CHAPTER VII—Barry’s Suspect
After the funeral of Robert Gleason, Lane, his lawyer, went to the Lindsay home, for the purpose of reading to the family the will of his late client.
There was no one present except the three Lindsays and Doctor Davenport. The physician was keeping watch over Millicent Lindsay, for her volatile nature and nervous condition made him fear a breakdown.
But Millicent was quiet and composed, only an occasional quiver of her lip or trembling of her fingers betrayed her agitation.
Phyllis’ eyes were bright with repressed excitement, but she, too, preserved her poise.
Louis, however, was in a high state of nervous tension. He was jumpy and erratic of speech and gesture, and again, he would relapse into a sulky mood and become perversely silent.
The little party gathered in the library and Lane read the will of Robert Gleason.
The terms were simple. Except for bequests to some personal friends and some charities, the fortune was equally divided between Millicent, his sister, and Phyllis, her stepdaughter.
No mention whatever was made of Louis, and the young man burst forth into a torrent of angry invective.
“Hush, Louis,” Doctor Davenport said, sternly; “such talk can do you no good, and it is a disgrace to yourself to speak so of the dead!”
“I don’t care,” Louis stormed, “why did he leave a lot to Phyllis, and nothing to me? I’m no relative of his, but neither is Phyl!”
“But he was very much in love with Miss Lindsay,” Lane explained the situation, “and as he had no expectation of this immediate death, he hoped to make her his wife. But, he told me this when I drew up his will—he provided for Miss Lindsay in case of premature death or accident to himself. I feel sure he hoped to win Miss Lindsay’s promise to be his wife—if he had not already done so.”
“He had not!” exclaimed Phyllis, but she looked thoughtful rather than indignant at the idea.
“If he found that he could not do so,” Lane went on, “he planned to change his will. It was, I think, tentative, and dependent on the course of his wooing.”
“Never mind all that,” said Phyllis, speaking slowly and a little hesitantly; “the will is valid and final, is it not?”
“Certainly,” returned Lane, but he gave her a searching glance.
“Then half the money is mine, and half Millicent’s,” Phyllis went on, still with that thoughtful manner. “Don’t worry, Buddy, I’ll give you part of my share.” She looked at her brother with fond affection.
“I suppose it’s all right,” Millicent said, her glance at Phyllis a little resentful. “It would have been quite all right, if Phyllis had meant to marry my brother—but she had no such intention!”
“You don’t know——” began the girl.
“I do know,” declared Millicent. “And what’s more, if you had any hand in his murder——”
“Oh, hush!” cried Fred Lane, shocked even more at Millicent’s look than at her words.
“I won’t hush! I’m going to find out who killed my brother! He was the only human being whom I loved. These step-children mean nothing to me—although we have always lived harmoniously enough. Now, if Phyllis is innocent, that’s all there is about it. But her innocence must be proved!”
Phyllis gave her stepmother a kindly, pitying glance.
“Now, Millicent,” she said, “you’re excited and nervous, and you don’t know what you’re saying. Go and lie down, dear——”
“‘Go and lie down, dear!’” Millicent mocked her, eyes flashing and her voice hard. “Yes, that’s just what you’d say, of course! You fear investigation! No one would dream of suspecting you—unless they knew what I know! and you say—‘go and lie down!’ Indeed, I won’t go and lie down! Now, look here, Phyllis Lindsay, you knew what was in that will of my brother’s! I didn’t—but you did!”
“No, I didn’t, Millicent——”
“You did! You led my brother on—and on—letting him think you would marry him—then, when he’d made a will in your favor, you killed him to get the money! That’s what you did! And I’ll prove it—if it costs me all my share of my poor brother’s fortune!”
She collapsed then, and sat, huddled in the big chair, shaking with sobs.
Without a word, Doctor Davenport went to her, assisted her to rise, and, summoning a maid to help him, took Millicent Lindsay away to her own room.
“What ails her, anyway?” Louis growled, looking at Phyllis, curiously.
“Oh, she’s like that when she gets a tantrum,” the girl responded, looking worried. “She’s really good friends with me, but if she takes a notion she turns against me, and she can’t think of anything bad enough to say to me.”
