THE HAND ON THE COUNTERPANE
A low tap at his bedroom door aroused Curtis. Rising in some haste he
went over to his bureau, took out his despatch box, and, opening it,
securely locked the handkerchief inside it. Not until the box was again
in the drawer did he turn toward the door.
“Come in!” he called as the knock was repeated with more insistence.
Doctor Leonard McLane stepped briskly inside and closed the door behind
him.
“I am glad I found you, Dave,” he said, and, observing Curtis’ pleased
smile on recognizing his voice, added: “I called to see Anne Meredith,
but she had gone out motoring with Lucille Hull and Gerald Armstrong.
Herman told me that you were in, so I came upstairs.”
Curtis sighed with relief. “I am very glad that you are here, Leonard,”
he exclaimed. “Frankly, I was just thinking of telephoning to you to
come over at once.”
“Indeed?” McLane drew up a comfortable rocker and seated himself near
the blind surgeon. “What do you wish to see me about, and why are you
caressing a pair of pajamas?”
As he spoke Curtis had picked up the pajamas from the chair where he had
dropped them upon hearing McLane’s knock on his door.
“I’ll explain all in good time,” he answered, seating himself. “Please
treat our conversation as confidential, Leonard.”
McLane nodded his head thoughtfully. “I presume it’s about John
Meredith’s murder and”—he hesitated—“Anne.”
“Why do you connect the two?” quickly.
“It is what every one is doing,” said McLane. He noticed the harassed
lines in Curtis’ face and his expression grew more serious. “Coroner
Penfield told me what transpired at the inquest and that you insisted
that Anne be represented by a lawyer. How,” he glanced keenly at his
companion, “how did you happen to pick on Sam Hollister?”
“Anne asked for him,” replied Curtis. “Isn’t he a good lawyer?”
“W-why, yes; so I understand.” McLane’s tone did not convey conviction.
“But he is not a criminal lawyer.”
Curtis hitched his chair closer to McLane. “You think it will come to
that?” he asked, with unconcealed anxiety.
McLane nodded his head somberly. “It appears to me that Anne knows more
than she has told,” he said. “Why she is withholding information which
may aid the police in detecting her uncle’s murderer is one of the
mysteries of the case.”
“But there is no criminal action in that,” protested Curtis.
“Unless it comprises being an accessory after the act,” McLane pointed
out. He paused a moment before asking, “What are the _known_ facts
connecting Anne with the murder?”
Curtis sat back in his chair and checked off each point as he spoke.
“First, Herman, the butler, testified that he overheard John Meredith
quarreling with a ‘female’ in his bedroom that night. He took her to be
Anne because he thought he recognized her dress. Secondly, Gretchen, the
chambermaid, said that she overheard a conversation between a man and a
woman after midnight under her window. The woman said, ‘I will do it
to-night,’ and the man replied, ‘Don’t lose your nerve.’”
“Well, did Gretchen identify the woman?” asked McLane as Curtis paused.
“Indirectly, yes. She declined, as she put it, ‘to tell on her young
mees.’” Curtis hesitated. “Her statement satisfied the coroner and she
was excused.”
“I see!” McLane stroked his chin reflectively. “Well, what next?”
“I overheard Mrs. Meredith speak to Anne in the hall just after I found
Meredith’s body.” Curtis spoke with growing reluctance, and McLane
nodded his head in silent understanding. “Mrs. Meredith said nothing to
connect Anne with the crime, but it did prove that Anne was up and about
at the time of her uncle’s murder.”
“Quite so, it did,” agreed McLane. He lowered his voice. “Did anything
come up at the inquest about the parrot and its cry: ‘Anne—I’ve caught
you—you devil?’”
“No.”
McLane sat back and frowned. “Why not, I wonder?” he muttered.
“The inquest is not over,” Curtis pointed out. “Only adjourned until
Thursday.”
“And this is Tuesday morning—”
“Which leaves us very little time to solve the mystery of Meredith’s
death.” Curtis sighed, then bent forward and laid his hand on McLane’s
knee. “Can I depend upon your help, Leonard?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good!” Curtis’ face lighted with his charming smile. “We must work to
clear Anne. She must not be dragged any further into the limelight.”
