Hester’s Statement
Pollard and Lane, sitting talking in the Club Lounge, were joined by
Dean Monroe.
“It’s a queer thing,” Monroe said, “that nobody gets any forrader in
the Gleason matter. What are police for? What are detectives for? And
most of all, what are we chaps for, if we can’t solve a mystery right
in our own set?”
“I don’t know that it matters, being in our own set,” Pollard began,
but Monroe interrupted:
“Yes, it does. We know all the principals——”
“Hold on,” Lane said; “what do you mean, principals? There’s the
principal character, the victim, himself, but further than that we
know no ‘principal.’”
“We don’t! Well, I should say we know most of the suspects.”
“Suspects don’t amount to much,” Pollard observed, “unless you can
hang more evidence on them than has been attached to anybody so far.”
“Evidence!” Monroe exclaimed; “what further evidence do you want than
that letter of Phil Barry’s?”
“Oho,” said Lane; “you’re out for Barry, are you? But, Pol, here
threatened to kill Gleason. That’s far more incriminating evidence to
my mind than Barry’s letter. For the letter may have been forged, but
Pollard said his words himself.”
“Oh, I know, but Manning was home in his rooms all the time, and
nobody knows where Phil was. Why don’t they find out?”
“Why don’t they find out anything?” Lane smiled. “Because they don’t
go to work with any intelligence.”
“You could solve the mystery, I suppose?” Monroe flung at him.
“I’d be afraid to try,” and Lane looked serious.
“Meaning?” Pollard asked.
“That investigation of a determined sort might lead to awful
conclusions.”
“Don’t say it!” Pollard cried. “I can’t help knowing what you mean,
but don’t breathe it, Lane. You know how a word—a hint—may start
suspicion. And there’s not a word of truth in it!”
“Who? Miss Lindsay?” Monroe asked, bluntly.
“Hush up, Dean,” Pollard growled.
“I won’t. And it’s silly to evade an issue. If there’s nothing in it,
drag it out into the light and prove there isn’t.”
“No,” Lane said, thoughtfully, “it isn’t wise to drag out anything
concerning the Lindsays—any of them. Not even Mrs Lindsay. They’re an
emotional lot, and if they get excited, they say all sorts of things.
If they must be questioned, it would better be by somebody with their
interests at heart, and the thing should be done quietly and with few
listeners.”
“Well, you go and do it, Lane,” Monroe suggested. “I feel sure unless
you do, the police will get ahead of you, and they’ll put Miss Lindsay
through the third degree——”
“Oh, nonsense. The police are hot on Barry’s trail. That chap’ll be
arrested very soon, I believe. Why, that letter is damning. How do you
explain it, except at its face value?”
“But what is its face value?” asked Pollard. “The letter doesn’t
threaten violent measures at all——”
“It implies something of the sort. And Barry has no alibi.”
“Of course not,” Pollard said; “an innocent man doesn’t have. I mean,
an innocent man is very likely not to know where he was at any given
time. It’s your criminal who has his alibi at his tongue’s end.”
“I’m going over to the Lindsay house now,” Lane said, rising. “Want to
go along, Pol?”
“No, not this time. If you’re going to quiz Miss Lindsay I’d rather
not be there. And you said yourself you’d rather be alone.”
“Right. But I’m going to ask Mrs Lindsay a few questions, too. After
all, she and Miss Phyllis are the only heirs.”
“Meaning one of them is doubtless the criminal!” Dean Monroe spoke
scornfully.
“Oh, I don’t say that,” Lane returned, “but there’s lots to see
about.”
Others than Lane were of this mind, for when the lawyer reached the
Lindsay home, he found Belknap and Prescott both there, and the
Lindsay ladies, as a result of their visitors’ questions, both in a
highly excited state.
“I’m glad to see you, Mr Lane,” Millicent cried, as Lane entered; “do
help Phyllis and me. These men are saying awful things to us!”
“To me,” Phyllis corrected. “They’ve nothing against you, Millicent.”
Phyllis looked exhausted. Apparently, she had had all she could stand
of the detectives’ grilling, and she was at the end of her
self-control.
“You must excuse me a few minutes,” she exclaimed, starting up, and
without another word she left the room.
“You were rather blunt, Prescott,” Belknap said. “You must remember
Miss Lindsay is a delicate, sheltered young lady, and unaccustomed to
hear such rough speech as you gave her.”
