
clients’ affairs!” he said, coldly.
“Of course not. But did it leak out in any way—say, in general
conversation? Such things often do. It was no real secret, I suppose.”
“I treated it as one,” said Lane. “Of course, I considered it
confidential.”
“Of course,” put in Belknap. “Lawyers have to be close-mouthed people,
Prescott.”
But Prescott would not be downed.
“I know all that, Mr Belknap, but listen here. The news of that
inheritance might have leaked out in a dozen ways. Not purposely, of
course, but by chance. Wasn’t anybody ever in your office, Mr Lane,
when Mr Gleason was there, talking about it, or didn’t you ever
mention it in conversation with some intimate friend, say?”
Lane thought back.
“No,” he said, decidedly. “Unless—yes, one day, I remember, Manning
Pollard was in my office when Gleason came in. Gleason only stayed a
few minutes, but he did refer to his will, and after he went, I think
I did speak of it to Pollard.”
“Did he ask you about it?”
“No, I’m sure he didn’t. I think I volunteered an observation on the
queerness of the Western man, and, as Pollard didn’t like him, anyway,
very little was said.”
“But the terms of his will were spoken of?”
“Yes, incidentally. Pollard is a close friend of mine, and I may have
been a bit confidential.”
“There you are, then,” and Prescott nodded his sagacious head.
“Manning Pollard is a babbling sort of chap. I mean, he says things to
make a sensation—to shock or astound his audience. Ten chances to
one, he implied a knowledge of Gleason’s intentions just to appear
importantly wise.”
“No,” Lane demurred. “Pollard isn’t that sort, exactly. He does like
to make startling speeches, but they’re usually about himself, not
gossip about others.”
“Well, anyway, say Barry got an idea Pollard knew of Gleason’s will,
and got at the truth somehow. Or, maybe Barry found out from some one
else. Didn’t Miss Lindsay know of her inheritance?”
“I think not.”
“It doesn’t matter how he found out; say, Barry knew Miss Lindsay
would inherit, say, also, he was jealous of Gleason—which he was—and
say—just for the moment—he did kill Gleason. Wouldn’t he be likely
to try to turn suspicion on some one else—and who could he select
better than Doctor Davenport himself?”
Prescott beamed with an air of triumph at his conclusion, and looked
at the others for concurrence.
“Rubbish!” Lane scoffed. “You surely have built up a mountain out of a
silly molehill. Try again, Prescott.”
“I will try again, but it will be along these same lines,” and the
detective shook his head doggedly. “What say, Mr Belknap?”
Belknap looked thoughtful.
“I don’t see much in it,” he declared, “yet there may be. All you can
do, Prescott, is to investigate. Check up the doctor’s story, the
nurse’s story, and keep a watch on Barry. Your evidence is _nil_,
your suspicion has but slight foundation, and yet, it’s true Philip
Barry is a favored admirer of Miss Lindsay, he was jealous of Robert
Gleason, and whether he knew of the will or not, his name can’t be
ignored in this connection.”
“Go ahead,” said Lane, “investigate Barry thoroughly, but for heaven’s
sake, don’t be misled. Don’t assume his guilt merely because he
admires Miss Lindsay and was jealous of Gleason! Get some real
evidence.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr Lane,” Prescott said, looking at the
lawyer with some irritation. “I must find a direction in which to
look, mustn’t I? I must look in every direction that seems likely,
mustn’t I? I happen to know that there was bad blood between Doctor
Davenport and Mr Barry——”
“What do you mean by bad blood?” asked Lane.
“I mean they didn’t like each other—weren’t friendly—never chummed.
And the reason was that they were in love with the same girl.”
“Natural enough state of affairs,” commented Belknap. “Go ahead,
Prescott, look up the doctor’s yarn, look up Barry’s alibi, but, as Mr
Lane says, go carefully. I fancy, that though you may not get anything
on either of these men, you can’t help turning up something in the way
of evidence against somebody! Get all the facts you can, all the
information you can, and then see how it affects the individuals. Of
course, you must see the nurse that took the message from Gleason. I’m
surprised that hasn’t been done.”
“We simply accepted the doctor’s story,” said Prescott. “Now, I’ll
verify it.”
But before the detective began his promised verification, he elected
to go again to the Gleason apartments.
Here he visited Miss Adams, whose story, told him by Belknap,
interested him.
He used his best powers of persuasion on the spinster, and his
wheedlesome ways, and pleasant smile made her affable and loquacious.