“I don’t like her present attitude,” Lane said, abruptly. “She may make a lot of trouble for you, Miss Lindsay. Did you know of contents of the will?”
“No,” she returned, but she did not look at the lawyer. If, he mused, she were telling an untruth, she would, doubtless, look just like that.
“Are you sure?” he followed up.
“Of course, I’m sure!” she flung up her head and looked at him. Her dark eyes were not flashing, but smoldering with a deep fire of indignation. “How dare you question my statements!”
“Now, Phyl,” said her brother, “be careful what you say. Millicent has it in her power to do you a bad turn, and she’s willing to do it if she thinks you’re mixed up in her brother’s case. Do you know anything about it, old girl?”
Phyllis gave him a look of reproach, but he went on.
“Now don’t eat me up with your eyes, Sis. When I ask if you know anything about the thing, I don’t mean did you kill Robert Gleason! Of course, I know better than that! But—oh, well, don’t you think, Lane, that Millicent can make trouble for us?”
“Us?” and the lawyer raised his eyebrows. “Where do you come in, Lindsay?”
“Oh,” with an impatient shrug, “Phyl’s troubles are mine, of course. And seems to me, Millicent has a very annoying bee in her bonnet.”
“Easy enough to settle the matter,” Lane said, briefly. “Where were you, Miss Lindsay, when the—the tragedy took place?”
“Why, I don’t know,” Phyllis replied. “Here—at home—I think.”
But a sudden flood of scarlet suffused her face, and she was quite evidently preserving her composure by a strong effort.
The small, slight figure, sitting in a tall-backed chair was a picture of itself. Phyllis’ bright coloring, her deep, glowing eyes, scarlet lips and rose-flushed cheeks were accented by the plain black gown she wore and her graceful little hands moved eloquently as she talked, and then fluttered to rest on the carved arms of the great chair.
“Sure?”
“Stop saying ‘sure?’ to me!” Phyllis spoke shortly, and then gave a good-natured laugh. “Of course, I’m not sure, Mr Lane. I’ll have to think back. I haven’t a—what do they call it—an alibi, but all the same I didn’t kill——”
“Don’t say that,” Lane interrupted her, “nobody for a minute supposes you killed anybody. Mrs Lindsay herself doesn’t. It’s hysteria that makes her say so. But, she can make trouble. And, so, I want you to think carefully, and have your evidence ready. Where were you last Tuesday at about half-past six or seven o’clock?”
Phyllis thought. “Here, I think,” she reiterated. “I was out—and I came home and dressed for the dinner party.”
“What was the dinner hour?”
“Eight.”
“And you were dressing—how long?”
“Oh, I don’t know—an hour, probably.”
“That leaves some time yet to be accounted for. Where were you just before you came home?”
“Look here, Mr Lane,” Phyllis’ eyes flashed now, “I won’t be quizzed like that! If I’m suspected of a crime——”
“You aren’t,” Lane repeated, “but if Mrs Lindsay accuses you of a crime, you must be prepared to defend yourself.”
“Wait till she does, then,” said Phyllis, curtly, and lapsed into silence.
But Louis looked disturbed.
“What can Millicent do, Lane?” he asked. “She can’t make up any yarn that will implicate my sister, can she?”
“Oh, no; probably not. All she can do, is to show that Miss Lindsay knew what she would inherit, and, therefore, can be said to have a motive for the——”
“Rot! As if Phyllis would shoot a man to get his money!” But Louis Lindsay’s looks belied his words. While showing no doubt or distrust of his sister, he had all the appearance of a man deeply anxious or alarmed at his thoughts. “And, besides, Phyl knew nothing about the will—did you, Sis?”
Phyllis looked at him without replying, for a moment, then she said, “Hush, Louis; don’t keep up the subject. I’m going straight to Millicent—and if she’s able to talk to me, I’ll find out what she means.”
Phyllis left the room, and his business over, Lane went away from the house.
As he walked along the street, he mused deeply on the matter.
