THE POLICE WARRANT
Susanne was some little time in repairing the ravages which rage and
surprise had made in Mrs. Meredith’s complexion.
“That will do, Susanne.” Mrs. Meredith rose before her dressing table.
“Tell Miss Anne that I am waiting for her.”
Susanne started at her stern tone; the French maid’s nerves were not
under their usual excellent control. Before she could execute the order
Anne appeared in the doorway.
“What is it, mother?” she asked. “Why did you send me word to dress at
once?”
Mrs. Meredith paused to pick up a half sheet of note paper which she had
tossed on her breakfast tray twenty minutes before.
“This is from Coroner Penfield,” she explained. “He has had the
effrontery to demand your presence and mine in the library—at once.”
Anne shrank back toward the boudoir, with a quick hunted look behind
her. It seemed to Susanne’s observant eyes that she sought shelter—
“Why does Coroner Penfield wish to see us?” asked Anne.
“Heaven knows!” with a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders. “He states
in his note that Inspector Mitchell is with him.”
Anne drew a long breath. “Suppose we go down at once, mother,” she said.
“Anything is better than—than—suspense.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Meredith picked up a scented handkerchief. “Close my
door, Susanne, and see that no one enters the room. Come, Anne.”
As Mrs. Meredith and Anne crossed the reception hall on their way to the
library they encountered Mrs. Hull just coming out of the dining room.
She had never taken kindly to having breakfast served in her bedroom
and, with Sam Hollister for company, had just completed that meal.
“Where away so early in the morning, Belle?” she asked, as her cousin
paused to greet her. “I don’t recall having seen you up and dressed at
this hour since our acquaintance.”
“You would not see me now but for an impertinent message from Coroner
Penfield,” answered Mrs. Meredith tartly. “He and Inspector Mitchell are
waiting in the library to interview Anne—”
Anne shivered involuntarily. All the way along the upper corridor and
down the staircase she had longed for a word of sympathy, of
encouragement, of understanding from her mother. If she could only feel
that she was not utterly alone, the coming interview would lose half its
terrors! Just a word, just a glance, a loving touch. She laid her hand
on her mother’s arm, only to have it withdrawn as Mrs. Meredith moved to
one side. She had been rebuffed.
Mrs. Hull saw the incident and divined its significance as she met
Anne’s tragic eyes. Hot resentment conquered every other feeling. She
slipped her arm about the young girl’s waist and held her closely to
her.
“I’ve always wanted to know a coroner,” she stated calmly, meeting Mrs.
Meredith’s displeased frown with unruffled composure. “I guess I’ll go
in with you and Anne. Come, dearie,” and she supplemented her remarks
with a kiss, which Anne returned with fervor, unconscious that her cheek
was wet with a tear.
“Damason”—Anne had caught sight of the chauffeur as he came into the
reception hall from the pantry—“ask Doctor Curtis to come at once to the
library. Suppose we go on, mother, and not keep Coroner Penfield waiting
any longer,” and with Mrs. Hull’s motherly arm still about her, Anne
followed Mrs. Meredith into the presence of the two men.
Anne’s clear voice reached David Curtis as he paused in the act of
closing the front door, a grinning Western Union messenger boy waiting
on the veranda, cap in hand, for the generous tip which he saw in the
blind surgeon’s fingers. The next second he had darted down the steps, a
silver dollar reposing in his pocket, while Curtis turned toward the
library. He had taken but a few steps in that direction when Sam
Hollister’s voice brought him to a halt.
“Hello, Curtis!” he said, both manner and voice subdued. “This is
frightful about Colonel Hull—a bad smash.”
“Has his wife been told?”
“I imagine not. We ate breakfast together and she said nothing.”
Hollister polished his bald head with his handkerchief. “Her devotion to
Julian Hull is akin to that of a dumb animal. I am glad that she did not
see the morning paper. Damason, here, handed it to me just as she left
the dining-room.” Curtis turned his sightless eyes inquiringly in the
direction of the dining-room.
“Damason?” he asked, and the Filipino, hovering in the background, came
a step nearer.
“Yes, honorable doctor.”
“Where is Mr. Gerald Armstrong?”
“Asleep, honorable sir.”
“What—and with this story abroad?” Hollister raised the morning
newspaper with its glaring headlines before tossing it to one side.
“Please, sir, it is the cock’s tail,” ventured Damason. “He drink many.
You like I try and wake Mr. Armstrong?”
“Yes. Tell him to come to the library, and, Damason,” sternly, “you come
with him.” The Filipino bowed humbly, then, turning, took the circular
staircase two steps at a time, in his blind haste nearly colliding with
Lucille Hull and Leonard McLane as they walked down the corridor in
earnest conversation.
