BLIND MAN’S BUFF
VERA glanced neither to the right nor to the left as she walked with
firm steps toward the library, and thereby missed seeing a face peering
at her from behind the folds of the portières which hung in front of
the reception-room entrance. Her fixed resolve to get the interview
with Detective Mitchell over and done with aided her in suppressing
all sign of agitation, and her demeanor was calm and collected when
she approached Mrs. Porter, who occupied her customary seat before the
library table. Mitchell had planted himself at the opposite side of the
table and spread several typewritten sheets before him. He did not rise
on Vera’s entrance.
Mrs. Porter, who sat with one eye on the door, was the first to address
Vera.
“Detective Mitchell desires to question you, Vera,” she said. “Sit here
by me.” And she touched the girl reassuringly.
Vera almost exclaimed aloud at the coldness of her fingers. “Are you
having a chill, Mrs. Porter?” she asked in alarm, observing the bluish
hue of her lips. “Would you like some brandy?”
“No.” Mrs. Porter’s tone did not encourage further solicitude. “As soon
as Mr. Mitchell completes his visit I shall go for a walk. Continue
your remarks, Mr. Mitchell.”
Mitchell was about to comply with her injunction when Vera, who had
remained standing by Mrs. Porter, spoke first.
“I have heard that Dr. Alan Noyes has been arrested for the murder of
Mr. Bruce Brainard. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” Mitchell, keeping his finger at a certain point in the
manuscript before him, watched Vera closely.
“Then the police have acted most unjustly,” exclaimed Vera vehemently.
“Dr. Noyes is innocent.”
“Your grounds for that assertion?”
Vera hesitated, glanced dubiously at Mrs. Porter, whose adamantine
expression gave her no encouragement, and then addressed Mitchell.
“I believe--” Her clear voice faltered, and she commenced again. “I
believe that no murder was committed--Mr. Brainard killed himself.”
Mitchell made no attempt to conceal his incredulity. “Medical evidence
proves that the wound in his throat could not have been self-inflicted
except by a left-handed man,” he rejoined. “And reputable witnesses
have proved that Bruce Brainard was _not_ left-handed.”
“But he was ambidextrous,” retorted Vera. “He could shave himself with
equal facility with either hand.”
Mitchell stared at her astounded, while Mrs. Porter, hanging on her
words, drew a deep, deep breath.
“Where did you learn that about Bruce Brainard?” demanded Mitchell.
Vera met the detective’s accusing gaze squarely. “He told me so
himself.”
“What?” Mitchell leaned across the table in his eagerness. “Did
Brainard tell you that he was ambidextrous on Monday night?”
“No.”
“Then you had known him before Monday night?”
“I had.”
Mitchell sat back in his chair and scowled at Vera.
“Why did you not mention in your testimony at the inquest on Tuesday
that you had known Bruce Brainard formerly?” His manner was stern. “You
gave us to understand that you had not met Brainard until sent for to
attend him after dinner on Monday night.”
“I was not asked the direct question as to whether we had ever met
before,” replied Vera. “I did not volunteer the information because--”
“Because it would have led to an investigation of your acquaintance
with him,” with insolent meaning, and Vera, her hot blood dancing in
her veins, stepped nearer the detective, her eyes blazing with pent-up
wrath.
Mrs. Porter, rising suddenly, intervened. “Stop, Mr. Mitchell; if you
insult Miss Deane I shall have my servants eject you,” she said, and
her slow, level tones warned the detective that he must not go too far
in his heckling tactics. But before he could resume questioning Vera
the library door, which she had left ajar on entering, was pushed open
and Mrs. Hall came into the room.
“I couldn’t help overhearing what has just been said,” she began,
ignoring Mrs. Porter’s indignant glare. “I was on my way to the pantry
to get some bouillon for Miss Porter when I heard you talking.” She
looked meaningly at Vera. “I’ve held my peace, Miss Deane, out of
kindness to you; but now that Dr. Noyes is accused of killing Mr.
Brainard it’s time for me to tell the detectives what I know about you.”
Vera gazed at her in amazement too deep for expression, while Mitchell,
his eyes shining with excitement, stepped from behind the table.
“Go on, Mrs. Hall,” he said encouragingly. “Tell me everything.”
“I will.” Mrs. Hall paused dramatically. “On Tuesday morning about
four o’clock I was awakened by hearing someone moving about in the
dressing-room which connects our bedroom with Mr. Porter’s. I got up
and looked through the partly open door and was surprised to see Miss
Deane slipping on a fresh white skirt, while before her stretched over
the stationary washstand was another skirt on which were bloodstains.”
A low cry from Mrs. Porter interrupted her, and Mrs. Hall paused, to
continue more rapidly as she met Vera’s indignant gaze.
