The Verdict
“You were right, unquestionably, Storm,” Dr. Carr announced twenty
minutes later as the other joined him in the library. “I don’t mind
admitting that my thoughts—my sensations, rather—when first I saw the
body were identical with what yours had been, but there’s only one
possible conclusion. Mrs. Storm must have been seated in that big
chair by the hearth when she felt suddenly faint; and in trying to
rise, she must have fallen forward, striking her forehead with
crushing force against that solid brass knob on the fender. Agnes
tells me that she found her mistress lying face downward against it,
and thinking she had merely fainted, turned the body over. It was only
when she saw the wound that she screamed. Of one thing you may be
sure; Mrs. Storm didn’t suffer. She never knew what struck her. Death
came instantly.”
Storm sank into a chair, his twitching face turned from the light. If
Carr only knew!
“I must try to think that!” he murmured. “Did you get George Holworthy
on the ’phone, Doctor?”
“Yes. He is on his way out here by now. Agnes gave me some coffee, and
I told her to bring a tray for you—No protests!” as Storm made a
gesture of repugnance. “You are under my orders, remember, and you’ve
got to keep going.”
Storm drank the coffee obediently enough when it came, conscious of a
craving for its stimulus. The first and most hazardous milestone was
passed; Dr. Carr had fallen for his game, had been completely
hoodwinked by the circumstantial evidence he had arranged. He had won
an unconscious yet powerful ally, and the way seemed clear before him,
but the glow of elation was past.
While the physician droned on in a soothing monotone, seeking for
words of consolation to assuage the grief of his patient and neighbor,
the humming of a high-powered car reached their ears as it turned in
at the gate and ploughed up the driveway, and Storm sank back.
“That is the coroner’s man now.” Dr. Carr strode to the window. “Oh,
he has sent young Daly, and the chief medical examiner is with him.
That will simplify matters tremendously. I know them both, and I’ll
see that they don’t bother you any more than is absolutely necessary.”
Agnes ushered in a tall, lanky young man and his stouter, elderly
companion who nodded in brisk, professional gravity.
“This is Mr. Daly and Dr. Bellowes, Mr. Storm.” Carr presented them
smoothly. “Sorry to have brought you so far on a mere matter of form,
gentlemen. I am prepared to issue a certificate of accidental death,
but I should like to have you examine the body. This way, please;
nothing has been touched.”
Storm rose as the physician turned to lead the others to the den, but
the young man called Daly waved him back.
“Your presence won’t be necessary, Mr. Storm.” His tone was
deferential, but there was a note of authority in it that brooked no
opposition. “I will have to ask you a few questions later, but we
won’t trouble you now.”
Storm bowed and waited until their footsteps diminished down the hall,
and the door of the den closed definitely behind them, Then, with
nervously clenching hands, he turned to the window. What a fool he was
to harass himself with idle fears! Had not everything gone like
clockwork, exactly as he had anticipated? He had been complete master
of the situation so far, and he would be until the end. He must not,
could not fail!
Old George would come soon, now. That had been a master stroke, that
summoning of him! Besides being the natural, logical thing to have
done under the circumstances, it provided a staunch, reliable buffer
between himself and curious, sensation-seeking eyes. George’s dense
stupidity and blind affection would be in itself a safeguard, and he
anticipated no difficulty in dissembling before him. What if George
had suspected or even known of Leila’s affair with Brewster? He would
never dream that Storm himself had discovered it, much less that he
had killed her.
What were the officials doing in there so long? Storm paced the floor
restlessly. Surely the case was obvious enough; he couldn’t have
overlooked anything, after all! Why didn’t they have done with it and
get out of his house? He wanted time to think, a breathing space in
which to prepare himself for the onslaught of neighbors and reporters
when the truth came out.
As if timed to his thought, a familiar runabout which was passing
halted at the gate just as it had on the previous day, and Millard,
after gazing for a moment in blank amazement at the official car drawn
up at the veranda steps, descended and came hurriedly up the path.
