Miss Adams Again
“Everything looks dubious!” Millicent exclaimed. “I do think it’s a
shame! Here the days are flying by and absolutely nothing done toward
discovering who killed my brother! Unless the police achieve something
soon, I shall get a private detective.”
“Oh, they’re no good,” Louis advised her. “They’re terribly expensive
and they make a lot of trouble and never get any results, anyway.”
“You speak largely, Louis,” Pollard said, smiling at the boy. “Do you
know all that from experience?”
“No, not exactly; but I’ve gathered some such convictions from what
I’ve heard of private detectives as a class.”
“What about Phil Barry and that letter?” Phyllis asked, her great eyes
full of a troubled uncertainty.
“He must have written it,” Louis declared. “Isn’t that right,
Pollard?”
“I don’t see any way out of it. It is most surely his signature, and
he often writes on that old machine. Also, he did have a grouch about
Mr Gleason’s attentions to Miss Lindsay—that I know. But, I don’t for
a minute think he meant to kill Gleason and I don’t think he did. But
the note will make him a lot of trouble.”
“You still suspect some Western friend?” said Millicent, looking
earnestly at Pollard.
“Scarcely a friend! But I do think that’s a reasonable supposition,
for I can’t see any real indication anywhere else.”
At this point Lane arrived, and joined in the wonderment about Barry.
“It’s most surely his signature,” Lane said, “I know it as well as I
know my own—and it’s no forgery. Why should it be a forgery, anyway?
Supposing the murderer to be a Western man, or a chorus girl, or even
Doctor Davenport, who has most foolishly been mentioned in this
connection, why should he write a note and forge Barry’s name to it?”
“To throw suspicion on Phil,” said Louis, simply.
“Yes, of course, but, I mean, how could it be done? Your Western
stranger or your chorus girl can’t get into the Club to use that
machine—”
“Are you positive the note was written on that typewriter?” asked
Pollard, thoughtfully.
“Yes; I looked it up. There are some broken letters that don’t print
well, and that makes it unmistakable. Now Davenport could get access
to the typewriter, of course, but I can’t see old Doc sitting down and
writing that note and forging Barry’s name! Can you?”
“No”; and Pollard smiled at the idea. “But Davenport and Barry hate
each other like poison.”
“Yes, they’ve an old quarrel, something about a Picture Exhibition
where Doc is a director, and didn’t fall down and worship Barry’s
pictures. But that’s not enough to make a man kill.”
“No. Yet it was a deep full-fledged quarrel—rather more than you
represent it. However, I say, grant Barry wrote the note—which he
must have done, but don’t hold it as proof positive of murder.”
“What else could he have meant by it?” Millicent asked, her eager face
demanding reply.
“Well, as we are assuming he meant Miss Lindsay—and we’ve no real
right to assume that,” Pollard smiled at the girl, “we may say he only
meant to cut Gleason out, and gaining the lady’s hand himself, make it
impossible for Gleason to hope any more.”
“That’s an idea,” Lane said, “but you’d hardly think if that was in
Barry’s mind he would have worded his note just as he did.”
“Yes he would,” put in Louis. “Barry’s a temperamental chap, and he’d
say anything. I know him—I like him, but he does do and say queer
things.”
“All artists do,” Pollard observed.
Millicent and Lane went off to another room to discuss some business
matters and Louis followed.
“I’m glad you didn’t mention that money before Lane,” Pollard said;
“it’s wiser not to.”
“Why?” and Phyllis looked at him curiously. But her eyes fell before
his gaze, and a faint blush rose to her cheek.
“Because—forgive me if I seem intrusive—because I think you want it
for a purpose you don’t care to talk about. And if so, the least said
the better.”
“You’re right, Mr Pollard,” and Phyllis looked troubled, “I don’t want
anything said about it. Also, I don’t want it in a check—that I
should have to endorse. Can’t I have cash?”
“Why, yes—if necessary. But it is wiser to have a check for your own
safety and security. Shall you get a receipt?”
“I—I suppose so—I never thought of that.” The lovely face was so
anxious and worried that Pollard’s deepest sympathy was roused.
“Let me help you further,” he said, impulsively. “Oh, Phyllis, confide
the whole story to me. I’m sure I can help—and you can trust me.”
The frank glance that accompanied these words was also tender and
appealing. Phyllis knew at once that here was a friend—even more than
a friend—but at any rate, a man she could trust.
“I can’t tell you,” she said, hesitatingly, “for it isn’t all my secret.