“If it only stops at the limelight!” The exclamation escaped McLane
involuntarily. “I am afraid, Dave, that Coroner Penfield is holding back
something more than the episode of the parrot to spring at the next
hearing of the inquest.”
“It may be,” admitted Curtis. “Penfield stopped his direct examination
after producing the hair which he and Inspector Mitchell found wound
around the button on the jacket of Meredith’s pajamas. The hair matched
Anne’s in color and texture.”
“And Penfield claimed that it was caught around the button when Anne
pressed her ear over Meredith’s heart to see if it was still beating,”
broke in McLane. “It was a clever deduction on his part.”
“Quite so, and one warranted by facts—as far as he knew them,” answered
Curtis. “Is the hall door closed, Leonard? Are we alone?”
McLane glanced toward the door and then about the room.
“The door is shut,” he said. Rising, he walked over to it, pulled it
open and glanced up and down the empty hall, then closed the door and
turned the key in the lock. “We are entirely alone, Dave. Go ahead and
say what you wish.”
Curtis waited until his companion had resumed his seat.
“After I had notified Sam Hollister of Meredith’s death, I went back
with him to the body,” he began. “Hollister left me to telephone to
Coroner Penfield. While waiting for him to return, I ran my hands over
Meredith’s body and found some hair, evidently from a woman’s head,
caught around that jacket button.” He paused. “I may also state that
when I first found Meredith he was lying partly on his right side, face
pressed against the carpet and his arms outflung.”
“So I read in your printed testimony,” interjected McLane.
“But when I examined the body for the second time, it was lying on its
back,” finished Curtis.
“It was?” McLane shot a questioning glance at his blind companion. “Why
didn’t you mention it at the inquest?”
“I was not questioned on that point,” calmly. “If I am recalled at the
next hearing I will speak of it. In the meantime—”
“Yes?” as Curtis paused.
“I want your advice, and, if need be, your aid.”
“Sure, go ahead.” McLane was listening with deep attention and with
increasing impatience at his friend’s deliberation of speech.
“I unwound several of the hairs,” went on Curtis, “and put them in my
wallet. Later that morning, that is yesterday, I showed them to Fernando
and asked him their color. He said the hairs were white.”
“White!” echoed McLane in astonishment.
“Fernando said that they were white,” repeated Curtis. “I had to depend
upon his eyesight.”
“But,” McLane took out his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead, “the
hair Penfield found about the button was chestnut in color. I’ve seen it
and it certainly came from Anne’s head.”
“Possibly Fernando lied when he told me the hair was white.”
“Sure, he might have; with the object of shielding Anne. The servants
are devoted to her,” McLane added. “Let me see the hair and I can settle
the question.”
“Unfortunately the hair has disappeared out of my wallet.”
“Good Lord!” McLane sat back and regarded Curtis in startled surprise.
“I discovered it was missing during the inquest at the time it was
stated that the hair Penfield found was chestnut in color,” went on
Curtis. “Having nothing to prove my statement, I kept silent.”
“I see!” McLane gnawed at his upper lip. A second or more passed before
he broke the silence. “There isn’t a white-haired woman in the
household,” he said.
“Then Fernando lied,” Curtis’ lips compressed into a hard line, “and not
for the first time. Listen attentively, Leonard.” The injunction was
hardly needed, but Curtis could not see his companion’s absorbed regard
as he sat back watching him. “When dressing for dinner on Sunday evening
I told Fernando to tie a string on the outside knob of my door so that
when I came upstairs, if I was alone, I could identify my bedroom
without difficulty.”
“Did he do so?”
“No. Fernando claims that I never ordered him to tie a string on the
door knob.” Curtis spoke more slowly than usual. “But after discovering
Meredith lying dead in the hall, I went in search of my room and,
finding a string hanging from a knob of a closed door, entered that
bedroom, supposing it to be mine.”
“Whose was it?”
“John Meredith’s.”
