MANY INVENTIONS
DOROTHY DEANE laid aside the muffler she had been pretending to knit
and stared intently at Millicent who lay stretched out on the lounge
in Mrs. Porter’s pretty boudoir. Millicent was certainly asleep at
last, but Dorothy waited several more minutes before rising cautiously
and stretching her stiff muscles. It seemed hours since she had
breakfasted. Taking care not to awaken the sleeper, Dorothy left the
room and, after debating her future actions, she finally went in search
of Murray. She found the footman polishing the silver service in the
pantry.
“Miss Millicent wishes to know, Murray, if Mr. Wyndham has returned,”
she said, letting the swing door close behind her.
“No, Miss Dorothy, not yet.” Murray dropped his chamois and
straightened to an upright position, and a sudden sharp crick in his
back resulting caused an involuntary groan to burst from him. Dorothy
looked at him sympathetically.
“Why not use Sloane’s liniment?” she asked.
Murray shook his head and eyed her dismally. “I’ll just have to endure
it, miss--if it isn’t rheumatism it’s something else.”
“Try a liver pill,” suggested Dorothy. She was aware of Murray’s
peculiarities, and, if discussing medicine and illness would put him
in a good humor, she was willing to go any length; Murray alone could
supply her with certain information. Her suggestion, however, was
unfortunate.
Murray favored her with a withering glance. “It’s not my liver that
gives me an ache in every bone, it’s grippe,” he announced. “I’m
wishing I had one of them ante-bellum cartridges.”
“Had what?” Dorothy looked at him in honest amazement.
“Ante-bellum cartridges,” he repeated. “The same as Dr. Noyes gave you,
Miss Dorothy, when you came down with cold and fever in Christmas week.”
“Oh!” Dorothy’s piquant face dimpled into a smile, hastily suppressed;
discretion prevailed in spite of her love of fun. It was wiser not to
tell Murray that he should have said “antifebrin capsules”; she was
there to wheedle, not to instruct. “Oh, Murray, I do hope you haven’t
grippe--it’s so contagious.”
“Yes, miss.” But Murray did not look downcast at the idea. “We’d be a
whole hospital then, a regular hospital.” His face lengthened. “But
we’ve no doctor in the house, now Dr. Noyes has gone.”
“Oh, well, there’s one in the neighborhood; in fact, just across the
fields--Dr. Thorne.”
Murray shook his head dubiously. “I’m thinking I wouldn’t like him,” he
said thoughtfully. “They say he’s over-hasty at cutting people up.”
Dorothy laughed, then became serious. “I believe he has made a
specialty of surgery.” She turned as if to go. “By the way, Murray, did
Mr. Wyndham mention when he would be back?”
“No, miss, he didn’t.” Murray, turning about to replace a dish on the
shelf, smiled discreetly. “I’m thinking, miss, that Mr. Hugh intended
to tell Mrs. Porter when he would be back when that ’tec, Mr. Mitchell,
stepped out of the door I was holding open for Mrs. Porter, and Mr.
Hugh called to her to expect him when she saw him, and the car started
off with a rush. He was here this morning.”
“Who--Mr. Hugh?” Dorothy turned like a flash.
“No, no, miss, the ’tec, Mitchell. I hear tell as how he’s the man in
charge here; tall, light-haired, looks as if he didn’t belong anywhere,
’cause he’s so busy concealing he’s looking everywhere.”
“I know the man you mean.” Dorothy laid her hand on the swing door.
“Miss Millicent and I watched him pacing up and down the carriage drive
before breakfast, and saw him go toward Dr. Thorne’s house. Has he been
here since? Oh!” She stepped back, startled, as a face appeared at the
pantry window, and a second later a finger tapped gently on the pane.
“Speaking of the devil”--muttered Murray, walking past Dorothy and
throwing open the window. “What do you want to scare the lady for?” he
demanded wrathfully.
“I beg your pardon.” Mitchell lifted his hat and regarded Dorothy
solemnly. “I was under the impression she had seen me standing here a
moment ago. Please tell Nurse Deane, Murray, that I wish to see her.”
Dorothy, who had drawn back until she stood partly hidden by the wall
of the pantry from Mitchell’s penetrating gaze, grew paler as she heard
the detective’s request, and the quick droop of her eyelids hid a look
of sudden terror. Before the footman could reply she stepped forward to
the window.
“My sister is off duty this morning,” she said. “She is still asleep in
her bedroom. Can I take your message to her?”
Mitchell considered rapidly before replying. “May I have a few words
with you?”
“Surely. Will you not come into the house? It is rather chilly standing
by an open window.”