“There was something secretive in Miss Deane’s air that stopped my
impulse to ask her what she was about, and I went at once by way of
the hall to Mr. Porter’s bedroom, thinking perhaps he might have had
a hemorrhage; but I found him lying as usual, apparently asleep. I
did not then know that Mr. Brainard was in the next bedroom. Thinking
Miss Deane had had a nosebleed I went back to my room and to bed, as
I had not been well the day before and needed rest. Some time later
Miss Deane came in carrying a skirt in her hand. Hanging it up in the
closet, she returned to Mr. Porter’s bedroom.”
“What happened after that?” prompted Mitchell as she stopped.
“I got out of bed and went over to the closet and examined the white
skirt which Miss Deane had hung there a few minutes before. The
bloodstains had been carefully removed with the aid of cornstarch, and
a hot iron passed over the skirt. There is an electric iron and battery
for our use in the dressing-room,” she supplemented. “The white skirt
bore Miss Deane’s initials inside the belt.”
“Why have you not told all this before?” asked Mrs. Porter, staring at
Mrs. Hall with intense dislike discernible.
“I waited, hoping that Miss Deane would voluntarily explain her
connection with the murder of Mr. Brainard.” Mrs. Hall moved uneasily;
she was not pleased with the rôle Fate had cast for her, but a growing
jealousy, fostered by envy, kept her to her determination to tell all
she surmised against Vera Deane. “As Miss Deane has not done so, and is
sheltering herself behind the arrest of an innocent man--”
“Stop!” commanded Mrs. Porter. “Your unsupported charges cannot involve
Vera Deane in Bruce Brainard’s murder.”
“Ah, but they can, in view of what I already know,” broke in Mitchell
triumphantly. “Police Headquarters in Pittsburgh reported to me on the
long-distance telephone, Miss Deane, that they had found among the
court records a certificate of the marriage of Bruce Brainard and your
sister, Dorothy.”
Mrs. Porter collapsed in her chair in speechless astonishment and
stared at Vera, whose set face was as white as her linen uniform.
“Is this true?” she gasped.
“Yes,” replied Vera. “They were married just after Dorothy left
boarding-school. She met Bruce while visiting the Arnolds in Chicago;
it was a runaway match.”
Mitchell, who had listened closely to her statement, nodded his head.
“So I learned, and my assistant, who has been investigating Brainard’s
past career, also told me that Brainard deserted your sister two months
after their elopement. He also refused to support her.”
“On the contrary, my sister declined to be supported by him when she
found what manner of man she had married,” retorted Vera proudly. “She
also refused to use his name, and never announced her marriage.”
“But you knew it, and you knew what she had suffered at Brainard’s
hands,” broke in Mitchell roughly. “Do you deny this?”
“No.”
Mitchell’s smile was not pleasant. “Were you also aware that your, eh,
brother-in-law’s engagement to Miss Millicent Porter was announced on
Monday night?”
“Yes.” Vera’s gaze did not shift and her voice was steady. “Mr. Hugh
Wyndham told me of the rumored engagement.”
“Hugh!” Mrs. Porter raised her hands to her temples in bewilderment.
“Did Hugh know that Dorothy was the wife of Bruce Brainard?”
“Yes.” Vera’s cold hands closed convulsively over the chair back
against which she was leaning. “Dorothy was honest with him, Mrs.
Porter.”
“Poor Hugh!” exclaimed Mrs. Porter, her eyes filling with tears. “He
loves her devotedly.”
Mitchell moved impatiently. “Miss Deane, I want your full attention,”
he announced brusquely. “You have asserted that Bruce Brainard
committed suicide. Where did he get the razor?”
Vera paused; should she speak of the razor which Millicent had dropped
in her flight from the house the night before? After all, had Millicent
dropped it? Was it fair to involve Millicent until she had first had an
opportunity to explain?
Mitchell repeated his question with more emphasis: “Where did Brainard
get the razor?”
“I don’t know.”
The detective moved closer. “Your theory is good, but it doesn’t hold
water,” he declared. “You recognized Bruce Brainard as your sister’s
husband; you knew of his despicable conduct to your sister; you had
just heard that he considered himself engaged to Miss Millicent Porter,
in spite of the fact that the law courts would hold him legally married
to your sister.” Vera stirred uneasily. “You had Bruce Brainard here at
your mercy--and Mrs. Hall saw you, nearly two hours before you admitted
discovering the murder, removing bloodstains from your dress. Oh, come,
you might as well confess--and claim the leniency of the court.”
“I will claim nothing but fair play,” cried Vera hotly. “I am innocent.
I did not kill Bruce Brainard, much as I loathed and despised him.”
“Then who did kill him?”