I wish I could speak plainly—but——”
“That’s all right; don’t tell me anything you’re in honor bound not
to. But let me know what you can of the circumstances and let me
advise you. Can’t I pay the money whenever it is due, and bring you a
receipt—and so save you unnecessary embarrassment?”
“Oh, if you could do that!” Phyllis’ eyes shone with gratitude and
pleasure at the thought of thus having her burden shared.
But Lane’s return to the room precluded further planning just then.
“Pollard,” Lane said, “I’m beginning to think things look a bit dark
for Phil Barry.”
“As how?”
“Not only that letter business, which is, to my mind very serious, but
other things. Merely straws, perhaps, but they show the direction of
the wind. Mrs Lindsay told me that Barry said he saw you, Pollard,
to-day, down in the vicinity of the Gleason house. Then, Mrs Lindsay
said, you came in here and said you had been at home all day.”
“So I have,” Pollard returned, staring at Lane.
“Well, here’s the funny thing. Only yesterday, Barry told me that he
had seen you over in Brooklyn—”
“Brooklyn! I never go there!”
“Well, Barry said he saw you there. Now, it’s quite evident to me,
Barry is lying, and it must be in some endeavor to get you mixed up in
the Gleason matter.”
“It looks a little like that—but, how absurd! Why should he say he
saw me in Brooklyn?”
“I don’t know. You weren’t there?”
“No; I almost never go to Brooklyn, and I certainly was not there
yesterday. I haven’t been there for a year, at least!”
“I’m not quite on to Barry’s game, but there’s two cases where he
falsified in the matter of seeing you. Now, why?”
“I say why, too. I can’t see any reason for the Brooklyn yarn. I
suppose I can see a reason for his saying he saw me down in Washington
Square, if he means to try to fasten the crime on me. But, the
Brooklyn story I see no sense in. What do you think, Lane?”
“I begin to think Barry’s the guilty man, though up to now, I had
quite another suspicion.”
“A definite one? A person?”
“Yes, decidedly so. And I’ve no reason to give up my suspicion—except
that Barry has loomed up more prominently than my suspect.”
“Speak out—who’s your man?”
“Yes, Mr Lane, tell us,” Phyllis urged.
“No; not at present. It’s some one whose name has not even been
breathed in connection with the case, and if I suspect him wrongly it
would be a fearful thing to say so.”
“All right, if that’s the way of it, better keep it quiet.” Pollard
nodded his head. “Been all through Gleason’s papers?”
“Yes; and I can’t find any letters from any one out West or anywhere
else who would seem a likely suspect. No old time feuds, or
present-day quarrels. If we except Barry.”
“And me.”
“You haven’t a quarrel with him, Pollard—or had you?”
“I had not. I never saw him more than three times, I think. And when I
said——”
“Yes, I know what you said, and why. Don’t harp on that, Pol, but try
to help me out in this Barry business. Can you see Barry going down
there and shooting Gleason?”
Pollard was still for a minute; then he said:
“I suppose you mean, can I visualize Barry doing the thing. No, I
can’t. To begin with, he hasn’t the nerve.”
“Oh, some quiet, inoffensive men pick up nerve on occasion.”
“Well, then, he hadn’t sufficient motive.”
“A lady in the case is frequently the motive.”
“I daresay. Well, here’s a final disclaimer. I was with Barry myself
until about six o’clock that night. I hold he wouldn’t have had time
to go down to Gleason’s after I left him, and get back and appear at
Miss Lindsay’s at dinner time, quite unruffled and correct in dress
and demeanor.”
“Are you sure he did do this?”
“Certainly; I was there myself.”
“But he left you, say, at six. Dinner was at eight. Seems to me that
was time for all.”
“Yes, if he rushed matters. It would, of course, imply premeditation.
He would have had to get down to Gleason’s quickly—hold on, the
telephone message was received at Doctor Davenport’s office at about a
quarter to seven—I remember the detective harped on that.”
“All right. Say he did commit the crime at about six-thirty, or
quarter to seven, that would give him time to get home and to the
dinner at eight. It all fits in, I think.”
“I suppose it does,” Pollard agreed, slowly. “But, that would mean
that when he left me that afternoon, or evening—about six o’clock,
anyway, he had this thing all planned, and rushed it through. I submit
that if that were so, he would have been excited, or preoccupied, or
something. On the contrary, Lane, he was as calm and casual as we are
this minute. I can’t see it—as I said in the first place.”
Then Phyllis spoke.
