PRELIMINARY SKIRMISHING
Gerald Armstrong looked inquiringly at Inspector Mitchell as the latter
waved him to a chair in the library; then turned his regard to Detective
Sergeant Brown. He learned nothing from the Sergeant’s stolid expression
and again focused his attention on the latter’s superior officer.
“Sit down, Mr. Armstrong,” directed Mitchell. Taking a chair he planted
himself in front of Armstrong, while Sergeant Brown braced his burly
figure against a convenient sofa and remained a silent onlooker. “Now,
sir, will you kindly tell us why you avoided the inquest on John
Meredith?”
“I did not avoid it.”
“No? Well, it appeared that way to us at Headquarters,” replied
Mitchell, observing Armstrong’s unconcealed annoyance with relish. A man
in a temper might give out valuable information. “And it has been very
apparent that you have also avoided an interview with us since then.”
“Well, what of it?” Armstrong assumed a more comfortable position.
“Come, Inspector, why worry about the past? Now that I am at leisure I
shall be very happy to answer any questions you put to me, provided
always,” with a smile meant to be ingratiating, “that it is within my
power to answer them.”
“Of course,” dryly. “Why did you leave Ten Acres so precipitately after
John Meredith signed those papers on Sunday night?”
“There was nothing precipitate in my conduct,” replied Armstrong, with a
slight frown. “I remembered that I had some work to do at home and so
went there, intending to return to Ten Acres in time for breakfast on
Monday morning.”
“But you did not return then?”
“No; I overslept.”
The explanation was very pat, and the smile left Mitchell’s eyes, to be
replaced by an angry glitter.
“And when did you first learn of John Meredith’s murder?” he demanded.
“I learned of his death,” with emphasis on the last word, “on Monday
shortly before noon.”
“And who informed you of Meredith’s _murder_?” Mitchell repeated the
word intentionally and Armstrong flushed.
“Colonel Julian Hull, my senior partner, told me the news,” he stated.
“It seems his daughter, Miss Lucille Hull, telephoned to him. I was not
aware until last evening, when I called at the Hulls’, that the police
authorities considered Meredith’s death was a case of murder and not
suicide.”
“And what is your belief in the matter?” asked Mitchell.
Armstrong shrugged his shoulders. “I have formed no theories,” he
answered. “The whole affair is frightfully tragic. That John Meredith
would take his own life was incredible, but to any one who knew his
lovable character as I did,” meeting Mitchell’s gaze without wavering,
“it is inconceivable that any one should have killed him.”
“Inconceivable perhaps, but he _was_ killed,” responded Mitchell grimly,
“and we intend to locate the murderer. At what hour did you leave Ten
Acres Sunday night, and did John Meredith know that you planned to
leave?”
Armstrong shook his head. “No. I left there a little before midnight.”
“Without notifying Mrs. Marshall Meredith or any other inmate of the
house?”
“Mrs. Meredith had retired for the night,” replied Armstrong. “Herman
and Damason, the Filipino chauffeur, were aware that I left.”
“And why did you not tell Mr. Hollister of your intended departure?”
Armstrong frowned at the Inspector’s persistency. “It was after we had
parted that I decided on impulse to return home that night. There was no
occasion for disturbing Hollister,” he stated coldly.
Mitchell consulted his notebook in which he had made occasional entries
as their conversation progressed.
“Are you well acquainted with Mr. Hollister?” he asked.
“We are friends, yes,” and Mitchell’s eyebrows lifted at the brief
reply.
“You have just stated, Mr. Armstrong, that only Herman and Damason knew
of your intended departure,” he began. “In her testimony at the inquest
Miss Anne Meredith told of meeting you on your way out.”
“Yes, yes, I forgot; I did meet her,” broke in Armstrong with marked
haste.
“And you told her of the prenuptial agreement and the codicil to his
will, to which you had witnessed Meredith’s signature.” Mitchell paused
before asking, “Wasn’t that breaking a confidence, sir?”
“Most emphatically not. Meredith did not pledge us to secrecy,” retorted
Armstrong.
Mitchell scrutinized his flushed face for a moment in silence. “How was
Miss Meredith dressed?” At the query Armstrong moved uncomfortably.
“I am sure I don’t know,” he grumbled. “She was suitably clad, if you
mean that.”