Storm saw him from the window and muttered in exasperation. To be
annoyed now by that he-gossip was unthinkable! He’d soon send him
about his business——!
He caught himself up suddenly. This was the moment for him to court
sympathy, not brusquely repel it and awaken an antagonism which might
beget dark rumor and suspicion. He hurried to the door, and when
Millard puffed fussily up the steps of the veranda he found his host
awaiting him with outstretched hands.
“Millard! It was good of you to stop. I hoped you would when I saw you
passing.”
“What’s wrong, old chap? That’s the Chief Medical Examiner’s car,
isn’t it? I was afraid——” He broke off as the other raised his eyes.
“Heavens, Storm, what is it?”
“My wife!” Storm bowed his head, and added brokenly: “She’s dead,
Millard! Died suddenly, sometime during the night.”
“Mrs. Storm!” Millard fell back a step, his apoplectic face paling.
“What——? How? God, this is frightful! What caused it?”
“Dr. Carr says it was one of her fainting spells. She must have fallen
and struck her head. I—we only found her this morning.”
“Terrible! I—I don’t know what to say, old chap!” Millard stammered.
His small, beady eyes strayed eagerly past his host into the darkened
hallway, and he advanced, but Storm’s figure barred the entrance. “I’m
simply aghast! Poor, dear little woman! I can’t believe it! You have
all my sympathy, dear fellow, but words can’t seem to express it just
now. How—how did it happen——?”
“We don’t know yet.” Storm gripped the agitated little man’s arm for a
moment as if for support. “I can’t talk of it! Carr will tell you all
about it later, but I don’t think he wants the news to get about until
the formalities have been concluded with the coroner’s men. I can
depend on you——?”
“You know that, old chap!” Millard interrupted him warmly. “I say,
isn’t there anything that I can do? The car’s right here, you know,
and I’m glad to be of service——”
“Why, yes.” Storm eyed him gratefully. “I’ve sent for George
Holworthy, but he hasn’t been told what has happened. He ought to be
here on the next train, and it is due any minute. Would you mind
running down to the station and bringing him back here, and—and break
the news to him for me?”
“Certainly, dear fellow!” Millard clapped his hand to the other’s
shoulder. “I’ll go at once, Storm. There doesn’t seem to be anything a
chap can say at a time like this, but I’m right here if you want me!
Remember that, and try to—to bear it, some way. I’ll be back in no
time!”
He bustled off down the veranda steps and toward his waiting car, and
Storm closed the door with a grim smile. He was well aware that
Millard—who was known facetiously about the Country Club as the “town
crier”—would spread the news of the tragic “accident” far and wide,
and he had carefully planted in the other’s mind the impression that
Dr. Carr was responsible for the theory of accident. He had always
maintained a certain reserve with Millard, and realized that his
confidence now had immeasurably flattered the little man, cementing a
friendship which would prove valuable if by any chance ugly whispers
arose.
Then, too, he had avoided the task of breaking the news to old George.
Difficult as it had been to play his rôle before the tearful servants,
the cautious physician and the county officials, he shrank far more
from the ordeal of facing his friend with the story he had fabricated.
It would be easy, of course; almost too easy. It was a battle of wits,
a fair fight with others, but with slow-witted, loyal old George . . .
He had turned back to the library when a voice speaking his name
aroused him swiftly from his reverie.
“Mr. Storm, I’d like to see you for a moment.” It was Daly. “Don’t be
alarmed, please. Dr. Bellowes is quite satisfied that Mrs. Storm’s
death was accidental, but the circumstances are so unusual that as a
mere matter of form I want a statement from you to file in my report.
Will you tell me, please, what occurred from the time of your arrival
home last evening until you summoned Dr. Carr at seven o’clock this
morning?”
Haltingly, as if still dazed with the shock, but with every nerve
tinglingly on guard, Storm repeated his story exactly as he had told
it to Dr. Carr, and Daly listened attentively, punctuating it with
quick nods of satisfaction, as though he were mentally checking off
each detail.
