THE RED HERRING
THE front door of the Porter mansion opened with such precipitancy that
Vera Deane, on the point of going upstairs, paused with one foot on the
bottom step. A glimpse of Murray’s usually stolid countenance, as he
stood in the doorway, indicated news out of the ordinary, for his eyes
were open to twice their accustomed size and his mouth was agape.
“It’s you, miss!” he ejaculated in vast relief at sight of her. “The
doctor wants you.”
Vera changed color. Why should Beverly Thorne want her? To be sure
Mrs. Porter had sent for him to attend Craig Porter, but why should he
inquire for her--unless he desired to talk to her in her professional
character? But he was aware that Craig Porter was attended by a day
nurse, while she, Vera, did not go on duty until eight o’clock in the
evening.
Vera had slight time to conjecture, for Murray was brushed aside and
a tall man advanced into the hall to greet her. As he lifted his hat
Vera stared at him in mute amazement, and it was not until her hand was
clasped warmly that she recovered her voice.
“Dr. Noyes!” she gasped. “You have returned, after all!”
“So it seems.” Alan Noyes’ grim smile was brief. “A word with you, Miss
Deane, before I see Mrs. Porter.”
Murray, engaged in lighting one of the gas brackets, paused in his
labors as a sound from outside the house reached him.
“Doctor, you and Miss Deane had better step into the drawing-room,” he
said, hurrying to the front door after a peek out of the window. “The
limousine has just stopped outside, and Miss Millicent will be here in
a minute.”
His words, however, instead of hastening Noyes’ footsteps toward the
drawing-room caused him to loiter in the hall, then sighing heavily he
accompanied Vera into the drawing-room just as Murray opened the front
door.
“Miss Deane”--Noyes stepped close to her side--“what are the latest
developments in the Brainard”--he hesitated--“tragedy?”
“So far as I know there are no new developments, except those published
in the morning newspapers.” Vera watched him narrowly, and noticed
the worn lines in his face and his harassed air. “The police appear
nonplussed.”
“Have they discovered any clues?” Noyes’ anxiety was palpable, and Vera
looked at him with increased earnestness.
“I am not in their confidence, doctor,” she said quietly. “If they have
discovered new clues I am not aware of it.”
Noyes took a quick turn up and down the room, and thereby imperiled
numerous pieces of bric-à-brac as, blindly ignoring the congested
arrangement of Mrs. Porter’s choice heirlooms, he thought over Vera’s
statements.
“Have they decided whether Brainard’s death was suicide or murder?” he
inquired, pausing in front of her.
“I believe they consider that--that--he did not kill himself.”
Noyes listened to her halting sentence with marked impatience.
“In other words, you mean that the police believe Brainard was
murdered?” She nodded assents. “I gathered that was the consensus of
opinion when reading the morning newspapers. And what is your opinion,
Miss Deane?”
The question was unexpected, and Vera drew back. “I am not qualified to
judge,” she commenced confusedly. “From the nature of the wound--”
“You take it to be murder?”
“No, no,” with unexpected vehemence, and Noyes eyed her sharply. “A man
can nick himself with a razor on either side of his throat, and no one
be able to tell whether the wound was self-inflicted or done by another
with intent to kill.”
The twilight had deepened, and Noyes experienced difficulty in reading
Vera’s expression.
“That does not seem to be the opinion of the deputy coroner, and he
performed the autopsy,” Noyes said dryly. “He affirms that the wound
could not have been self-inflicted.”
“But you are a surgeon,” broke in Vera impetuously. “What did you think
when you saw the wound?”
Noyes regarded her with singular intentness. “You forget that I left
this house before the discovery of Brainard’s death.”
“True, you were to sail on the _St. Louis_”--Vera never took her eyes
from him. “The steamer has sailed, but you--are here.”
“A self-evident fact,” impatiently. “I missed the boat.”
“Oh!” The ejaculation was faint, but Noyes started and turned red.
“Enough of myself,” he commenced brusquely. “How is Craig Porter?”
It was Vera’s turn to redden; she had completely forgotten her patient
in her astonishment at Alan Noyes’ unexpected appearance. “Mrs. Hall
has just informed Mrs. Porter that Craig appears to be worse, and she
has sent for Dr. Beverly Thorne.”