“Walk around to the front door, sir, and I’ll show you into the
drawing-room,” directed Murray, removing his apron and closing the
window. “Mrs. Porter is in the library,” he added, and hastened to open
the swing door.
With a word of thanks Dorothy walked slowly through the dining-room and
down the hall, permitting the footman to reach the front door and usher
Detective Mitchell into the drawing-room before she entered. She bowed
courteously to Mitchell and signed to him to take a chair near the sofa
on which she deposited herself with careful regard to having her back
turned to the windows and the detective facing the light. She waited
for him to open the conversation.
“You came here last night, Miss Deane.” It seemed more a simple
statement of fact than a question, and Dorothy treated it as such
and made no reply. Mitchell moved his chair nearer the sofa before
asking, “Did I understand you to say that your sister was resting this
morning--or ill?”
Dorothy started; ill, why should the detective imagine Vera was ill?
“She is resting,” she responded. “Your ignorance of nurses’ hours
of duty proves a clean bill of health, Mr. Mitchell. Night nurses
must sleep in the daytime, especially when the day nurse is late in
reporting for duty.”
“But Mrs. Hall has been back for some time,” persisted Mitchell. “And
it is now nearly one o’clock. Are you quite sure that your sister is
still asleep? I am under the impression that I saw her in the upper
hall talking to Miss Porter fifteen minutes ago.”
Dorothy considered the detective in silence. What had aroused his
sudden interest in Vera?
“If you will give me your message,” she said, “I will go upstairs and
see if my sister is awake.”
“Thank you,” replied Mitchell. “But I must see your sister--”
“When?”
“Now.” Hearing a step behind him, Mitchell spun around as Murray
stopped by the back of his chair.
“Mrs. Porter desires you to step into the library, sir,” he announced.
“You also, Miss Dorothy,” and, wondering why her presence was required,
Dorothy followed the detective into the library.
A disorderly pile of newspapers lay on the center table in front of
Mrs. Porter, whose air of displeasure and heightened color Dorothy
rightly attributed to the display type which heralded the news accounts
of the mysterious death of Bruce Brainard.
“Upon my word,” Mrs. Porter’s gold lorgnette performed an incessant
tattoo on the table. “The unbridled license of the press of today! And
your paper, Dorothy, is most sensational,” addressing her directly.
“How could you permit it?”
“But, dear Mrs. Porter, I’m only society editor--I have no authority
except over my particular section of the paper,” protested Dorothy. “I
am deeply sorry if--if the article offends you.”
“It not only offends--it’s offensive!” fumed Mrs. Porter. “I spoke
hastily, Dorothy; I admit you are in no way to blame, but I’ll place
the matter in my lawyer’s hands, and the owners of the paper shall
smart for hinting that we are a band of murderers.”
“Surely it does not go as far as that?” ejaculated Mitchell.
“It implies it.” Mrs. Porter favored him with an angry look. “I see the
article gives you, Mr. Mitchell, as authority for the statement that
Dr. Noyes is being sought by the police. How dare you insinuate that
he may be guilty? I gave his reason for his abrupt departure at the
inquest; the jurors did not hold him in any way responsible for the
crime or bring a verdict against him.”
“You must not believe everything you read in the newspapers,” remarked
Mitchell, meeting her irate glare with unruffled good nature. “My
precise statement to the newspaper men implied nothing against Dr.
Noyes. The reporters simply picked him as the first possible ‘suspect.’”
“Kindly disabuse their minds of any such idea. Dr. Noyes, besides his
professional ability, is a man of high character and proven courage.
He would not stoop to murder,” declared Mrs. Porter hotly. “Besides,
there is no possible motive for his killing Bruce Brainard--they never
even met before Monday night.” Mitchell remained discreetly silent,
and, after watching him in growing resentment, Mrs. Porter announced
vehemently: “Mr. Brainard committed suicide. In ascribing his death to
murder, the police err.”
“What leads you to believe he committed suicide?” demanded Mitchell.
“His morbid tendencies, his--” She stopped abruptly. “He must have been
suffering from mental aberration.”
“All suicides are temporarily insane,” agreed Mitchell. “Otherwise they
would not kill themselves; but, Mrs. Porter, in Brainard’s case the
medical evidence went to prove that the wound in his throat could not
have been self-inflicted.”
“Fiddle-de-dee! I don’t place any reliance on that deputy coroner’s
testimony.” Mrs. Porter indulged in a most undignified sniff. “Was Dr.
Beverly Thorne present at the autopsy?”