Mrs. Hall, who had drawn back as Mitchell approached Vera, was roughly
pushed aside as Hugh Wyndham, making no attempt to conceal his anger,
stepped in front of the detective.
“What’s going on here? What foolery are you up to, Mitchell?” he
demanded. “Vera, there’s no law which compels you to answer this man’s
questions.”
A clamor in the hall, which grew louder as footsteps approached,
drowned Vera’s answer, and Millicent Porter, clutching Murray’s coat
sleeve, burst into the room with the footman.
“There, there, miss, don’t take on so,” pleaded Murray, hardly noticing
the others in the library in his endeavor to calm Millicent. “I told
you he wasn’t dead.”
But Millicent was past calming and, her dressing-gown fluttering with
the haste of her movements, she flung herself into her mother’s arms.
“Mother!” she moaned. “Alan has tried to kill himself. Oh, you must
tell the police that the razor belonged to Craig.”
A startled exclamation broke from Mitchell and Mrs. Porter winced.
“How would that clear Alan Noyes?” she asked bitterly. “I presented the
set to Alan on Monday morning.”
“But you know he never took them, mother,” pleaded Millicent, her eyes
dark with terror. “I found the set in your boudoir on Tuesday morning.”
“But one razor was missing--” The comment escaped Mrs. Porter
unwittingly in the agitation of the moment.
“Hush! Mother, how could you?” Millicent clapped her hand on Mrs.
Porter’s mouth and glanced fearfully around, to encounter Mitchell’s
eager gaze, and shuddering she looked away.
Wyndham, who had listened to Millicent with tense eagerness, turned
with such suddenness that he collided against the large leather bag
which Murray was holding, having, in his excitement, forgotten to
put it down. The bag, insecurely fastened, burst open and out rolled
splints and bandages and a miscellaneous array of surgical instruments
and a razor. Wyndham reached for it, but Mitchell jostled him to one
side and picked it up.
“The razor is one of the set!” he cried. “Where did you get that bag,
Murray?” clutching the footman and giving him a shake. “Answer!”
“From Dr. Thorne’s office, sir,” stammered Murray. “The doctor sent
me back to say that Dr. Noyes had shot himself and for the nurses to
prepare his room; he also told me to stop at Thornedale to get surgical
dressings. The old butler didn’t answer the bell, so I climbed through
a window and found this bag sitting in his office. I looked in it and
seeing bandages and splints brought it along just as it was.”
Vera looked quickly at Mitchell and his expression gave her the key to
his thoughts--good heavens! Would he try to fix the crime upon Beverly
Thorne? Could it be that Thorne, like the others, had believed her
guilty of Brainard’s murder and had taken the razor from her so that it
would not be found in her possession and further incriminate her? If
so, he had jeopardized himself to protect her. Her face flamed at the
thought.
“I can explain Dr. Thorne’s possession of the razor,” she said clearly.
“He got it from me.”
“He did!” Mitchell wheeled on her. “So you admit at last that _you_ had
the razors.”
“I admit that I picked up the razor after Millicent dropped it last
night,” retorted Vera.
“Millicent!” gasped Mrs. Porter.
“I thought I hid all six in the cannon,” faltered Millicent,
raising miserable, hunted eyes to Mitchell. “I admit I had the
set--because--because--Murray, where did Dr. Noyes shoot himself?”
turning desperately to the footman.
“At that lean-to near the top of Elm Ridge.” Murray’s eyes lighted on
Mrs. Hall, who was edging her way to the door unobtrusively. “I went
upstairs to find you, Mrs. Hall, to tell you they were bringing Dr.
Noyes home, but I ran into Miss Millicent and she seen I was a little
excited,” with an apologetic glance at Mrs. Porter, who was paying
scant attention to him as she strove to quiet Millicent. “She made me
tell her about Dr. Noyes.”
Nurse Hall, finding attention centered upon her, colored.
“I will go up and arrange the room now, that is, if I am not required
here.”
“You can go,” directed Mitchell. “But remember, I must see you later.”
“Yes, sir.” And Mrs. Hall slipped away, only to return a moment later.
“They are bringing Dr. Noyes in the front door, now,” she announced.
“And there’s a gentleman asking for you, Mr. Mitchell.”
Before Mitchell reached the hall door Sam Anthony, the Secret Service
agent, appeared at the threshold. “Bring Dr. Noyes in here,” he
called over his shoulder. Then addressing Mitchell: “He’s regained
consciousness.”
There was a surging toward the door of Mitchell, Wyndham and Murray,
but they halted as two Secret Service operatives came in supporting
Alan Noyes, who walked between them, Beverly Thorne’s arm steadying him
from behind.
Noyes stopped at sight of Mitchell, and leaned wearily against Thorne.
“I asked for you,” he began. “To give myself up for the murder of Bruce
Brainard.”