“Indeed? I wonder--” He did not complete his sentence, but fell into
moody silence which Vera forbore to break. Mrs. Hall was with Craig
Porter; she was not needed in the sick room for nearly three hours,
and, except for dinner, her time until eight o’clock was her own. The
alteration in Alan Noyes puzzled her; his pleasant reserved manner had
given place to brusque inquisitiveness but indifferently masked. What
had brought about the change? Speculating was idle work, and she was
about to address him when he spoke.
“I have not inquired for Miss Porter; is she well?”
Vera failed to observe in the dim light the effort the question cost
Noyes, but she was quick to note the formality of his query. Four days
before he would have said “Millicent.” A lovers’ quarrel would explain
his peculiar behavior and altered demeanor; but he and Millicent had
been good friends, nothing more. Vera frowned in perplexity, and her
reply was tinged with stiffness.
“Miss Porter appears quite well.”
Noyes peered at her in the gloom in uncertainty. “Appears well,” he
muttered under his breath. “Has she--”
He was interrupted by the pulling back of the portières of the hall
doorway, and Millicent Porter walked in, her light footfall being
deadened by the heavy rugs. An exclamation, quickly stifled, escaped
Noyes, and he pulled his officer’s cape more closely about him, then
turned and faced her.
“Why are you staying here in the dark, Vera?” she inquired. “Oh, I
beg pardon,” perceiving for the first time that Vera was not alone;
then as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light she recognized Alan
Noyes. A wave of emotion, instantly suppressed, shook her, and, laying
one trembling hand on the nearest chair back, she waited in silence; a
silence spent by Vera in glancing from one to the other, her perplexity
deepening; what had arisen to estrange the surgeon and Millicent?
And if they had quarreled, why had he returned to be a guest in her
mother’s house? Vera’s expression betrayed her doubts, and Noyes, who
had edged imperceptibly nearer, perceived her hesitancy.
“Good afternoon, Miss Porter,” he said, and the effort to repress all
emotion made his voice devoid of feeling.
“Good evening,” responded Millicent with equal coolness. “It is Dr.
Noyes, is it not?”
Noyes flushed hotly. “Yes, I returned, I--”
Mrs. Porter’s entrance broke in on his stammered explanations. She
wasted no words, but advanced with outstretched hand.
“Welcome back,” she exclaimed in cordial greeting. “I could hardly
believe Murray when he said you were here. Have you seen Craig?”
“Not yet, I--” Noyes brightened perceptibly at her cordiality. “I was
just telling your daughter and Miss Deane that I missed my steamer
and--”
“Came back here, _naturally_,” put in Mrs. Porter blandly. “We would
not pardon your going elsewhere, would we, Millicent?” addressing her
daughter who had stepped over to the mantelpiece and was absently
fingering one of the Sèvres vases.
“No, certainly not,” she remarked without turning around. Mrs. Porter’s
eyebrows met in a frown, but whatever rejoinder she would have made was
cut short by an announcement from Murray as he waited in the doorway.
“Dr. Thorne is here to see you, madam.”
“Good gracious! I had forgotten.” Mrs. Porter moved toward the door.
“Wait for me, Dr. Noyes. I will come back at once.” And she walked
majestically into the hall, Murray holding aside the portières for her.
He was about to release the portières when Millicent, without a glance
at Noyes, who had watched her every movement, hurried into the hall.
Apparently unconscious of Vera’s continued presence, Noyes turned
restlessly to the nearest window and looked out with unseeing eyes.
Vera stared at him, in indecision, for a brief second, then left the
room. But in the hall she found her way to the staircase blocked by
Mrs. Porter’s ample figure and paused, not liking to brush past her,
and at that instant Beverly Thorne appeared from the reception-room
where Murray had ushered him on his arrival.
“Good evening.” His bow and greeting included both Mrs. Porter and
Vera, then he addressed the older woman directly. “My man-servant,
Cato, told me that you had telephoned for me, and I came at once.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Porter was graciousness itself, but the smiling eyes
hid intent watchfulness. “I find that the message was telephoned you
prematurely; I am sorry to have troubled you--” A gesture completed the
sentence.
“You mean”--Thorne advanced nearer--“that you do not require my
professional services for your son?”
“Yes, doctor.” Mrs. Porter’s eyes shifted to the hat stand where
Thorne’s hat and overcoat and medicine bag were lying. “It was good of
you to come so promptly, but since I telephoned you my son’s regular
physician has arrived, and so--”
Thorne took a step toward the hat stand, then paused. “May I ask you to
give a message to Dr. Washburn--”
“Dr. Washburn is not here,” interjected Mrs. Porter hastily. “I refer
to Dr. Alan Noyes, who has just returned.” She had a carrying voice and
her words reached other ears than her companions’, for as she ceased
speaking, Detective Mitchell emerged from the back hall, an eager light
in his eyes.