“No matter,” said Prescott, doggedly. “If she killed Gleason, such
talk is none too bad for her. And if she didn’t, it can’t hurt her.”
“What!” cried Lane. “Miss Lindsay kill Mr Gleason! Man, you must be
crazy!”
“Oh, no, not that,” Prescott said, quietly. “But when a young lady
goes to a man’s rooms half an hour before he is killed, when she at
that interview learns for the first time that she is heiress to half
his fortune, when she is overheard in altercation with the man a very
short time before he is shot, when no other person is seen there at
the time or anywhere near it, when the young lady doesn’t care much
for the man, when he wants to marry her—and she knows if she refuses
she’ll lose the inheritance—well, isn’t that about enough?”
“First,” asked Lane, “are your statements all proved facts?”
“Facts don’t have to be proved,” Prescott flared back. “But my
statements are facts, as you mostly know, yourself. We have Miss
Hayes’ word for it that Miss Lindsay was at Mr Gleason’s about six.”
“She says she wasn’t,” Millicent broke in, angrily.
“Now, look here, Mrs Lindsay,” said Belknap, “the very day of the
crime you accused Miss Lindsay. Why do you now try to defend her?”
“Oh, she never did it,” wailed Millicent. “Never! Never! When I said
she did, I was out of my head. Just at first, you know, I was so
stunned I scarcely knew what I was saying.”
“Well, you know now. Was Miss Lindsay here at home at six o’clock that
night?”
“I don’t know——”
“You do know. Answer.”
“Well, then, she wasn’t—but that doesn’t prove she was down in
Washington Square!”
“Leave us to do the proving. You answer questions.”
“Now, don’t frighten the lady,” Lane advised, frowning at the
detective’s manner. “She will answer your questions—or I will.”
“All right, then, you answer. What does Miss Lindsay want twenty
thousand dollars for—and in a hurry, too?”
“Does she want that sum?”
“She does; and she’s bound to get it. Wants her inheritance right off.
What for, I say?”
“And I say, I don’t know,” Lane replied. “But there are lots of things
the modern young woman wants money for——”
“Yes, but if they’re right and proper things, why won’t she tell what
they are? No matter if they’re extravagances or foolish luxuries, why
not say so? But if the destination of that twenty thousand can’t be
told—it’s clear there’s something wrong about it.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning nothing but that. Something wrong—something shady—something
that must be covered up. Therefore, she had to have the money at once.
Therefore, she went to Robert Gleason for it. Therefore, he told her
he would give it to her on one condition—marriage.”
“Hold on, Prescott, do you know this?” Lane demanded.
Prescott jerked a finger toward Millicent Lindsay.
“She knows it,” he said. “She knows that for weeks Miss Lindsay had
kept Gleason dangling—waiting for her answer. Then, when the young
lady discovers she can get the money by the man’s death—and as she
really abhors him and doesn’t want to marry him—and as the
opportunity offers——”
“What opportunity?”
“The fact that she’s there alone with him in his rooms, his pistol
conveniently at hand, and nobody about——”
“Oh, you’re romancing! That girl! She couldn’t do it!”
“You know she could, Mr Lane,” Belknap interposed. “You say that
because you don’t want to think it. But the only thing that would
positively disprove it would be for Miss Lindsay to tell where she was
at the time. This she refuses to do.”
“Yes, and Manning Pollard refused to tell where he was———”
“But we found out where he was, without his telling us. To prove where
a man was by outside witnesses, many of them, is proof, when his own
statement is far from proof. Now if we could check up Miss Lindsay as
we did Mr Pollard, that would settle her question. But we can’t.”
“Where was she?” Lane asked of Millicent.
“I don’t know, I’m sure. She came home just in time to dress for the
dinner-party. But I don’t know what time it was.”
“That’s the trouble,” Prescott said, despairingly. “Nobody ever knows
what time anything happened. The only thing we are sure of is that
Gleason was still alive and telephoning at quarter to seven, and even
at that, that nurse may have been mistaken.”
“Not she,” said Lane. “She’s most accurate.”
“Then, we’re fairly sure of Miss Hayes’ evidence, for the simple
reason that we’ve no cause for doubt in her case. She says she left
the Gleason place, by the back entrance, at six o’clock. And, she says
Miss Lindsay was with Gleason at that time. Now, the puzzle fits into
place. Miss Lindsay remained for a time, trying to persuade Gleason to
give her this large sum of money, and when he refused—that is, unless
she would marry him, she became desperate, and the tragedy resulted.”