McLane sat back and again rubbed his forehead with his handkerchief.
“I’m blessed if I see—” he exclaimed.
“Unhappily I don’t see—at any time.” Curtis covered his sigh with a
slight cough. “This is the point, Leonard; a string was tied to John
Meredith’s door knob and is still hanging there. A string was also hung
on my door knob Sunday evening and cut off before I came upstairs.”
“What?”
Instead of replying Curtis rose and went over to his bureau. Taking his
despatch box from the drawer he made his way to the bed and, turning the
key in the lock, threw back the lid.
“This piece of string,” he said, holding it up, “has one end tied in a
loop, which has been cut.” He handed the string to Leonard. “I found the
string lying in front of my door, partly hidden under the hall carpet.”
McLane took the string and eyed it attentively. “Just a moment,” he
exclaimed. “I’ll be back.” He stopped at the hall door, unlocked it and
sped up the hall. During his absence Curtis stood by the bed, head bent
in a listening attitude. Barely three minutes elapsed before McLane was
beside him again.
“I have compared the string with that still hanging from Meredith’s
door,” he said, in explanation. He placed the string in Curtis’ hand.
“It is the same color and weight, and was evidently cut from the same
ball of twine.”
“And Fernando denies that I ever requested him to tie a string to my
door,” mused Curtis, as he put the string back in his despatch box.
“Could he have tied the string on your door, then cut it off, and tied
one on Meredith’s door as a practical joke?” asked McLane. “And after
the events of Sunday night be afraid to confess?”
“That is a plausible theory,” admitted Curtis, somewhat dubiously,
however. “But why pick out John Meredith’s door?”
“Ask me something easy,” begged McLane. “Did you go in Meredith’s
bedroom, Dave?”
“Yes. I telephoned from there for Sam Hollister.” Curtis paused, then
spoke with added gravity. “While standing before the instrument trying
to recall Hollister’s number, I heard a woman moving about in the
bedroom.”
McLane’s eyes were twice their usual size. “Go on,” he urged. “Don’t
keep me in suspense. Did the woman see you?”
“No. I had not switched on the electric lights,” Curtis explained,
keeping his voice low but distinct. “As she went by me on her way out of
the room, she tossed this handkerchief in my direction.” He took it out
of his despatch box and gave it to McLane. “When I picked it up I
detected the smell of chloroform very plainly.”
McLane turned the handkerchief over several times and the solitary
initial caught his eye.
“A,” he said aloud, and the gravity of his tone was unmistakable.
“Anne?” He laid the handkerchief back in the despatch box. “Lock up the
box, Dave,” he directed. “Have you shown the handkerchief to Coroner
Penfield?”
“No.” Curtis pocketed the key of the despatch box. “I know you won’t
approve, Leonard, but”—and his tone was grim—“I decline to further
involve Anne Meredith in the mystery of her uncle’s murder.”
“I am with you there,” declared McLane. “I wish, however, that you had
spoken to me sooner about the handkerchief.”
“This is the first time I have seen you since we met in Meredith’s
bedroom yesterday,” Curtis pointed out. “But I must confess, Leonard,
that the handkerchief did slip my mind. I had left it in the pocket of
this suit of pajamas, and only recollected the handkerchief when I found
the pajamas lying on this bed about fifteen minutes before you came in.”
“Lazy habits you have,” commented McLane, speaking more lightly.
“Leaving your pajamas around your room at this time in the morning.”
“I did not leave them there,” protested Curtis. “I don’t know who could
have laid them on the bed. It’s made up, is it not?”
McLane turned about and gazed at the bed as Curtis crossed the room to
his bureau, despatch box in hand.
“The bed is made up,” McLane stated slowly. Something caught his eyes
and he stepped close to the bedstead and bent forward. “By Jove!” he
exclaimed. “There is an impression of a hand on the counterpane—”
“_Monsieur le docteur!_” McLane straightened up swiftly and encountered
Susanne’s frightened gaze. The French maid was standing holding the hall
door ajar. “Mademoiselle Anne is calling for you—come quickly!”