We Discuss the Crime
So unexpected was the woman's action that for a second none of us
stirred. It was the doctor who reached her first. The eyes opened with
a little flutter, and the color came flooding back into her cheeks. As
he placed her in a chair, her hands went out in a confused,
questioning gesture, as if seeking aid. Then when she realized what
had happened, she cast one horrified look in the direction of the
body.
When she was feeling more composed, the chief tried to question her.
But she refused to say a word. Before she fainted, in a voice which
rang with conviction, she had practically accused the secretary of the
murder. Now in a listless tone she refused to say a word, shutting her
thin lips in a determined manner. At last, seeing that she did not
care to speak, and in fact would not, the chief suggested that the
coroner assist her back to the house.
When they had left, he turned with an astonished air to Carter.
“What in the devil did she mean by that crack about the secretary?”
“I don't know,” was his reply. “She seemed to be a bit angry. Who is
the secretary anyway?”
“Why it's the former stenographer of Judge Williams. She is as good
looking a girl as you will find in many a day. But that housekeeper is
crazy if she thinks that girl killed Warren.”
“Well,” came the drawling voice of Ranville, “I know nothing about the
girl you speak of; but if I were you, I would look her up.”
A few moments later, concluding that we could do no good if we
remained, we left. It was growing late, and the police had much work
to do. Besides we were beginning to feel the need of the dinner we had
not eaten. We told the chief all we knew, showed him the broken glass
in the bookcase, and mentioned what the housekeeper had said regarding
the visit of a Chinaman. Last of all we pointed out the faint cross on
Warren's forehead. This seemed to impress him more than anything else,
and I saw his eyes grow big. Then with Carter's remark, that we would
aid him in any manner he wished, we said “good night” and went out.
The stars were bright above our heads, but it was dark at that. The
path between the hedges was a dense black line, and the trees loomed
in a somber manner above us. Reaching the lawn before the house, we
saw that the building was a blaze of lights, though we glimpsed no
one. We did not turn to the house, but instead passed through the iron
gateway and out to the road.
No one spoke, and I judged that none of us felt like speaking. As we
went along, I thought of the famous scientist, who only a few short
weeks before had been hailed in every paper of the world. There had
been many wild guesses made as to what he found, more so after he had
said that the question of man's origin was forever settled. What he
had found no one knew, and he refused to say, simply stating that it
would all come out in his book. And then the whole controversy burst
into flame.
This was caused by the theological argument which was raging over
evolution. The controversy had increased after Warren's statement.
Back and forth flew the arguments. The scientists contented themselves
by saying that every intelligent person believed in evolution, and
that if Warren said he had found the final proof that settled it. His
reputation and word was enough for the men of science. On the other
hand, theologians and demagogues who knew nothing about science cried
long and loud that Warren could not have found any proofs of
evolution, for, as they said, evolution was not a fact.
In all this controversy—one which filled many pages of the
papers—Warren bore no part. As soon as he arrived in America, he had
gone directly to his home and made the announcement that he would have
his manuscript ready as soon as possible. Only one statement he gave
the papers—it was to repeat what he had said before: that he had found
the final proofs. The proofs which settled for all time the question
of man's origin. After that he was silent. And now he was murdered,
and I pictured the papers when they heard of his death.
And then I began to wonder why he should have been killed. A man of
his decided personality must, of course, have made enemies. I puzzled
over the man from China, who the housekeeper said had come to the
house. I played with this thought for a while, only to decide that
perhaps it was better to stop wondering about the case until I had
more facts to puzzle over. And by the time we came in sight of
Carter's home the only thing I was thinking about was something to
eat.
The tall grandfather's clock was striking eleven as we entered the
living room. With the remark that we must be hungry, Carter went out
into the kitchen saying he would see if the cook had left anything in
the ice box. Ranville and myself dropped into the nearest chairs. I
was too tired to talk, and the experiences of the last few hours had
not been pleasant. But to look at the Scotland Yard Inspector one
would never have guessed that anything had taken place. The fine face
of the Englishman was as peaceful and contented as if he had just
returned from a wedding—instead of a murder. He lay back in his chair,
his eyes half closed, watching the curling smoke of his cigarette.