“It’s this way, Mr Lane,” she said; “I happen to know that Phil Barry
told two untruths—or else, Mr Pollard did. I mean, Phil said, he saw
Mr Pollard twice, in places where he himself says he was not. Now
shall I believe the one or the other?”
“Choose,” said Pollard, smiling at her.
“But, Miss Lindsay,” Lane said, “don’t choose because of your faith in
one man or the other. Choose by rational deduction from
circumstances.”
“That’s just what I want to do,” Phyllis replied. “And here’s how it
looks to me. Phil Barry didn’t tell the truth or else Mr Pollard
didn’t. Now, Mr Pollard has no reason to prevaricate, and Phil, if
guilty, has. Therefore—and yet, I can’t believe Phil shot Mr
Gleason.”
“I can,” Millicent exclaimed. “I see it all now. Phil’s madly in love
with you, Phyllis—as who isn’t? I don’t know what it is, child, but
you seem to set all men wild, and you so demure and sweet! Well, it’s
common knowledge that Phil adores you. And we all know my brother did.
Now the theory or hypothesis or whatever you call it, that Phil was
jealous of Robert and killed him—after sending him that warning
letter—is, to my mind the only tenable theory and one that proves in
every detail. For, granting Phil Barry is the criminal, the letter is
explainable, the stories he told about Mr Pollard are explainable, and
the whole thing becomes clear.”
“Millicent,” Phyllis said, looking at her seriously, “you are only too
ready to assume the guilt of any one you suspect at the moment. I
admit your theory, but—I can’t believe Phil did it!”
“No,” cried Millicent, “because you are in love with Phil! That’s the
reason you won’t look facts in the face! I declare, Phyllis, you have
more interest in your foolish love affairs than in discovering the
murderer of my brother! But I am determined to find the villain who
shot Robert Gleason! I shall find him—I promise you that! I am not
mercenary, I shall devote every last cent of my money—or my brother’s
money to tracking down the murderer.”
“Do you know,” said Pollard, quietly, “it seems to me that we all look
at this thing too close by. I mean, too much from a personal
viewpoint. You, Mrs Lindsay, want to find your brother’s murderer, but
you, Phyllis, and you, Louis, are more interested in whether friends
of yours are implicated or not. Isn’t that so, Lane?”
“Yes,” agreed Fred Lane. “But, see here, Pollard, I’m laying aside
this personal interest you speak of, and I’m trying to go merely and
solely by evidence. Now, I think that the evidence against Phil Barry
is pretty positive.”
“Well, I don’t,’” Pollard disagreed with him. “It is, in a way—but,
good Lord, man, lots of people may write to a person without intending
to kill him.”
“Not a letter like Barry’s.”
“Yes, just that. Oh, for Heaven’s sake, use a little intelligence! If
Barry had meant to kill Gleason, do you suppose he would have written
that letter? Never!”
“Yes, I think he would.” Lane spoke slowly and thoughtfully. “You see,
Pol, you’re tarred with the same brush—I mean the artistic
temperament, and you ought to see that a man’s mind works
spasmodically. Barry had the impulse to kill, I hold, and he wrote
that warning letter as—well, as a salve to his conscience, and there
it is.”
Meantime, Detective Prescott was on the job. He had taken Barry down
to the Washington Square house, but not to Robert Gleason’s apartment.
It was Miss Adams’ doorbell he rang, and to her home he escorted
Philip Barry.
Barry’s anger had subsided from belligerent altercation to a subdued
sullenness.
“You’ll be sorry for this,” he told Prescott, but as that worthy had
often been similarly warned, he paid little attention.
“Now, Miss Adams,” said Prescott, when they were in the presence of
the spinster. “I want you to tell me whether this is the man whom you
saw go into Mr Gleason’s apartment that afternoon.”
Miss Adams scanned Barry carefully.
They were all standing, and as the lady looked him over, Barry turned
slowly round, as if to give her every opportunity for correct
judgment.
“Thank you,” she said, quite alive to his sarcastic intent. “No, Mr
Prescott, this is not the man.”
“Are you sure?” Prescott was disappointed, not because he wanted to
prove Barry guilty of the crime, but because Miss Adams’ negative made
it imperative for him to hunt up another man. For the caller of that
afternoon must be found.
“Why, I’m pretty sure. Though, of course, clothes might make a
difference.”
“You said the man who came wore a soft hat.”
“Yes; but it was a different color from Mr Barry’s. It was a dull
green—olive, I think.”
“It was after dark when he came, wasn’t it?”
“Yes; but the hall was lighted and I saw him clearly. But a man may
have two hats, I suppose.”