“I never doubted but that she was,” replied Mitchell, disgust creeping
into his voice. “How was she dressed, Mr. Armstrong? Did she have on the
gown she wore at dinner or a street suit?”
“I don’t know,” sullenly. “It was dark—”
“In the house or out of doors?”
Armstrong’s eyes shifted from Mitchell to Sergeant Brown, who approached
them at that moment, and from him back again to Mitchell.
“What’s that to you, Inspector?” demanded Armstrong.
“That’s my affair,” roughly. “Come, sir, I insist upon a direct reply.
Where did you meet Miss Meredith on Sunday night?” Receiving no answer,
he asked more urgently: “Was it inside the house or out? Answer at once,
sir.”
“Outside the house,” sullenly.
“Outside is too vague, sir,” persisted Mitchell. “Did you meet Miss Anne
close by the servants’ wing of the house and underneath the window of
Gretchen’s bedroom?”
“That’s no business of yours!” Armstrong got to his feet in haste, an
angry light in his eyes.
“I want an answer, Mr. Armstrong.”
“You won’t get it,” with sneering emphasis. “If I have anything more to
say it will be to your superiors and in the presence of my lawyer.”
“If you are going to take that attitude, Mr. Armstrong,” Mitchell rose
also, “I will see that you are served with a subpoena as a material
witness to attend the next hearing of the inquest—”
A startled look crossed Armstrong’s face, then disappeared.
“Colonel Hull told me that the inquest was over—”
“For yesterday afternoon.” Mitchell pocketed his notebook and fountain
pen. “The next hearing will be on Thursday afternoon at two o’clock at
the District Morgue. I advise you not to forget to attend,” with
significant emphasis. “One more question, where did you spend Sunday
night—_all_ of Sunday night?”
Armstrong’s bright color faded, leaving his sallow complexion a mottled
yellow.
“What in blazes!” he shouted, then his voice died down as Herman drew
back the portières and stepped inside the library.
The butler bowed deferentially. “Luncheon is served,” he announced.
“Miss Anne and Doctor Curtis are already at the table, and Miss Lucille
is waiting for you in the hall.”
Flinging a word over his shoulder, which Mitchell failed to distinguish,
Armstrong hurried into the reception hall as the Inspector, with a quiet
nod to Herman, opened the French window on the veranda and, followed by
his faithful henchman, Sergeant Brown, strode across the lawn in the
direction of the lodge.
Luncheon, judged by Curtis’ feelings, was a long and trying ordeal. No
one except Lucille felt inclined for conversation. When dessert was
served she shot an aggrieved look at her cousin, which Anne missed
entirely, and finally lapsed into silence. The scene in the hall and the
finding of the discolored scalpel was ever present in Curtis’ mind, and
his anxiety was not relieved by Anne’s absent-minded replies and
unresponsive manner. As far as possible he bore the brunt of Lucille’s
efforts to force conversation. Gerald Armstrong, on the contrary,
contented himself with eating a remarkably good luncheon and confined
himself to monosyllables, if he troubled to speak at all.
As they left the table, Armstrong edged his way to Anne’s side and
motioned to her to wait. She cast a quick glance at Lucille and Curtis,
who had preceded her toward the hall, then turned with marked reluctance
to face her companion.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Why are you avoiding me?” with blunt directness.
Anne flushed. “I was under the impression that I went for a motor ride
with you this morning—”
“With Lucille along,” he broke in, making no attempt to modify his
aggressive manner. “You have avoided me.”
“I have not.” Anne’s eyes sparkled with anger. “Nor,” with quiet
significance, “have I run away.” It was Armstrong’s turn to flush. “I
must see you alone,” he insisted, raising his voice.
Herman, busy removing the dessert plates, turned and eyed them with
unconcealed interest. The servants at Ten Acres had little liking for
Armstrong; his overbearing manner and utter lack of consideration for
them accounted for his unpopularity. They accepted his generous tips
with outward thanks and inward rebellion over his presence in the house.