Carter's voice hailed us from the kitchen, and we rose and joined him.
Upon the white enameled table was a cold chicken, three bottles of
ale, and some rye bread. We pulled our chairs to the table and set to
work. When the chicken had become but a memory, Carter rummaged in the
ice box and found a pie—a pie of which we did not leave a crumb.
The lunch over, we went out on the large veranda; the night was cool,
with a slight breeze, and down at the edge of the lawn we could hear
the water lapping on the shore. As Carter handed me a cigar, I
happened to think of Trouble, locked in the garage, and went down to
rescue him. He greeted me with a loud bark, but at my command followed
to the piazza and dropped by the side of my chair. For a while nothing
was said, and in the darkness I watched the glowing tips of my
friends' cigars. It was Carter who broke the silence, saying to no one
in particular:
“Well—what do you think about the murder?”
Ranville's drawling voice came floating from his chair, and his tone
was serious:
“It looks to me, Carter, as if we had stumbled upon what will prove
one of the most perplexing murder mysteries we have ever seen. There
are some very curious things about this affair; and it's my idea it's
going to prove rather difficult to solve.”
“It will cause a sensation all right,” was the reply. “You know for
weeks Warren's name has been on the front pages of the papers. First
there came the accounts of his trip to China. When he did not return
at the time expected, the papers began to say his expedition was lost.
Then the outlaw war broke in China, and it was thought he was killed;
and when he suddenly made his appearance, he certainly got a lot of
publicity.”
As he paused, I added my bit. I reminded them that his statement that
he had settled the question of evolution had made more comment than
anything else.
“That's right,” replied the Englishman. “Even in London the old
_Times_ gave a good many columns to that feature. But as he refused to
say what it was he had found, the whole affair led to some little
controversy.”
“You have had a good deal of experience in murder cases in your
Scotland Yard work,” I said to the Inspector. “What do you think was
back of Warren's death?”
Ranville was silent a while, replying at last:
“That is the question. It is pretty hard to say from what we found
to-night, just what could be the motive. Men are murdered as a rule
for three reasons—robbery, revenge, or, say, in a sudden passion. Now
it does not look like robbery, for we saw no signs of anything being
taken. That is, unless we figure the murderer broke the glass of the
bookcase and took a book. But that seems hardly reasonable.”
“Still some one did take a book or two from that case,” was my retort.
“Perhaps. Of course Warren might have broken the glass himself by
accident. Then again, though I do not know much about books, I do know
a bit about that kind of literature. Once in a while we clean up some
book dealers who put it out in London. And I know this. None of that
stuff sells at a very high figure. It's rare, of course, mostly
because it's sold under cover. But a few pounds would buy anything in
that case. It does not seem reasonable to start out by assuming he was
murdered for a book of that class.”
“Well, let's put that out of the question and say revenge,” suggested
Carter.
“That would look more reasonable,” Ranville commented. “A man of
Warren's type would, of course, have made enemies. And the two odd
things about the murder—the position in which we found the body and
the cross on the forehead—seem to suggest revenge. You cannot tell
what he might have done while he was in China. He may have made
enemies there.”
“That suggests the Chinaman who the housekeeper says came to the house
about six,” was my remark.
“Maybe and maybe not,” was Ranville's quick retort. “I admit that six
o'clock is pretty near the time Warren was killed. Also, why a
Chinaman should wish to see him is something which must be looked
into. But I have had a good deal of experience with criminal Chinese
in our Limehouse section of London. They are capable of the most
devilish torture, the weirdest kinds of murder. But I fail to remember
a single case where they ever marked their victim after death. And no
Chinaman, it seems to me, would ever mark his victim with a cross. Of
course, once in a while you run into one who goes wild, and there is
no telling what he might do. But as a rule, though they will in
seeking revenge impose the most cruel tortures on some of their
victims, they do not as a rule mark them after death.”