“No.” Mitchell moved nearer the center table. Mrs. Porter’s altered
manner at the mention of Beverly Thorne’s name had not escaped
the detective’s attention. Apparently Mrs. Porter was far from
loving her neighbor like herself. The family feud, whatever it was
about originally, would not be permitted to die out in her day and
generation. Mitchell dropped his voice to a confidential pitch: “Come,
Mrs. Porter, if you will tell me what you have in mind--” Mrs. Porter’s
frigid smile stopped him.
“I can hardly do that and remain impersonal--and polite,” she remarked,
and Dorothy, watching them both, smothered a keen desire to laugh. “It
is my unalterable opinion that Bruce Brainard, in a fit of temporary
insanity, killed himself,” added Mrs. Porter.
“Ah, indeed! And where did he procure the razor?”
“That is for you to find out.” Mrs. Porter rose. “Do that and you
will--”
“Identify the murderer,” substituted Mitchell, with a provoking smile;
in the heat of argument she might let slip whatever she hoped to
conceal.
“No, prove my theory correct,” Mrs. Porter retorted, rising and walking
toward the door. She desired the interview closed. “Have you the key to
Mr. Brainard’s bedroom?”
“Yes, Mrs. Porter.”
“Then kindly return it to me.” And she extended her hand. “The room
must be cleaned and put in order.”
“Not yet,” retorted Mitchell. “It was to prevent anything being touched
in the room that I locked the door. After the mystery is solved, Mrs.
Porter, I shall be most happy to return the key.”
Mrs. Porter elevated her eyebrows as she looked at Dorothy and murmured
in an audible aside, “Clothed in a little brief authority;” then,
addressing Mitchell, who was following them to the door, “Mr. Mitchell,
in the absence of my nephew, Mr. Wyndham, I must remind you that I
cannot permit you or your assistants to intrude upon the privacy of my
family.”
“Except in the line of duty, madam.” Mitchell’s tone matched hers.
“This case must be thoroughly investigated, no matter who is involved.
Miss Deane, kindly inform your sister that I must see her at the
earliest possible moment.”
“She will see you when she is disengaged, and not before,” retorted
Mrs. Porter, wrath getting the better of her judgment, and laying an
imperious hand on Dorothy’s arm she conducted her from the room.
Mitchell turned back and paced up and down the library for over five
minutes, then paused in front of the telephone stand. “So the old
lady is hostile,” he muttered, turning the leaves of the telephone
directory. “And Pope isn’t back yet--” He ran his finger down the list
of names and at last found the one he sought. Hitching the telephone
nearer he repeated a number into the mouthpiece, and a second later was
talking with Beverly Thorne.
“What, doctor, you don’t wish to come here again!” ejaculated the
detective, as Thorne refused his first request. “Now, don’t let that
fool feud interfere with your helping me, doctor. I assure you you
can be of the greatest assistance, and as justice of the peace I
think there is no other course open to you. Yes, I want you right
away--you’ll come? I shan’t forget it, doctor. I’ll meet you at the
door.” And with a satisfied smile the detective hung up the receiver
and went in search of Murray.
Mitchell, twenty minutes later, stood twirling his thumbs in the front
hall; his growing impatience was finally rewarded by the ringing of the
front bell, and before the butler could get down the hall he had opened
the door and was welcoming Thorne.
“We’ll go upstairs, doctor,” said Mitchell, after Thorne had
surrendered his hat and overcoat to Selby, and stood waiting the
detective’s pleasure. “Selby, ask Miss Vera Deane to join us at once--”
“I am here,” cut in a voice from the stair landing, and Vera stepped
into view. Her eyes traveled past the detective and rested on Beverly
Thorne with an intentness which held his own gaze. Totally oblivious of
Mitchell and the butler they continued to stare at each other. Suddenly
the carmine crept up Vera’s white cheeks, and she turned to Mitchell,
almost with an air of relief. “What is it you wish?”
“A few minutes’ chat with you,” answered the detective, mounting the
stairs. “Suppose we go into Mr. Brainard’s bedroom. Will you lead the
way?” waiting courteously on the landing, but there was an appreciable
pause before Vera complied with his request, and it was a silent
procession of three which the butler saw disappear upstairs.
Mitchell was the first to speak as they gathered about the bedroom
door. “Nice dainty little watch charm to carry about with me,” he said,
holding up a massive brass key which measured at least six inches in
length, with a ward in proportion. “Did you lock Mr. Brainard’s door,
Miss Deane, on Monday night when you returned to your other patient?”
“No, I left the door unlocked, but closed.” Vera spoke with an effort.
“As you see, Mr. Mitchell, the old lock turns with difficulty, and I
feared the noise it makes”--a protesting squeak from the interior of
the lock as Mitchell turned the key illustrated her meaning--“would
disturb Mr. Brainard.”
