My prophecy was correct. Wednesday, at 12.03 A. M., I left for New
York, in response to the shocking telegram from Lucette. I arrived at
Gertrude's address, an august apartment house on upper Park Avenue, a
little before half-past two, dismissed my taxi at the door, noting as I
did so a second taxi standing at the curb just ahead of my own, and was
admitted to the dignified public entrance-hall with surprising
promptness, considering the hour, by the mature buttons on duty. Buttons
was a man nearing sixty, at a guess, of markedly Irish traits, and he
was unexpectedly wide-awake. When I gave him my name, and briefly stated
the reason for my untimely arrival, his deep-set eyes glittered with
excited curiosity, while he drew down deep parallels about his mouth in
a grimacing attempt at deepest sympathy and profoundest respect. I
questioned him. Several persons had gone up to Mrs. Hunt's apartment, he
solemnly informed me, during the past two hours. He believed the police
were in charge.
"Police?" I exclaimed, incredulous.
He believed so. He would say no more.
"Take me up at once!" I snapped at him. "Surely there's a mistake. There
can be no reason for police interference."
His eyes glittered more shrewdly, the drawn parallels deepened yet
further as he shot back the elevator door....
It was unmistakably a police officer who admitted me for the first and
last time to Gertrude's apartment. On hearing my name he nodded, then
closed the door firmly in the face of Buttons, who had lingered.
"He's been warned not to tip off the press," said the police officer,
"but it's just as well to be cautious."
"The press? What do you mean?" I asked, still incredulous. "Is it a New
York custom for police to enter a house of mourning?" I was aware as I
spoke of repressed voices murmuring in an adjoining room.
"I'm Sergeant Conlon," he answered, "in charge here till the coroner
comes. He should make it by seven. If you're the poor lady's husband,
you'll be needed. I'll have to detain you."
As he ended, the murmur ended in the adjoining room, and Lucette walked
out from it. She was wearing an evening gown--blue, I think--cut very
low, and a twinkling ornament of some kind in her hair. She has fine
shoulders and beautiful hair. But her face had gone haggard; she had
been weeping; she looked ten years older than when I had last seen her.
"What is it? What is it?" I demanded of her. "I know nothing but your
telegram!"
"Looks like murder," said Sergeant Conlon, dry and short. "I wouldn't
talk much if I was you, not till the coroner gets here. I'm bound to
make notes of what you say."
For the merest hundredth of a second my scalp prickled, my flesh went
cold; but sheer incredulity was still strong upon me; it beat back the
horror. It was simply not real, all this.
"At least," I managed, "give me facts--something!"
Then unreality deepened to utter nightmare, passing all bounds of
reason. Lucette spoke, and life turned for me to sheer prattling
madness; to a gibbering grotesque!
"_Susan_ did it!" she cried, her voice going high and strident, slipping
from all control. "I know it! I know she did! I know it! Wasn't she with
her? _Alone_ with her? Who else could have done it! Who else! _It's in
her blood!_"
Well, of course, when a woman you have played tag with in her girlhood
goes mad before you, raves----
How could one act or answer? Then, too, she had vanished; or had I
really seen her in the flesh at all? Really heard her voice, crying
out....
Sergeant Conlon's voice came next; short, dry, businesslike. It
compelled belief.
"I've a question or two for you, Mr. Hunt. This way; steady!"