“Disfigurement after a killing is often the work of a frenzied woman,”
was Carter's shrewd remark.
“That's true, Carter. Women, far more than men, are apt not to be
satisfied with murder alone. When a woman in a sudden passion kills a
man, she often, while the rage is on her, goes further.”
“And that makes one think of what the housekeeper said about the
secretary,” was my comment.
There was a moment's silence, broken by Carter's saying:
“I wonder what the housekeeper meant by that remark. She certainly
shut up like a clam when we tried to question her. There is something
back of it—at least back of the housekeeper's attitude.”
“Well,” came Ranville's voice, “there is one thing sure; I think I am
right when I say that whoever killed Warren was some one who knew him.
He sat in that chair, the one across from the desk, and I think
perhaps I am right when I add that he might have gone to Warren's side
to say good-by and then plunged the knife into him. But why he paused
to arrange the body on the floor and to make the cross on his forehead
I cannot say, but—”
Just what he might have added I do not know. We were interrupted by
the dog suddenly rising to his feet and starting to growl. Deep, heavy
growls at some object we could not see. Then came the sound of
footsteps on the walk, and a deep voice came from the lawn:
“Hearing voices, Mr. Carter, I could not resist stopping.”
As the man came up the steps, I pushed the dog behind my chair,
telling him to be quiet. Carter rose and turned on the porch lamp. For
a moment the light, after the dense darkness, blinded me. I wondered
who could be coming to see Carter at this late hour. It was a very
tall and an extremely thin man who accepted the chair which Carter
pulled out. A man with a deep lined face and nervous shifting eyes. As
he came over to the chair, I saw that he was wearing a clergyman's
collar, though he did not look as calm as most of the clergymen I have
seen.
He proved to be Carter's next-door neighbor, and he told us he was on
his way home when he heard the sound of our voices. As he talked, I
could see that he was of a nervous, restless disposition, for his
hands were never still, and he moved his feet in an uneasy manner. His
voice was rather harsh, though the English he used was perfect.
After the introductions had been acknowledged Carter said:
“Woods is my next-door neighbor. He's been in England, Ranville.”
The clergyman admitted that he had been in England many times. He
changed the conversation at once by remarking:
“I have just come from down town, and they are all excited over the
murder of Mr. Warren. I did not know Warren very well, but it seems
almost incredible a man of his position should have met with such a
sudden death. Have they any idea who the guilty person is?”
We all shook our heads, and then Carter went into a brief description
of the finding of the body. The eyes of the minister grew larger as he
went on, and I saw a horrified look sweep across his face. As I did
not know many clergymen, I studied the man before me with interest. It
was easy to see that he had a good education, and I wondered why he
had buried himself in such a small country town. Long before Carter
had finished I had decided that the minister was as nervous a man as I
have ever met. His hands were never still, and his eyes were as uneasy
as his hands.
He said nothing until Carter mentioned the secretary, and then half
rose as he burst forth:
“Why, of all things,” came the rough high-pitched voice, “I know Mr.
Warren's secretary very well. She comes to my church. You must know
her also—Miss Harlan?” and he turned to Carter.
Carter shook his head; then said he knew her by sight and that was
all. He added she was a very fine-looking girl.
“That's very true,” the minister eagerly replied. “She is not only a
very fine-looking girl, but a very fine girl in all ways. It's absurd
to think she knows anything about Mr. Warren's death. I saw her myself
this afternoon.”
The conversation for some reason lagged after this, and after a while
the minister gave a glance at his watch, and then with a sudden
exclamation rose saying it was late. We said “good night,” and he went
down the steps and was lost to sight. After he was out of hearing
Ranville asked:
“How long have you taken up with clergymen, Carter?”
His friend laughed. “Oh, I do not know him so very well. He has lived
here for some time. It seems that about fifty years ago his
grandfather—for some unknown reason—built the church next door. Woods
sort of fell into it. He has a good deal of money they say, but very
few people ever go to his church. In fact he supports it himself. You
see he is about as high church as you can find—all sorts of rituals
and that kind of thing. They don't go very well in a place like this.