Armstrong’s marked attention to Lucille had explained in Herman’s
inquisitive mind the reason of Meredith’s many invitations to
dinner-dances and house parties. That Meredith was particularly attached
to the young stockbroker, the butler had had occasion to doubt, having
witnessed one or two heated arguments between them. Armstrong had once
or twice expressed himself at the dinner table in mocking terms about
“bread and butter misses,” and therefore, that he should suddenly evince
a preference for Anne’s society, whose unsophisticated outlook on life,
and unspoiled, sunny disposition had endeared her to the servants,
caused Herman to linger over his work in the dining room in the hope of
overhearing what transpired. His hopes, however, were promptly
frustrated.
“I hear the front doorbell, Herman,” Anne turned her back on Armstrong
to address the butler. Looking over her shoulder, she spoke to Armstrong
and the disdain in her charmingly modulated voice made him flush again,
but this time with anger. “There is no occasion for seeing you alone,
Gerald.”
“Isn’t there?” His laugh was unpleasant. “Suppose, instead of having a
friendly chat with you, I go to the police?”
Anne’s hands clenched over her handkerchief. Without deigning to reply,
she hurried into the hall in time to meet her mother as the latter came
in the front door with Sam Hollister.
“Have you lunched, mother?” she asked, as Susanne appeared to take Mrs.
Meredith’s wraps, while Herman relieved the lawyer of his overcoat and
hat.
“I had a salad and cup of coffee at the Shoreham,” replied Mrs.
Meredith. “How about you, Sam?”
“No luncheon for me, thanks.” Hollister picked up his leather brief
case, and glanced at Mrs. Meredith. “Shall we proceed with business?”
“It would be best.” Mrs. Meredith removed her hat and handed it to
Susanne, paused before the hall mirror to inspect her hair and gave it a
deft touch here and there before turning to her daughter. “Come into the
library, Anne. Where is Lucille?”
“Already in the library, mother.”
“In that case,” Mrs. Meredith started for the library, then halted as
Gerald Armstrong appeared from the dining room where he had stood just
inside the door watching them. “Ah, Gerald, good morning.” As he
returned her greeting and stepped forward to accompany her into the
library she motioned him to stop. “You will have to excuse us,” she
explained. “Mr. Hollister is to read Mr. Meredith’s will and only his
relatives are to be present.” With a gracious bow she stepped past
Armstrong. The latter tried to catch Anne’s eye, but she walked by with
head averted, listening to what Hollister, on her right, was saying.
Armstrong bit his mustache, paused uncertainly, then, ignoring Susanne’s
muttered apology as he brushed against her, he opened the front door and
stepped out on the veranda.
At sound of Mrs. Meredith’s entrance Curtis rose from his seat by
Lucille and turned toward her. “Why, Cousin Belle, I did not hear you
return,” exclaimed Lucille, springing up. “We should have waited
luncheon for you,” with a reproachful look at Anne.
“I told Anne not to wait,” remarked Mrs. Meredith. “While Sam was going
over papers in his office I went to the Shoreham and had a bite to eat.
Now, Sam, if you will proceed, please.”
Hollister drew forward a card table and placed his brief case on it. “I
have here,” he began, “the last will and testament of John Meredith. It
was signed by Meredith in my office a year ago and left in my care.
To-day, in the presence of the proper officials, I took it out of my
vault and have brought it here to read in the presence of John
Meredith’s relatives.”
“Just a moment, please.” Curtis stepped forward, and addressed Mrs.
Meredith. “I fear my presence is an intrusion. If you will let me
withdraw—”
“Please wait, doctor.” The color flashed up in Mrs. Meredith’s face, and
a smile, which Anne remembered afterwards as both beautiful and
ingratiating, lit her fine dark eyes. “My daughter would, I am sure,
prefer to have you here.”
Curtis hesitated in uncertainty. Was he really wanted?
“Please stay.” Anne’s soft voice solved his doubts and he resumed his
seat as she moved over and sat down by Lucille on the sofa.
Hollister picked up a document which he had taken a moment before from
his brief case while watching the little scene between Mrs. Meredith and
the blind surgeon. But his reading of the will was doomed to another
interruption. The portières were thrust forcibly to one side as Colonel
Julian Hull walked unannounced into the library.
“Why wasn’t I notified, Belle?” he demanded. “As John’s first cousin I
am entitled to be present at the reading of his will.”
“Lucille represented you,” she replied coldly. “Who informed you,
Julian, that the will was being read?”