“Straight story,” said Lane, “but little to back it save your
imagination. What’s to prevent Miss Lindsay going away and somebody
else coming and committing the deed? Plenty of time between six and
quarter of seven.”
“Not likely. The people of the house were coming in then, and an
arriving man would have been noticed. Oh, I don’t say it would have
been impossible—but we’ve no shadow of evidence for it. And, if so,
where did Miss Lindsay go from there at six o’clock, that she didn’t
get home until seven or thereabouts?”
“You don’t know that it was as late as seven——”
“No! I tell you I can’t fix the time of anything. Nobody seems to have
had a timepiece going that night—which is suspicious in itself!”
“What about Philip Barry?” Lane asked this quietly. “I thought you
were sure of his guilt.”
“It all fits in,” said Prescott, slowly. “Mr Barry and Miss Lindsay
are in love with each other——”
“Now how do you know that?” and Lane looked at the detective sharply.
“I gathered it from lots of sources. Barry’s letter to Gleason for
one.”
“But that only proves that Mr Barry admired Miss Lindsay. Not that his
regard was returned.”
“Oh, well, that doesn’t matter. Say they were friends, then. Say they
were in cahoots. Say the money was wanted by Mr Barry, and together
they planned to get it from Gleason—in one way or another.”
Lane laughed shortly, and again remarked on the detective’s fertile
imagination, but in truth he was decidedly uncomfortable. He had been
afraid some one would evolve a theory that included Phyllis and Barry
both, and this was the thought that had haunted Lane’s mind. It was
incredible, but it was at least possible, that Barry’s threatening
letter and Phyllis’ desire for a large sum of money and the liking of
the girl for the artist and her detestation of Robert Gleason, all
tended toward a theory that included the two, and that had much to be
said for it.
And then a strange thing happened. One of the maids employed in the
Lindsay household came into the room.
“What is it, Hester?” asked Millicent, in surprise.
“Oh, please, madam—please, Mrs Lindsay, I think I know something I
ought to tell.”
“You do!” Prescott pounced on her. “Well, tell it, then.”
“Why—you see—I heard you talking about where Miss Phyllis was—on
the night of—of, you know—at six o’clock. And I can tell you where
she was.”
Belknap looked at the girl without much interest. She was as emotional
as the people she worked for. Her fingers twisted nervously, and she
picked at her apron, and swayed from side to side as she talked.
Probably, Belknap thought, she’s devoted to Miss Lindsay, and is
making up a yarn to save her.
But Hester went on, speaking softly, but steadily enough.
“Yes, sir. And this is what I know. At six o’clock, Miss Phyllis was
in a taxicab with a man driving up Fifth Avenue. She was near
Forty-second Street.”
Prescott laughed outright.
“You’ve a kind heart, and doubtless you love Miss Lindsay, but your
story is a little crude. Wants verisimilitude,—if you know what that
means. You may go, Hester.”
“No; wait a minute,” directed Belknap. “Were you out that afternoon,
Hester?”
“No, sir.”
“Then how do you know this?”
“I heard Mr Pollard say so.”
“Wait! This grows interesting. To whom did he say it?”
“To Miss Phyllis herself, sir.”
“Oh, he did! And when?”
“I’m thinking it was yesterday or day before. Anyhow, he was here a
talking to Miss Phyllis, and I heard him tell her he saw her then and
there and he asked her who was the man with her.”
“And who was it?”
“Miss Phyllis wouldn’t tell him, sir.”
“And so, Hester, you listen at doors, do you?”
“No, sir, that I don’t. I came into the library to mend the fire and
to turn on the lights as is my duty at twilight. And Miss Phyllis was
talking with Mr Pollard, and they said what I’ve told you.”
“And just why are you repeating it to us?”
“Because—to-day I _was_ listening at the door. I love Miss
Phyllis and when I saw her rush out of the room here, and run up to
her own room and throw herself on the bed and cry as if her heart
would break, I didn’t know what to do! And she wouldn’t let me do
anything for her, but said she wanted to be alone. So I left her and I
came down, and when I heard you gentleman talking against my young
lady, I thought maybe if I told that, it might help.”
Hester’s honest blue eyes, tear-filled and sad, left no doubt of her
sincerity and her loyalty to her beloved young mistress.
“I think you have helped, Hester,” said Belknap, not unkindly. “Now
will you go and tell Miss Lindsay that we wish to see her. That she
must come at once.”