At its conclusion he made no comment, but instead asked a question
which brought a start of renewed apprehension to the other man.
“Do you know, Mr. Storm, if your wife had any enemies? Is there anyone
who will profit by her death or who had any reason for wishing her out
of the way?”
“Good heavens, no!” Storm could feel the blood ebbing from his face,
and his voice had grown suddenly husky. “You don’t mean——?”
“I don’t mean anything,” Mr. Daly retorted calmly. “I told you this
was a mere matter of form, Mr. Storm. Do you know of any enmity which
your wife might have incurred?”
“None. Everyone who knew her loved her; she hadn’t an enemy in the
world,” Storm stammered. “No one could profit by her death, and as
to—to wishing her out of the way——”
“That is all right, sir. I don’t want to distress you, but these facts
must be clearly established.” Mr. Daly paused. “How long have you been
married, and what was Mrs. Storm’s maiden name?”
“Leila Talmage. We were married ten years ago.” Storm controlled his
wildly leaping pulses and forced himself to reply calmly, weariedly,
as though the subject caused him infinite pain. “She was an orphan,
the ward of a friend of our family, and has no living relatives of
whom I ever heard.”
“Did she have any money of her own?” the other pursued.
“Very little. Ten or twelve thousand, I believe.” Storm moistened his
lips and drew himself up slightly. “My attorney, Wendle Foulkes, took
charge of it for her at her request, but I have never made any
inquiries concerning her expenditure of it. It was hers, to do with as
she pleased.”
“Then you don’t know the value of her estate now?”
“No.”
“Nor whether she left a will?”
“I do not, Mr. Daly. My attorney can answer all such questions far
better than I.” Storm drew his hand once more across his eyes. Why did
the fellow stare so infernally at him? “I must refer you to him. He
will have to be notified, of course; I hadn’t thought of that. My
mind—I cannot collect myself! It is horrible that there should be even
a thought of foul play in connection with my poor wife; it is almost a
profanation! Her life was an open book, she was the soul of honor and
goodness and charity——”
His voice broke realistically, and his inquisitor rose.
“I don’t doubt you, but you will understand that we have to take every
possibility into consideration in a case of this sort. The Chief will
want to see you when he’s through in there, but won’t detain you
long.”
His searching gaze lowered at last, and he turned and left the room.
Storm listened to his retreating footsteps in a maze of conflicting
emotion. Had that inquisition been merely the formality that the young
official claimed, or had they stumbled on the truth? If Daly’s efforts
had been directed toward establishing a possible motive, Storm
congratulated himself that he had more than held his ground. He had
succeeded in placing on record a statement of absolute faith and trust
in his wife, and surely his bearing as a grief-stricken husband had
been seemingly sincere beyond question! If they suspected, though; if
they unearthed that damnable affair of hers with Brewster, discovered
that he had been in that house on the previous night and could prove
that Storm himself returned before the other’s departure . . . .
The impudent chug-chug of a runabout broke in upon his troubled
thought, and he turned to the hall just as the housemaid appeared on
the stairs.
“Agnes, I’m going to my room. Mr. Millard has just brought Mr.
Holworthy up from the station, I think. Send Mr. Holworthy up to me,
but tell Mr. Millard I’ll call him on the ’phone later. I can’t see
him now.”
“Yes, sir.” Agnes sniffed and lowered her red-lidded eyes. “The other
gentlemen——?”
“They’re still here. Let me know, please, when they want me.”
She stepped aside and he passed her, mounting to his room. It was in
order, and with rare tact the girl had left the door leading to
Leila’s apartments closed; yet as plainly as though it were open Storm
could see before him every intimate detail: the little silver articles
on the dressing table, the quaint old four-poster bed which had been
his mother’s, the absurdly low chairs piled with cushions, Leila’s
favorite books scattered about——
A sudden dizziness seized him; the same sickening qualm which had
assailed him that morning when he entered the den swept over him in an
overwhelming flood. He had been keyed up since with the need of
self-preservation, but now a swift reaction came, and he flung himself
into a chair, his head buried in his arms outflung across the table.