By roundabout talk, he drew from her at last some descriptions of the
callers or visitors at the Gleason apartment.
She was loath to admit her curiosity, but she finally confessed that
she occasionally hung over the stairway to watch matters below.
She defended her deed by explaining that she was lonely, and a little
diversion of any sort was welcome.
“And, indeed, why shouldn’t I?” she asked; “it’s no crime to watch a
body going or coming along the street, or into a house!”
“Of course it isn’t,” agreed Prescott, sympathetically. “Now, whom did
you see go into Mr Gleason’s apartment on the day of the murder?”
“Two people.”
“Two! Both at once?”
“No; the lady came first.”
“Oh, she did. Wait a minute—did you see Mr Gleason himself come in?”
“I heard him.”
“What time?”
“After five. I don’t know any nearer than that.”
“Go on, then. A lady came? When?”
“Quite soon after Mr Gleason himself. I heard a light step on the
stairs and I looked out.”
“Describe her.”
“She was a gay little piece. Big eyes, tomato-colored cheeks and a
nose powdered like a marshmallow.”
“Small? Young?”
“Both; that is, very slim, but about average height. I looked mainly
at her clothes.”
“What were they?”
“Mostly fur, and long gray stockings and a little round cap of gray
fur.”
“Squirrel fur?”
“Yes, I guess so. Gray, anyway. A pert little thing she was, and yet
pretty too, in a sort of way.”
“What sort of way?”
“Oh, fly, flippant—flirtatious.”
“I don’t know—she just gave me that impression.”
“Would you know her if you saw her again?”
“I’m not sure—those little trots all look alike. But I’d know the
clothes.”
“Don’t squirrel furs all look alike?”
“Perhaps—yet I think I’d know her. You don’t think she killed Mr
Gleason, do you?”
“Gracious, no! Do you?”
“Well, I never saw her come out.”
“But you weren’t on watch all the time, were you?”
“No; of course not.” Miss Adams turned thoughtful. “But I didn’t hear
her go out—funny.”
“Who was the other caller?”
“A man.”
“After the girl came?”
“Yes; soon after. He was a swagger, well-dressed chap; not very large,
but tallish.”
“Derby hat?”
“No, sort of soft felt——”
“Gray?”
“Maybe—but more like olive green—dull olive.”
“Overcoat?”
“Yes, of course. Dark, plain, but with an air.”
Prescott looked at the old maid interestedly. How should she know when
men’s clothes had an air?
“I’m very observant,” she said, catching his expression.
“I’m fond of clothes, though I never had a smart gown in my life. But
I know when people are well-dressed.”
“The man went in then, before the girl came out?”
“Why, yes; but I never saw or heard the girl come out.”
“Did you see or hear the man come out?”
“No; but that’s not so strange. I wasn’t interested in him.”
“And you were in the girl?”
“Yes, I was. She’s no right to be calling at a man’s apartment! I’d no
thought of the man visitor, but I’d like to catch hold of that silly
young thing and give her a talking to.”
“Do you think she’d listen?”
“I know she wouldn’t! But I’d like the satisfaction of giving her a
piece of my mind!”
“You may get it. I’m going to try to find her.”
“Can you?”
“I don’t know. Well, now, see here; we are assuming that Mr Gleason
died at about quarter to seven. Do you think either or both of those
people stayed as long as that?”
“How on earth can I tell? I didn’t see them leave, you know.”
“And you saw no one else enter?”
“No.”
“Nor heard any one?”
“Not that I know of. After six o’clock, there’s more or less
trafficking on the stairs anyway. The tenants come home, you know.”
“Yes; now, you’re sure about these two, and that they came about five
o’clock?”
“I’m sure they came, but I can’t say certain about the time. It was
quite some after five, but I’ve no idea just how much after.”
Concluding he could learn no more from Miss Adams, Prescott went to
Doctor Davenport’s office to interview Nurse Jordan.
He found a calm, placid-faced woman, who, being interrogated, told the
story just as the doctor had told it.
“Describe the voice that came to you over the telephone,” said
Prescott.
“Well, it was gasping and faint—just what you would expect a man’s
voice to be after he had been shot.”
“Fatally shot?”
“Of course not! But I heard it, and I know what he said. Now if he
spoke, he must have been alive, and if he was alive, he hadn’t yet
been fatally shot. Had he?”
“Not likely. Then you assume the second shot was the fatal one?”
“How can I, when the doctors say otherwise?”