“What concern is that of yours?” with a scowl. “Go on, Hollister,” and
without a word to any of the others he flung himself down in the nearest
chair.
It seemed to Anne, as Hollister’s deep voice went on and on, that she
would never hear the end of “whereas” and “because of” which sprinkled
each page of the document. At its close, Hollister laid the will on the
table and touched another more bulky manuscript.
“This,” he explained, “is the complete list, mentioned in Mr. Meredith’s
will, of special bequests of his personal effects. Do you wish it read
aloud?”
“No.” Colonel Hull was on his feet, his eyes blazing with anger. “I have
heard enough. According to that document, Hollister, Anne Meredith is
given one million dollars and Ten Acres. The rest of his fortune goes to
charities and Lucille, my daughter, gets a paltry one hundred thousand
dollars and a diamond necklace. What,” he turned and glared at Mrs.
Meredith and her daughter, “what have you done with the codicil, signed
by John on Sunday night, in which the million-dollar bequest to Anne was
revoked and that amount given to Lucille?”
Mrs. Meredith straightened her stately figure. “Your language is
obnoxious,” she said, and would have added more, but Sam Hollister
interrupted her, his gaze grave with displeasure.
“We are all aware that the codicil and prenuptial agreement have
disappeared,” he pointed out. “When I left John on Sunday night the
documents were on his bed and Lucille was with him.”
Lucille paled as she met her father’s glance. “They were still on the
bed when I went to my room a few minutes after you left, Sam,” she said,
a catch in her voice.
“Do you suppose Lucille would suppress a document giving her one million
dollars?” Colonel Hull laughed scornfully, even as he put the question.
“The idea is absurd.”
“It is no more absurd than to suggest by inference that some one in this
room is responsible for its disappearance,” retorted Mrs. Meredith, with
spirit. “You forget yourself, Julian.”
“I shall fight for Lucille’s rights,” shouted Colonel Hull, his temper
at white heat. “That will shan’t be probated without a contest.”
Hollister replaced the will and its accompanying manuscript in his brief
case and carefully closed and locked the leather flap. Slipping the key
in his pocket he faced the infuriated stockbroker.
“This document will be filed with the registrar of wills at once,” he
said. “You are at liberty to take whatever action you please.” He turned
to Mrs. Meredith. “I am going to my room, Mrs. Meredith, and within the
hour shall return to my office. Is there anything I can do for you and
Anne?”
“Nothing, thank you,” Mrs. Meredith was graciousness itself, “except to
return in time for dinner. I will consult with you then,” and she nodded
a friendly good-by.
As Hollister, with a kindly word to Anne who sat as one dazed, passed
Curtis he tapped the blind surgeon on the shoulder.
“Come up to my room,” he whispered, and not waiting to hear what Curtis
said to Mrs. Meredith, slipped out of the room as Colonel Hull and his
agitated daughter disappeared into the little-used drawing-room.
Curtis was not far behind Hollister in reaching the latter’s bedroom.
“What do you wish to see me about, Hollister?” he asked, as the lawyer
closed the bedroom door and half dragged him over to the window seat.
“A new development,” answered the lawyer tersely. “You recall this
inventory,” taking a sheet of paper out of his wallet. “It is the paper
we found in John’s secretary which bears the notation, in his
handwriting: ‘Contents of safe deposit box belongs to.’”
“Yes, I recollect it,” Curtis said impatiently as the lawyer paused.
“The name was evidently clipped off the page. Go on.”
“We opened the safe deposit box this morning in the presence of the
officers of the Metropolis Bank and court officials,” Hollister spoke
with subdued excitement. “It was a large box—”
“And what did its contents comprise?” questioned Curtis eagerly.
“Meredith’s will?”
“No. I had that in my office vault.”
Curtis straightened up and turned his sightless eyes upon his companion.
“Did you find the missing documents?”
“No, neither of them.” Hollister spoke with impressive slowness. “The
box was empty except for this key,” and he laid it in Curtis’ hand.
In dumfounded silence Curtis ran his fingers over the grooves and
notches and then traced the name stamped upon it in raised letters.
“A Yale key,” he said. “Was this linen tag tied to it?”
“Yes.” Hollister dropped his voice until he almost whispered. “The tag
bears, in Meredith’s handwriting, the single word—Duplicate.”