He had killed her, and she deserved it; she had been faithless! It was
done and over with, and yet——!
Her presence seemed nearer him, the years of their love and life
together rose before him, and something very like a dry, harsh sob
burst from his throat.
“Norman! God, it isn’t true! It can’t be!”
The broken cry from the doorway fell like a dash of icy water on his
rising emotion, and instantly on guard once more, Storm raised his
head.
George Holworthy stood there, his homely face working grotesquely,
tears starting unashamed from his faded blue eyes.
“I never dreamed—I was afraid when I got Carr’s message that she was
ill, but that a thing like this should have come——!”
“George!” Storm rose and their hands clasped. “I sent for you as soon
as I could! I can’t talk about it, I can’t realize it! It is like some
horrible nightmare! You won’t leave me? You’ll stay here and see me
through?”
“I’m here, ain’t I?” George gulped fiercely. “I suppose you’ve been
badgered enough, and I won’t add to it, but for God’s sake tell me a
little! Remember, I loved her, too!”
“I know you did, and she had a very real affection for you.” Storm
averted his head, for the sight of the other’s genuine sorrow was
unnerving.
“All I could get out of Millard was that you found her dead this
morning, and that Carr said it was her old trouble, that
catalepsy—_petit mal_, they call it, don’t they? I never thought it
could prove fatal!”
“It didn’t. But she fell, striking her head——!” Storm paused
eloquently. “When you see her, George, you’ll understand. It’s too
awful, I can’t——”
“But where is she? What have they done with her?” George glanced
toward the closed door, and Storm shook his head.
“In the den. Agnes found her there and screamed——”
But Agnes herself appeared in the doorway, cutting his sentence short.
“If you please, Mr. Storm, the gentlemen downstairs would like to
speak to you.”
“I’ll be down.” By a supreme effort he braced himself to meet the
verdict. “You’ll come too, George?”
George nodded and blew his nose resoundingly.
“I’m with you,” he said simply, and together they descended the
stairs.
Dr. Bellowes met them at the library door.
“We have concluded our examination,” he announced. “As my colleague,
Doctor Carr, had already surmised, Mrs. Storm’s death was due to a
fracture of the right temporal caused by a fall while suffering an
attack of _petit mal_.”
Storm closed his eyes, and for an instant the earth seemed to rock
beneath his feet.
It was over and he had won! He had fooled them all!
“I feared it, Doctor,” he remarked quietly, and congratulated himself
at the calmness of his tone. “I should not have left her alone last
night after the warning we had of a possible attack the day before—but
I must try not to think of that now. Can’t I offer you something
before you start on your ride back? A cup of coffee perhaps?”
Dr. Bellowes shook his head, but his eyes traveled to the humidor on
the table, and Storm followed his glance.
“A cigar, then?” He opened the humidor and passed it around. “The
matches are just in there——”
He lighted one, watching his hand curiously meanwhile. How steady it
was! Not a tremor to reveal the excitement mounting within him. He had
pulled off the greatest, grimmest scheme in the world, and yet not the
flicker of an eyelash betrayed him!
Dr. Bellowes blew out a cloud of smoke.
“Yes, Mr. Storm,” he resumed, “it was unquestionably an accident; a
most unusual and unfortunate one. Unofficially, I should like to
tender to you my most sincere sympathy.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Storm bowed and stood quite still as George showed them out.
If anyone had told him that such a plan could have been conceived and
carried out successfully without a single hitch, he would have laughed
him to scorn. He would not have believed anyone capable of such
combined ingenuity and self-control, least of all himself!
The position of the body, the smear upon the brass knob of the fender,
the blood-stained driver cleaned, the handkerchief and its ashes
eliminated, the hair pin, the single golden hair, the light left
burning—he mentally reviewed each clue in the case, recalled each step
of the investigation, and realized that there had been no flaw.
It had been a supreme battle of wits, his against all the rest, and he
had beaten them! He had won!