Inside the library Mrs. Meredith was regarding Coroner Penfield
thoughtfully through gold-rimmed lorgnettes.
“If I am correct, and I think I am,” she stated coldly, “the next
hearing of this inquest is scheduled for to-morrow. Why then should my
daughter and I be subjected to further questioning to-day?”
“Because, madam, evidence of vital importance has been found,” responded
Penfield sternly. “Inspector Mitchell has a most unpleasant duty to
perform.”
Mitchell stepped forward with marked reluctance. His gaze rested on
Anne’s white face, and as he noted her youth his heart smote him—his
dealings with criminals had not made him callous to human suffering.
“Anne Meredith,” he began, without preface, “in the name of the law I
arrest you for the murder of your uncle, John Meredith.”
Twice Anne essayed to speak, and twice her voice failed her. Mrs. Hull’s
gasping sob came faintly to her; she was more conscious of her mother’s
stony silence.
“What are your grounds for so preposterous a charge?” Anne asked, and
her voice sounded oddly in her own ears.
“You will learn them in due time,” responded Mitchell, extending the
police warrant with its imposing seal. “I warn you that anything you say
may be used against you.”
“So?” Anne faced him proudly, her eyes flashing with indignation. “You
decline to tell me on what you base your charge and in the next breath
warn me that anything that I may say in my own defense will be used
against me. Is it fair, is it honorable to handicap me at every turn?”
“It is neither fair nor required by the law,” broke in a stern voice
back of her, and Anne turned with a low cry of relief as Curtis stepped
forward and confronted Inspector Mitchell. Behind him appeared Sam
Hollister, his hands gripping a telegram which, in his agitation, he had
failed to read.
“Come, come, Mitchell, you must not heckle my client,” the lawyer
announced. “Keep within the law.”
“I am strictly within my rights,” declared Mitchell, his anger rising.
“I—”
“Just a second.” Curtis held up his hand, and turned to Coroner
Penfield. “In simple justice to Miss Meredith and to prevent a serious
error on the part of the police, I insist that Inspector Mitchell tell
us his reasons for securing the warrant for Miss Meredith’s arrest.”
“Reasons?” snapped Mitchell, before Penfield could answer. “There are
reasons a-plenty. First, motive—destroying a codicil to her uncle’s will
in which he revoked a bequest to her of a million dollars; second,
opportunity—she was seen in his bedroom late Sunday night by Herman, the
butler, who overheard their quarrel; third, her talk with the man
outside the chambermaid’s window, I’ll do it to-night’; fourth, the
parrot’s repetition of Meredith’s exclamation: ‘Anne—I’ve caught you—you
devil.’” Mitchell paused and eyed Anne, then looked hastily away—her
ghastly face disturbed him.
“Fifth—the weapon,” he went on. “You slipped up there, badly.”
“I aided you in finding the weapon,” put in Anne. “Was that the act of a
guilty person?”
“It was excellent camouflage,” retorted Mitchell. “And it might have
succeeded if you hadn’t miscalculated the direction the scalpel would
fall when dropped through the banisters, and thus secreted it in the
wrong fern box.” He returned the warrant to his pocket. “What clinched
the case against you, Miss Meredith, was finding your fingerprints on
the knife.”
Like an animal at bay Anne faced her accuser. No one spoke. Mrs.
Meredith sat with face averted, one hand opening and closing
spasmodically on her scented handkerchief. Mrs. Hull, unconscious of the
tears running down her cheeks, was breathing with difficulty, oblivious
that her daughter, with Leonard McLane, had joined the group.
“And if the court requires further proof,” went on Mitchell’s relentless
voice, “a lock of your hair was wound around the button on Meredith’s
pajamas jacket when we found his dead body in the hall.” Curtis advanced
to Anne’s side. “I was the first to find Meredith’s body,” he stated. “I
also discovered, while Hollister was telephoning for the coroner, that
some hairs were caught on the button over Meredith’s heart. These hairs
I removed.” Paying no attention to Mitchell’s surprised ejaculation, he
added: “They were white.”
“Say, you _are_ dippy!” Mitchell’s contempt was plain. “Where are the
hairs?”
“Gone,” briefly. “Stolen out of my pocketbook.”
“What are you giving us?” roughly. “Stuff and nonsense?”
“No,” Curtis smiled; his object had been attained—he had succeeded in
diverting attention from Anne to himself. “You have been so keen in
tracing the crime to Miss Meredith that you have blundered badly—”
“What!” Mitchell’s eyes blazed with wrath.