Of course, Phyllis was in no way concerned in the crime—but Lane couldn’t help thinking she knew something about it—or something bearing on it. What could it be? How could that delicate, exclusive girl be in any way mixed up with the deed done down in Washington Square?
Lane made his way to the Club. He knew he’d find a lot of his friends there at this hour, and he wanted to hear their talk.
He was not surprised to find a group of his intimates discussing the Gleason case.
“Now the funeral’s over,” Dean Monroe was saying, “the detectives can get busy, and do some real work.”
“They can get busy,” Manning Pollard agreed, “but can they do any real work? I mean, any successful, decisive work?”
“You mean, discover the murderer,” Lane said, joining in the talk at once, as he took his seat among them.
“Not a hard job, to my mind,” Dean Monroe said, slowing inhaling his cigarette’s smoke. “Cherchez la chorus girl.”
“Oh, I don’t know——” said Pollard.
“Well, I know!” Monroe came back quickly. “Oh, I don’t mean I know—but who else could it have been? You may say Pollard, here, because he announced his intention of killing Gleason. But we all know Pol’s little smarty ways. He didn’t even defend himself, because, secure in his innocence, he let the old detectives themselves find and prove his alibi! A silly grandstand play, I call it!”
Pollard smiled. “It was silly, I daresay, but if I had eagerly defended myself, they might have thought me guilty. So, why not let them find out the truth for themselves? But, as to the chorus kiddies—I doubt if the bravest of them would have the nerve to shoot a man. Remember they’re only babies.”
“Not all of them,” offered Barry.
“Oh, well, those who have arrived at years of wisdom are not the ones Gleason favored,” Pollard said. “However, there’s a possibility that some man—some bold, bad man may have done it for the sake of a girl.”
“Then he must be found through the discovery of the girl,” declared Lane. “And with that fur piece to work on, it’s a funny thing if they can’t get the lady.”
“It would be coincidence, I think,” Pollard said, seriously. “I don’t know much about real detective work, but it seems to me, if I found a fur collar at the scene of the crime, the owner of that would be the last person I’d look for.”
“You give the collar too much importance, Monroe, and you, Pollard, give it too little,” Lane spoke in his most judicial manner. “I’m no detective myself, but I am a lawyer, and I modestly claim a sort of knowledge of criminal doings. The fur collar is a clew. It must be investigated. It may lead to the truth and it may not.”
“Hear, hear!” cried Barry. “What wisdom! Oh, what sagacity! It may and it may not! Lane, you’re a wizard at deduction!”
They all laughed, but Fred Lane was in no way dismayed.
“All right, you fellows,” he said; “but which of you can make any better prognostication? Come now, here are four of us; let’s make a bet—or, no, that’s hardly decent—let’s each express an opinion regarding the murderer of Robert Gleason, and see who comes nearest to the truth.”
“Sure we’ll ever know the truth?” asked Monroe.
“Well, if we don’t there’s no harm done. Go ahead, and let it be understood that these are merely thoughts—private opinions and absolutely confidential.”
“All right,” agreed Dean Monroe, “I’ll speak my mind first. I’m all for the chorus girl—and when I say chorus girl, I use the term generically. She may be a Movie Star or a Vaudeville artist. But some chicken of the stage, is my vote. Yet I don’t claim but she did the deed herself—it may well have been her stalwart gentleman friend, who was jealous of the rich man’s friendship with his girl. There’s my opinion.”
“Good enough, too,” appraised Lane. “Moreover, you’ve got the fur collar in evidence. You may be right. You next, Pollard?”
“I’m inclined to think it was somebody from Gleason’s Seattle home. Seems to me there must have been people out there who felt as I did about the man—who really wanted him out of the world; and, too, they may have had some definite grievance—some conventional motive—what are they? Love, hate, money?”
“Revenge is one.”
“All the same, revenge and hate. Well, doesn’t it seem more like a wild Westerner to come there and shoot up his man than for a New Yorker to do it? I don’t take much stock in the chorus girl theory.”
“Wait a bit, Pol,” put in Barry. “Seattle isn’t wild and woolly and cowboyish and bandittish! It’s as civilized as our own fair city, and as little given to deeds of violence as New York itself!”