“It needs oiling, that’s a fact.” Mitchell flung open the unlocked
door. “Come right in,” he said, and stalked ahead of them.
Vera paused on the threshold and half turned as if to go back, but
Thorne’s figure blocked the doorway. Slowly, with marked reluctance,
she advanced into the bedroom, and at a sign from Mitchell, who was
watching her every movement, Thorne closed the door, his expression
inscrutable.
“Look about, Miss Deane,” directed Mitchell, sitting down and drawing
out his notebook. “I want you to study each article in the room and
tell us if it is just where it stood at the time you discovered
Brainard had been murdered. Sit down, if you wish,” indicating a chair
near him.
“Thanks, I prefer to stand.” Vera eyed the two men, then did as she was
bidden, but as she looked about the bedroom she was considering the
motive underlying the detective’s request. What did he hope to learn
from her? How dared he make her a stalking horse, and in the presence
of Beverly Thorne! The thought bred hot resentment, but the red blood
flaming her cheeks receded as quickly as it had come at sight of a
figure stretched out in the bed under the blood-stained sheets and
blankets. A slight scream escaped her and she recoiled.
“It is only a dummy,” explained Mitchell hastily, laying a soothing
hand on her arm. She shrank from his touch.
“I realize it now,” said Vera, moistening her dry lips with the tip of
her tongue. “I had not expected to find it there.”
“Do you see any changes in the room, Miss Deane?” asked Mitchell, as
she lapsed into silence.
Vera, who had been gazing at the figure in the bed as if hypnotized,
turned mechanically about and inspected the bedroom. The window
curtains had been drawn back and the shades raised, and the room was
flooded with light. Catching a glimpse of herself in the huge antique
mirror above the mantelpiece as she turned her back to the bed, Vera
was startled to see how white and drawn her reflection appeared in its
clear depths, and surreptitiously rubbed her cheeks to restore their
color.
“I see nothing changed on the mantel,” she said, and the sound of her
calm voice reassured her; she had not lost her grip, no matter what
the mirror told her. “But”--she wrinkled her brow in thought as her
eyes fell on a chair on which were flung a suit of clothes and some
underclothing--“Mr. Brainard’s dress suit was laid neatly on the sofa
over there, and his underclothes there also.”
“Did you place them there?” asked Mitchell, jotting down her remarks.
“No, they were there when I came into the bedroom Monday night.”
“Did they appear mussed or rumpled the next morning, Miss Deane, as if
Brainard had risen in the night and searched the pockets?” inquired
Thorne, breaking his long silence. He had followed the detective’s
questions and Vera’s replies with the closest attention, while his eyes
never left her. It seemed almost as if he could not look elsewhere, and
but for Vera’s absorption she could not have failed to note his intent
regard.
Vera hesitated before answering his question. “I think the clothes had
not been touched,” she said. “My impression is that they lay exactly
where Mr. Brainard placed them before retiring.”
“Do you think Mr. Brainard, a sick man, placed the clothes on the sofa,
and not Wyndham or Noyes?”
“You must get that information from either of those men,” replied Vera
wearily. “I was not present when Mr. Brainard was put to bed.”
“But you can inform us, Miss Deane, if Dr. Noyes ordered an opiate
administered to Brainard,” broke in Mitchell, and Thorne looked sharply
at him. What was he driving at?
“No, Dr. Noyes did not order an opiate.” Vera moved restlessly. “I gave
Mr. Brainard a dose of aromatic spirits of ammonia as directed, and
that was all.”
Mitchell rose and stepped into the center of the bedroom and pointed
to the transom. It was an oblong opening in the thick wall, forming
the top, apparently, of what had formerly been a door jamb; the
communicating doorway, judging from appearances, having been bricked up
years before. The glass partition of the transom, secured at the bottom
to the woodwork by hinges, hung down into the bedroom occupied by Craig
Porter from chains fastened to the upper woodwork of the transom, and
was barely visible from where Vera and Thorne stood in Brainard’s
bedroom. The glass partition, when closed, was held in place by a catch
lock at the top.
“Look at that, Miss Deane,” exclaimed Mitchell harshly. “The transom
is almost entirely open. Do you still maintain that you heard no sound
during the night in this bedroom?”
“I heard no sound which indicated murder was being committed in this
room,” Vera protested vehemently. “I tell you I heard nothing,”
observing Mitchell’s air of skepticism. “To prove to you that all sound
does not carry into the next bedroom, one of you go in there, and I
will steal from the hall into this room and over to the bed, and the
one who remains can tell what takes place in this room.”