“Here, there’s no use listening to you—”
“Oh, yes, there is.” Curtis spoke more rapidly and his manner grew
stern. “In handling this case, Mitchell, you have failed to study one
factor—the character of the murdered man. John Meredith had a warm
heart, a peppery temper, and a confiding disposition. It made him a prey
to a dastardly conspiracy—”
A shout in the hall interrupted him. A second later the portières were
dragged aside and Gerald Armstrong lurched into the library. At his back
came Damason, while Gretchen and Susanne, lured from their work on the
second floor by the disturbance, stopped just outside the library and
peered through the wide opening left by Armstrong’s impetuous handling
of the handsome portières.
Armstrong’s bloodshot eyes darted about the room. Catching sight of
Curtis, he sprang toward him.
“What do you want, Curtis?” he demanded, with a foul oath, regardless of
the women present.
“Gerald!” Anne pressed her fingers over her ears. Paying not the
slightest attention to her, Armstrong stopped directly in front of the
blind surgeon.
“Answer my question,” he ordered. “What do you want?”
“Armstrong,” Curtis’ calm tone was in marked contrast to that of the
infuriated man before him, “you have twice stated that you were not at
Ten Acres when Meredith died. Were you here when he was _murdered_?”
Armstrong shifted his gaze from Anne to the blind surgeon, from there
his eyes wandered to Lucille, standing terrified by Leonard McLane’s
side.
“What are you driving at?” he demanded roughly.
“This—” Curtis rested his weight on his cane, leaving his right hand
free. “Meredith lived for over five minutes after being stabbed in the
throat. You had ample time to be out of the house before he died.”
As if hypnotized, Armstrong regarded the sightless man before him. The
entrance of Detective Sergeant Brown through one of the French windows
failed to arouse him. As Brown drew closer Anne saw a small brown object
huddled in his left arm.
“Jocko!” she cried. At her familiar voice the monkey raised its head and
made a feeble attempt to spring toward her. “Why, he’s ill—injured—”
seeing the bloody stump which the monkey carried pressed to its breast.
“How did he lose his paw?”
“It was cut off last night, Anne,” began Curtis, “by the man who sent
the monkey into my room to steal—a key.”
Anne’s violent start went unobserved by Inspector Mitchell. His eyes had
happened to be fixed on Mrs. Meredith and he saw her crimson and then
turn deadly white. It was the first time she had shown emotion since
entering the library.
Detective Sergeant Brown put the monkey down in an armchair, and Anne
moved impulsively forward and sat by it, for the moment her own
agonizing situation forgotten in her pity for the evident suffering of
her little pet.
The Sergeant addressed Curtis while facing his superior officer.
“I found the monkey in the grove of trees down beyond, where you
suggested he might be, sir,” he said. “And I found the bolo knife—”
Galvanized into life, Armstrong turned and glared at Brown.
“You’re a damned liar!” he cried. “The knife belongs to Fernando—”
“Who loaned it to _you_.” Curtis’ voice cut the air like a whiplash. “It
was you, Armstrong, who knew that John Meredith had drawn out one
hundred thousand dollars in cash to invest in certain securities; it was
you who took advantage of another’s misfortune; you, contemptible hound
that you are, made a woman your cat’s-paw—” He wheeled around.
“Mitchell, bring Gretchen here.”
The grim earnestness of his tone called for prompt unquestioned
obedience, and Mitchell swung around to find Susanne pushing the pretty
Dutch girl into the room. In her terror Gretchen sat down on the nearest
chair and Brown, with instant forethought, wheeled the chair and its
occupant forward.
“Here she is, Doctor Curtis,” he announced. “Right forninst ye.”
“Gretchen,” Curtis spoke more kindly, “at the inquest you testified that
the voice of the woman under your window on Sunday night was that of
your ‘young Mees.’ Coroner Penfield took it for granted that you
referred to your employer, Miss Anne Meredith. This time we require a
spoken answer; do not nod your head, as you did before. Did you mean by
‘young Mees,’ Miss Anne or Miss Lucille Hull?” Gretchen’s terrified gaze
swept the room. “I—I—” she faltered. “It was—God help me—it was—” she
gulped a sob. “It was Mees Lucille.”
Curtis broke the pause as he faced toward the door. “Is Miss Hull
present?”
“Yes.” Lucille controlled her voice admirably, but Doctor McLane noted
with growing alarm her ghastly, twitching features. “What is it, Doctor
Curtis?”
“Are you engaged to marry Gerald Armstrong?” Lucille carefully refrained
from looking at her mother.
“I was,” she admitted, “once.”
“Lucille!” Armstrong had turned livid. “You aren’t deserting me? He
can’t prove anything. He only knows—”
“That John Meredith was murdered by your accomplice—” Curtis stepped in
the direction from which Lucille’s voice came. He had almost reached her
side when a figure barred his progress.
“One moment, Doctor. I stabbed John Meredith,” and Mrs. Hull laid her
hand in his.