“What, then, do you think about it?”
“I don’t know what to think. If any other nurse had taken that message
I’d say she dreamed the thing. But I took it myself, and I know. The
only possible explanation I can think of, is that the murderer stood
there ready to shoot, but hadn’t yet fired. The victim somehow managed
to get the telephone call——”
“How could he? Why would the murderer let him?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. But, say the murderer threatened him, and say
the victim made some plausible plea that made the murderer grant him a
moment’s respite to telephone——”
“Oh, I see. Or, say, the murderer was threatening Gleason’s life
unless he telephoned a certain party—not the doctor. Then say,
Gleason called this number as a last hope—and shouted that he was
already shot, when he was merely anticipating the deed, and in his
frenzy of fear, hoped that to tell the doctor that, would be to stay
the murderer’s hand.”
“That’s a way out,” Nurse Jordan said, musingly. “And that’s all I can
think of—that it was something of that sort. As I say, the voice was
husky and scared, but it would be that if he was threatened. Still, it
certainly sounded like the voice of a suffering, dying man. It was
short, gasping—as if strangling.”
“In that case, if he were already shot when he called up, I mean—the
death shot was not instantaneous, as is supposed, but the victim lived
a few moments. Might that be so?”
“I can’t say. I’ve never known Doctor Davenport to make a false
diagnosis and, too, the other doctors agree the shot in the shoulder
was fired after the man was dead.”
“That seems to be inexplicable.”
“It’s all inexplicable. There’s Doctor Davenport himself—talk to
him.”
Prescott blessed his luck that the doctor came in just then, and
eagerly began to question him.
“I was at Mrs Ballard’s,” the doctor said; “up on Ninetieth Street,
near Fifth Avenue. After I got the nurse’s message, I hurried down to
the Gleason place as fast as I could. I didn’t know the exact
number——”
“You didn’t!” Prescott felt sure this was meant as a blind, to
indicate the doctor’s slight acquaintance with Gleason.
“No; I didn’t. I had to telephone some one to find out. I tried the
Lindsays first, but the wire was busy, so I called up Manning
Pollard.”
“And he told you?”
“Yes, I didn’t get the call, but the Ballards’ butler did, and Pollard
gave him the address. Of course, the man told Pollard I wanted it.”
“I see. Then you went right down there?”
“Yes; and the rest is public knowledge. Look here, Prescott, what are
you getting at?”
“Only the truth. Go on, tell the story. I have to get these details.”
“What details?”
“Of what happened before the police came.”
“Oh, you know it all. How I got help and broke in the door, and found
Gleason on the floor, dead.”
“He was dead when you entered?”
“Of course he was.”
“With two shots in his body.”
“Yes; why go over these things with me? I’ve made my report.”
“I know! but I want to find out about the telephoning. How do you
account for a man telling of his own death?”
“That’s the puzzle. It’s the queerest thing I ever knew, Prescott, but
it isn’t my province to ferret out the truth. My duty in the case is
done, and you know it. Now good-by.”
“One minute, Doctor. Will you tell me where you were that
afternoon—the afternoon of the murder?”
Davenport stared at him.
“Meaning that you suspect me of the crime?”
“I haven’t said so. Are you one of those people who think every
question a detective asks implies an accusation? There might be a
dozen reasons for my asking you that besides suspicion of you as
Gleason’s murderer.”
“Well, of course, I’ve no reason for not telling. I left the Club with
Dean Monroe. I set him down at his home, in West Fifty-sixth Street,
and then I made a short round of calls. Not more than three or four,
special cases. And while I was at Mrs Ballard’s the message came from
Nurse Jordan. Satisfied of my alibi?”
Davenport’s tone was sarcastic, and his smile was not pleasant. But,
as Prescott reflected, nobody likes to be wrongfully suspected.
A fleeting thought went through the detective’s mind that if Doctor
Davenport had killed Gleason he might have done so when he went down
there at seven o’clock. But that would mean that Nurse Jordan told a
string of falsehoods, and the whole affair would have been a most
complicated proceeding. No, if the doctor were the murderer, he would
not have called up Pollard to get that address.
But did he do that? Prescott went away and went straight to a
telephone booth and called Pollard.
“What?” Pollard said as he heard the query. “Called me up to ask
Gleason’s address? Why, no—oh, yes, he did. I remember now. He did,
and I gave it to him. Why?”
“Tell you some other time,” said Prescott. “Good-by.”