“You say Dr. Noyes is here,” he exclaimed, ignoring manners in his
interest. “Then I must see him at once.”
“I fail to see why,” retorted Mrs. Porter, whose violent start at sight
of the detective was not lost on Thorne. “Dr. Noyes is here to attend
my son, and his presence is required in the sick room.”
“I must have a word with him. I will not detain him long.” Mitchell’s
insistence was not to be denied. “Where is Dr. Noyes?”
Mrs. Porter stiffened, but her angry retort I was checked by a voice
behind her.
“I am here,” announced Noyes, looking out on the group from between
the drawing-room portières. “Who wants me?”
“I do, Detective Mitchell of the Central Office.” Mitchell scanned the
surgeon’s face with close attention. “We can’t talk here,” glancing
disapprovingly about the large square hall.
“You can use the library.” But the permission did not come graciously
from Mrs. Porter; she never took kindly to having her plans thwarted
even in trifling details. “Make your interview as brief as possible,
Mr. Mitchell, as I desire to have Dr. Noyes see my son.”
“I will come upstairs in a few minutes,” promised Noyes, before the
detective could make reply, and, stepping past Vera, who had been a
silent witness of the scene, the Englishman led the way to the library.
Thorne, who had picked up his hat and overcoat preparatory to leaving
the house, was detained by a gesture from Mitchell.
“Come with us, doctor,” he said, and after a moment’s hesitancy
Thorne went with them, ignoring Mrs. Porter’s indignant glance and
half-extended hand to stop him.
The library lamps were lighted, and the fire replenished by Murray
some minutes before burned brightly on the hearth. Noyes, his manner
suggesting the host rather than a guest in the house, signed to
Mitchell to draw up a chair, then glanced inquiringly at Thorne, and
the detective hastened to introduce them.
“This is Dr. Beverly Thorne who is assisting me in my investigation
of the murder of Mr. Bruce Brainard,” he said, and the two men bowed.
“Now, Dr. Noyes,” as Thorne took a chair near at hand, “let’s be brief.
Why did you leave here Tuesday morning?”
“To catch the steamer _St. Louis_--but I reached New York too late.”
“Humph!” The detective eyed him searchingly. “It is not on record that
you tried to catch the steamer. I had the piers and booking-offices of
the steamship companies watched.”
“Did you?” Noyes’ raised eyebrows expressed polite surprise. “Why?”
“Because I desired certain information,” tartly. “Why did you leave
here without bidding Mrs. Porter good-by, or the nurses?”
“I said good night to Mrs. Porter and her daughter on Monday
night--they both were aware of my plans--as for the nurses, Mrs. Hall
and Miss Deane, they had my written instructions and Dr. Washburn was
to take over the case in my absence.”
Mitchell looked at him steadfastly. “Then you claim that your departure
on Tuesday morning was not on the spur of the moment?”
“I do.”
Mitchell shot an inquiring glance at Thorne, who promptly joined in the
conversation.
“I understand you were expecting a cable from England,” he began.
And Noyes turned instantly and gave him his full attention. “Did you
receive that cable?”
“Yes.”
“At what hour?”
“Let me see.” Noyes thought a minute. “I imagine it was about twenty
minutes of three Tuesday morning when I was called on the long-distance
telephone and the cable message repeated to me.”
“Twenty minutes of three”--Thorne did some rapid calculating, and
when he spoke again his manner was grave. “It was at that hour or
thereabouts that Deputy Coroner McPherson contends Brainard was
murdered. Did you hear no sound from his room?”
“No,” shortly. “I spent most of the night in this library, and this
old house, with its thick brick walls, is sound-proof.”
“Quite true,” acknowledged Thorne, and his manner showed
disappointment. “Too bad, doctor; I had hoped that you might give us
some light on Brainard’s death, as you were up and awake practically
all night on Monday.”
“There was one other person up, also--Miss Deane,” volunteered Noyes,
and Thorne’s piercing eyes bored into him. “Even she, in the next room,
heard no sound--while I was down here.”
“How did you know Miss Deane never detected any sound in Brainard’s
bedroom?” demanded Mitchell swiftly.
“I read it in the newspapers.”
“That brings me to another point.” Mitchell bent forward in his chair
in his eagerness. “You left here early Tuesday morning, ostensibly to
catch the steamer _St. Louis_, which you say you missed--then where
have you been staying since then, and how did you leave this country
place early Tuesday morning without anyone seeing you, and get into
Washington?”