“I haven’t,” said Barry, shortly. “That is, I haven’t two hats that I
wear in the afternoon. This is the only soft felt I possess.”
The hat he wore was of a medium shade of gray, an inconspicuous soft
hat of the latest, but in no way, extreme fashion.
“That’s nothing,” Prescott said. “A man can buy and give away a lot of
hats in a week. Size him up carefully, Miss Adams; your opinion may
mean a lot. Never mind the hat. How does Mr Barry’s size and shape
compare with the man you saw?”
“Mr Barry is a heavier man,” the lady said, decidedly; “also I feel
sure, an older man. The man I saw was slighter and younger.”
“Did you see his face?”
“No.”
“Yet you’re sure he was younger?”
“Yes, I am. He was of slighter build, and a little taller, and he
walked with a jauntier step, almost a run, as he came up the stairs.”
“You are very observant, Miss Adams.”
“Not so very. I took him in at a glance, and he impressed me as I have
stated. I have a retentive memory, that’s all. I can see him now—as
he bounded up the stairs.”
“In a merry mood?”
“I don’t know as to that. But the impression he gave me was more that
of a man in haste. He tapped impatiently at the door of Mr Gleason’s
apartment, and when it was not opened instantly, he rapped again.”
“And then Mr Gleason opened it?”
“Then somebody opened it. I couldn’t see who. The man went in quickly
and the door was closed. That’s all I know about it.”
Miss Adams sat down then, and folded her hands in her lap. She was
quite serene, and apparently not much interested in the matter.
A fleeting thought went through the detective’s mind that possibly
Barry had interviewed her before and had persuaded or bribed her to
say all this. But it seemed improbable.
Barry, too, was serene. He seemed satisfied at the turn events had
taken, and appeared to think that Miss Adams’ decision had cleared him
from suspicion.
Not so the detective.
“Well, Mr Barry,” he said, “we’ve got to find another man to fit that
olive green hat, it appears. But that doesn’t preclude the possibility
of your having been here that day, too. You didn’t hang over the
balusters all the afternoon, I suppose, Miss Adams.”
Offended at his mode of expression, the lady drew herself up
haughtily, and said, “I did not.”
“But you saw no one come in who might have been Mr Barry?”
“No.”
“Could he have come and you not have known it?”
Miss Adams was about to make a short reply, and then thought better of
it.
“I want to help you all I can,” she said, “and I am answering your
questions carefully. I suppose any one could have gone into Mr
Gleason’s apartment that day without my knowing it, but it is not
likely. For I was listening for the arrival of my niece, who, however,
did not come. I kept watch, therefore, until about six o’clock, or a
little after, then as I gave up all hope of my niece’s coming, I also
ceased to watch or listen. Anybody may have come after that. I don’t
know, I’m sure.”
Prescott ruminated. Whoever killed Robert Gleason may well have
arrived after six o’clock. For the telephone call didn’t reach the
doctor until about quarter of seven, and if it were Barry, it must be
remembered he didn’t part company with Pollard until six or after.
It would seem then, that Miss Adams’ testimony amounted to little,
after all. However, the man with the green hat ought to be found.
“Tell us again of the young man,” Prescott said. “See if you can
describe him so we can recognize some one we know.”
Miss Adams thought a moment, and then said: “No, I can’t. He just
seemed to me like a young chap, an impulsive sort, who ran in to see a
friend. He came upstairs hastily, yet not in any merriment—of that
I’m sure. Rather, he gave me the effect of a man anxious for the
interview—whatever it might be about.”
“Didn’t he ring the lower bell? Why wasn’t Mr Gleason at his own door
when the chap came up?”
“I don’t know. I think he must have rung Mr Gleason’s bell down
stairs, for the front door opened to admit him. But Mr Gleason didn’t
open his own door until the visitor had rapped twice. Of that I’m
certain.”
“Do you think the girl who came before the young man did was still in
Mr Gleason’s apartment?”
“Why, I don’t know.” Miss Adams seemed suddenly more interested.
“Maybe she was. Maybe she didn’t want to be seen there. Maybe——”
She paused, and sat silent. Prescott gave her a minute or two, to
collect herself, for he felt sure there would be some further
disclosure.
Meantime Barry had taken an envelope from his pocket, and was rapidly
sketching on it. A very few lines gave a distinct picture of a young
man.
“Does that look like the man you saw?” he asked, holding it so that
Miss Adams could see it, but Prescott could not.
“That’s the man himself!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with
astonishment.