Then again, he is always attacking something.”
“Attacking something; what do you mean?” was Ranville's puzzled
question.
Carter laughed. “You do not have very many men of that type in your
country. You see, Woods has but one duty in life. It is to try and
make the rest of us think and do the things which he believes are
right. Every little while he breaks loose—attacks Sunday baseball,
dances, auto rides on Sunday. I do not know just how many of those
things he is mixed up in. But I do know that he holds office in most
of the more rabid reform societies in the state and nation. As he has
money and makes heavy contributions, he is sort of a power in some
circles. But his church does not amount to much here, mostly because
no one goes. Though, after all, it is the most beautiful one we have.
He is an odd duck at the best.”
He rose with this and turned off the light, For a while we sat in the
darkness smoking, no one speaking. I begun to feel sleepy and wanted
to hint that it was time to go to bed. Once in a while the dog at my
side gave a little sigh of contentment. And then, just as Carter
started to suggest that it was time we retired, Ranville gave a little
laugh and said:
“You know I have been thinking about this murder. There is no doubt
about the sensation it will make. Your police chief, it seems to me,
will have far more on his shoulders than he can manage.”
“For once in your life you spoke the truth,” was Carter's dry comment.
“Righto,” was the cheery response, “and I have been thinking—” and the
Englishman paused.
“That's twice you have been thinking, Ranville,” was Carter's reply.
“Suppose you tell us what you were thinking about.”
“Just this. Here are the three of us, all engaged in some sort or
another of criminal work. You are with the Secret Service, Carter.
Pelt is the right-hand man of your big expert, Bartley, and I am with
Scotland Yard. Why should we not take a hand in the case?”
“What for?” growled Carter. “Good Lord, man, don't you know this is my
first vacation in four years? And it's your first in some time. Of
course Pelt here never does much work anyway.”
I started to protest, but Ranville gave me no time to speak.
“Well, Carter,” he said, “I would like to keep close to this affair.
It would give me some idea of how you work in this country.”
“Good Lord, Ranville,” protested his friend. “Where do you think you
are? This is a small country town. How do you think this will be
handled? In England you would call in the Yard, with their fingerprint
experts, photographers, microscopes, and with hundreds of men in every
part of England working under one department. We have nothing of the
kind in this country. If this case is ever solved, it will be by what
we call ‘bull luck.’”
“True enough,” came the cheerful response. “But this is going to be
one of the famous murder cases of the century. You want to remember
Warren is one of the best-known scientists in the world. And he was
murdered, you know. I thought we might take a little hand in it. Sort
of play along, as you say in America, with the police.”
There was a more interested tone in Carter's voice as he asked:
“What do you propose?”
“Just this. Suppose we divide things. Let us start with the visit of
the Chinaman. Some one must find out about him. Now I have had
extensive dealings with them; suppose I look into that end. You follow
what new developments came out at the inquest, for there are always
developments at such hearings. You know the chief and can work with
him.”
“What shall I look after?” was my eager question.
Carter anticipated his friend by saying:
“You being the youngest, Pelt, and as I once heard John Bartley
say—young and romantic—can look into the matter of the secretary. We
have been told she is good to look at.”
I started to reply, but Ranville gave me no time.
“Really,” he said, “I am serious. This case is going to be a
sensational affair before it is over. And if we all take a hand in it,
we can save time. Your police chief will need all the aid he can get
before it is over.”
Carter rose to his feet, and his voice came floating down to us out of
the darkness.
“Well, I suppose it's all right. But I never knew it to fail. Every
time Pelt goes anywhere in the summer he brings a murder. It happened
that way last year and the year before. All you have to do is invite
Pelt to visit you, and you can be pretty sure some one will be found
dead within a few hours after he arrives. Sometimes I even wonder if
he kills them himself. But I will agree with you, though I have but
one suggestion to make, Ranville—”
“What might that be?” came the question.
“A very simple one. That we go to bed; it is now after one?” And with
that he started into the house. A moment later we rose and followed
him.