“That is my affair, Mr. Mitchell, and I question your right to quiz me
on the subject.” Noyes’ face hardened, and there was a glint of anger
in his eyes.
“Here’s my authority.” Mitchell displayed his badge. “I’m in charge of
this case, and I consider you a material witness, and as such you are
amenable to the law.”
“You forget I am a British subject.”
“That won’t prevent my getting legal authority through the State
Department, if necessary, to summon you to court when this case goes to
trial,” retorted Mitchell. “Take it from me, you can’t dodge the issue.”
“I am not striving to dodge it.” Noyes spoke with angry emphasis.
“Surely, gentlemen, you are not striving to fasten the crime on me?”
Thorne, watching him intently, wondered at the almost fanatical light
that leaped for an instant into Noyes’ deep sunken eyes, then died out
as Mitchell responded.
“I am seeking information to clear up the mystery surrounding
Brainard’s death,” he said roughly. “If it involves you, so much the
worse--for you.”
“Tut! No threats are necessary,” broke in Thorne. “You go too far,
Mitchell,” meeting the detective’s stony glare with composure. Then
he turned courteously to Noyes. “You and Miss Deane are the only ones
known to have been up and about this house on Monday night, between
midnight and early morning; and we are seeking to learn from every
source the identity of the third person who was also up and about--”
“A third person?” Noyes looked at him, startled. “What third person do
you refer to?”
“The murderer,” dryly. “The quest sifts down to you and Miss
Deane, doctor; Miss Deane has cleared herself of suspicion”--with
emphasis--“while you--”
“Have not.” Noyes eyed his inquisitors with sharp intentness. “Kindly
state your reasons for intimating that I killed a man whom I only met
for the first time on Monday evening--barely ten hours before he was
found murdered in his bed.”
“It’s a bit unusual to give reasons,” said Mitchell dubiously, but a
nod from Thorne reassured him, and he continued, more quickly: “You
admit you were up all night Monday, doctor; you disappeared early
Tuesday morning without leaving word how or where you were going; you
won’t tell us where you spent the past few days; and you haven’t told
us what brings you back to this house today.”
“Surely, the fact of my voluntary return clears me of all suspicion,”
argued Noyes heatedly.
“Not necessarily,” retorted Thorne. “Your actions lead us to suppose
one of two motives inspired you to disappear so promptly Tuesday
morning before the discovery of Brainard’s murder. Don’t interrupt,”
as Noyes moved restlessly. “Either you were guilty or you were seeking
to protect the guilty party.” Noyes sat rigidly in his chair, his
expression blank as Thorne paused and scanned him narrowly. “Now,
doctor, which is it?”
Thorne’s question did not receive an immediate response, and the
detective assumed a self-congratulatory air as he waited for Noyes to
speak, but Thorne, never taking his eyes from the Englishman, waited
with concealed anxiety for his next words. They were slow in coming;
apparently Noyes was feeling his way.
“Sifted down to bed-rock, you have nothing against me except an
unavoidable absence of body at the time Brainard’s murder was
discovered. My so-called ‘disappearance’ was but a coincidence,”
said Noyes finally, and he looked at Thorne. “I understand you are a
surgeon.”
“I am.”
“Then you must be aware that cutting a man’s throat is a difficult
operation.” Noyes spoke slowly, impressively. “According to the
newspaper accounts which I read, Brainard’s throat was cut from right
to left, and that he was found lying on the right side of the bed;
therefore, if such was the case, the wound must have been inflicted by
a right-handed man.”
“Do you mean to claim as your defense that you are left-handed?”
demanded Mitchell.
“No, not originally left-handed.” Noyes threw back the officer’s cape
which he still wore, and disclosed an empty coat sleeve pinned across
his chest. “I left my right arm on a battlefield of France,” he added.
There was a long silence broken by a scream from the hall. Springing
to his feet Mitchell darted through the open door and down the hall,
Noyes and Thorne at his heels. All three paused at sight of Millicent
Porter on the lower step of the staircase.
“My papers!” she gasped. “Someone has stolen my papers!”
Noyes’ left arm supported her as she staggered and almost fell. Thorne,
standing somewhat in the background, whistled low at sight of the
Englishman’s expression as he bent above Millicent.
“So--the red herring across the trail,” he muttered below his breath,
and started violently at finding Vera Deane at his elbow.