Hester went, and it was several moments before she returned.
The group waited in silence.
Millicent wept softly, and though Lane spoke to her once or twice she
paid no attention. The volatile little woman was deeply sorry now that
she had accused Phyllis in the first place. As she said, and she did
not really mean it—or at least, she was so stunned and bewildered
that she scarcely knew what she did mean. But when she became calmer,
she knew she didn’t suspect Phyllis—and yet, so susceptible is human
nature to suggestion that when the detectives put the matter as they
did, she began to think they might be right.
While they were waiting for Phyllis’ reappearance, Barry came.
He was surprised at the presence of the Assistant District Attorney
and the detective, but as he noted their reception of himself he was
even more surprised. For they did not regard him as hostilely as
usual, and he immediately concluded they were on another track.
But conversation was a bit constrained, and finally Barry blurted out:
“What’s the idea? Why are you all sitting here as if looking for
something or somebody?”
“We are,” and Belknap looked grave. “We are waiting for Miss Lindsay
to reappear.”
“What about her?” Barry asked, suddenly alert.
“We want her to answer a few questions.” Belknap kept a wary eye on the
artist, for he was becoming more and more convinced that the secret of
the murder was in the keeping of the two. His theory strengthened in
his mind every moment and he wished Phyllis would come. Yet, something
might be gained from Barry in the meantime.
“Were you in a taxicab with Miss Lindsay on the day of Mr Gleason’s
death?” Belknap sprang suddenly.
“What do you mean?” cried Barry, angrily. “Of course I wasn’t.”
“Who was, then?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. I don’t know that anybody was.”
“Well, some man was. At about six o’clock. At Fifth Avenue and
Forty-second Street. Where were you at that hour?”
“Why, I was almost right there myself. I walked down from the Club
with Pollard about that time, and I left him at Forty-fourth and he
went on down.”
“Very good,” Belknap nodded.
Barry’s air had been honest, his thinking back evidently real and his
statement quite in accordance with the known facts. Pollard had said
Barry walked down with him, and had left him at Forty-fourth. Now,
from that time, Pollard’s every movement had been checked up, but not
so Barry’s. Nobody seemed to have seen him from that moment until he
arrived at the Lindsay dinner party.
To ask him as to this was sure to anger him, yet Belknap tried it.
“No!” Barry stormed, in answer to his query, “I haven’t an alibi. I
mean I’ve nobody who can swear to one. As a matter of fact, I went
directly home after leaving Pollard. I went into my hotel, a small one
on West Forty-fourth Street, and I went to my rooms.”
“Meeting nobody?”
“Of course, I passed the doorman and the desk people. I don’t remember
whether I spoke to them or not. I usually nod if they’re looking my
way. But I can’t remember what happens every single night! I’m not
trying to establish an alibi, because I didn’t kill Mr Gleason. But
I’m ready to help you find out who did. I’ve not done much so far,
because I thought the matter was in capable hands. But those capable
hands have accomplished just nothing—nothing at all! Now, I’m going
to put my finger in this pie—and I’m going to discover something!”
“Wait, Mr Barry,” Belknap said, “what about that letter signed by you,
yet which you say you didn’t write. Suppose you explain that first.”
“Just what I intend to do! I haven’t quite proved it, but I have found
out a possible solution of that matter. If I can prove I didn’t write
it, and can show who did and how and why, it’ll help some—won’t it?”
“You bet it will!” cried Prescott. “That’s the kind of talk. But have
you some real information, or merely a supposition that doesn’t mean
anything definite?”
“We’ll see,” and Barry shook his head. “I’m not telling it all now.
But I came to see Miss Lindsay. Where is she?”
“She’ll be here in a minute,” Millicent said, eyeing Barry closely.
But in a minute, instead of Phyllis, Hester returned.
Excitedly, she exclaimed, “Miss Phyllis is gone. Nobody saw her go and
nobody knows where she is!”
“Gone!” said Millicent contemptuously; “how absurd! If you mean she
has run away! Phyllis wouldn’t do that.”
“Well, madam, she’s not in the apartment. Her moleskin coat is gone
from her wardrobe, and her little taupe hat. She has certainly gone
out, ma’am.”
And gone Phyllis surely had. It was foolish to look for her in the
rooms, for her hat and coat were missing, of course she had gone out
into the street; whether for some ordinary errand, or to disappear who
could tell?
“I’ll find her,” said Prescott, and clapping on his hat he hurried
away.