“A good idea.” Mitchell walked briskly toward the door. “You watch,
doctor,” and he stood aside for Vera to step past him into the hall,
then followed her outside and closed the door securely behind him.
Barely waiting for their departure, Thorne moved over to the chair on
which lay Brainard’s clothes, and hurriedly searched the few pockets of
the dress suit, only to find them empty. Evidently the police had taken
charge of whatever had been in them. He was just turning away when the
door opened without a sound and Vera, her white linen skirt slightly
drawn up, slipped into the room and with stealthy tread crept toward
the bed.
Thorne watched her, fascinated by her unconscious grace and her air of
grim determination. He instinctively realized that the test she had
suggested was repugnant to her high-strung, sensitive nature, and only
his strong will conquered his intense desire to end the scene. As close
as he was to her he heard no sound; but for the evidence of his eyes
he could have sworn that he was alone in the room. He saw her turn to
approach the head of the bed, falter, and draw back, and was by her
side instantly. She looked at him half dazed, and but for his steadying
hand would have measured her length on the ground. He read the agony in
her eyes and responded to the unconscious appeal.
“Come back, Mitchell,” he called, and while he pitched his voice as
low as possible its carrying qualities reached the detective in Craig
Porter’s bedroom, and he hurried into the next room in time to see
Thorne offer Vera his silver flask.
“No, I don’t need it,” she insisted, pushing his hand away. “It was
but a momentary weakness. I have had very little sleep for the past
forty-eight hours, and am unstrung. If you have no further questions to
ask me, Mr. Mitchell, I will return to my room.”
Before replying Mitchell looked at Thorne. “Did she do as she said she
would?” he asked. “I heard nothing in the next room until you called
me.”
“Yes. Frankly, had I not seen Miss Deane open the door and enter this
room I would have thought myself alone,” responded Thorne.
“The carpet is thick.” Mitchell leaned down and passed his hand over
it. “It would deaden any sound of footsteps. You are sure that you
heard no talking in here Monday night, Miss Deane?”
“I have already said that I did not,” retorted Vera, and she made no
attempt to keep the bitterness she was feeling out of her voice. “It
seems very hard to convince you, Mr. Mitchell, that I am not a liar.”
Thorne, who had been staring at the bed-table, looked up quickly.
“Did you see a razor lying on this table when you arranged the night
light for Brainard, Miss Deane?” he asked.
“No.” Vera sighed; would they never cease questioning her? “That brass
bell, the glass night light, empty medicine glass, and water caraffe
were the only articles on the table.”
Mitchell went over to the foot of the bed. “Just whereabouts on the bed
did you see the razor yesterday morning?” he asked.
Vera, who stood with her back almost touching the bed, turned
reluctantly around. It was a high four-post bedstead and required a
short flight of steps to mount into it, but some vandal had shortened
the four beautifully carved posts to half their height and the canopy
had also been removed.
The figure lay huddled face down, for which Vera was deeply grateful.
Even in its dark hair she visualized the tortured features of Bruce
Brainard, and she turned with a shudder to point to a spot on the bed
just below the sleeve of the pyjamas which clothed the figure.
“The razor lay there,” she announced positively.
“Thanks.” Mitchell closed and pocketed his notebook. “Now, one more
question, Miss Deane, and then we will let you off. At what time
yesterday morning did you go to summon Dr. Noyes?”
“To be exact, at twenty minutes of six.”
“And what hour was it when you first discovered the murder?”
Vera stared at him dazedly, then her trembling hand clutched the
bedclothes for support, but as her fingers closed over the sleeve of
the pyjamas they encountered bone and muscle. With senses reeling she
half collapsed in Thorne’s arms as the figure rolled over and disclosed
Murray’s agitated countenance.
“H-he m-made m-me do it, miss,” the footman stuttered, pointing an
accusing finger at Mitchell. “Said he wanted to play a trick on Dr.
Thorne; but if I’d dreamed he wanted to scare you, miss, I’d never
have agreed, never. And I’ve been lying here in agony, miss, afraid to
speak because I might scare you to death, and hoping you’d leave the
room without knowing about me. If Mrs. Porter ever hears!” Murray gazed
despairingly at them. “She wouldn’t have minded me making a fool of
Dr. Thorne. Oh, Miss Deane, don’t look at me like that!” and his voice
shook with feeling.
“It’s all right,” gasped Vera, standing shakily erect; Murray’s jumbled
explanation had given her time to recover her poise. She turned to
Detective Mitchell, her eyes blazing with indignation. “The farce is
ended, sir, and my answer to your last question is the same--I found
Mr. Brainard lying here with his throat cut at twenty minutes of six.
Good afternoon.” And she left the three men contemplating each other.