“Your logic is overwhelming,” Pollard laughed. “Ought to have been a lawyer instead of an artist, Barry! But I stick to my guns—which are the guns of the Westerners who knew Gleason—the inhabitants of Seattle and environs. I may be all wrong, but it seems the most plausible theory to me. Perhaps I’m prejudiced, but I think Seattle is mighty well rid of its leading citizen.”
“Hush up, Manning,” reproved Monroe; “your foolish threat was bad enough when the man was alive, it’s horrid to knock him now he’s dead.”
“That’s so—I’ll shut up. But Lane asked for my opinion, and now he’s got it.”
“Yours, Barry?” asked Lane, without comment on Pollard’s.
“I don’t want to express mine,” said Philip Barry, with such a serious look that nobody smiled. “You see, I have a dreadful suspicion of—of some one I know—we all know.”
“Me?” asked Pollard, cheerfully.
“No”; Barry grinned at him. “You’re just plain idiot! But, truly, haven’t any of you thought of some one in—in our set?”
Apparently no one had, for each man present looked blankly inquiring.
“Oh, I’m not going to put it into words,” and Barry gave a shrug of his shoulders. Slightly built, his dark, intense face showing his artistic temperament, Philip Barry had a strong will and a high temper.
Moreover, unlike his type, he had a desperate tenacity of opinion, and once convinced of a thing would stick to it through thick and thin.
“Just because an idea came into my head,” he went on, “is no reason I should give it voice. I might do an innocent man a desperate injustice.”
“As you like, Barry,” Lane said, “but to my way of thinking, if you have such an idea it’s your duty to give it voice. If your man’s innocent it can’t harm him. If he’s guilty he ought to be suspected. And, among us four, your views are an inviolable secret, unless justice requires them to be told.”
“Well,” Barry began, reluctantly, “who first heard of this murder?”
“Doctor Davenport,” said Monroe, quickly. “His nurse telephoned from the office——”
“Did the nurse tell you that?” Barry shot at him.
“Why, no, of course not. I haven’t seen the nurse.”
“Has anybody?”
“I don’t know. I suppose the police have.”
“You suppose! Well, they haven’t. I found that out. No, the police have not thought it worth while to check up Doctor Davenport’s story of his nurse’s message to him. They take it as he told it. It was nine chances out of ten they would do so. I say, fellows, don’t you remember that conversation we had about murder that afternoon—last Tuesday afternoon?”
“I do,” answered Pollard. “It was then that I made my famous speech.”
“Yes; and that was remembered because it was unconventional and damn-foolishness besides. But Doctor Davenport’s speeches, though of far greater importance, are all forgotten.”
“I haven’t forgotten them,” said Pollard, thoughtfully. “He said the detection of crime depended largely on chance.”
“Yes, and he minimized the chances.”
“But, good Lord, Barry, you’re not hinting——”
“I’m hinting nothing,” said Barry, speaking decidedly now, “I’m reminding you what Davenport said; I’m reminding you of his whole attitude toward the matter of murder; I’m reminding you of his psychological mind, and that it might have been swayed in the direction of crime; I’m reminding you that Pollard’s fool remark about killing Gleason might have started a train of thought in the doctor’s mind——”
“Making me accessory before the fact!” suggested Pollard.
“Unconsciously, yes, maybe. Well, there it is. You asked me for my guess. You have it. It isn’t a suspicion, it isn’t even a theory—it’s merely a guess—but it’s at least a possible one.”
“Barry, you’re batty!” Dean Monroe declared. “Us artists get that way sometimes.” He beamed round upon the group. “Don’t mind Phil. He’ll come out all right. And for heaven’s sake, fellows, forget what he has said.”
Monroe was always looking out for his fellow artist and friend.
Barry’s impulsiveness had often been checked or steadied by Monroe’s better judgment and clearer thought. And now, Monroe was truly distressed at Barry’s speech.
“But where’s the motive?” Lane was asking, interested in this new suggestion, and determined to look into it.
“That I don’t know,” said Barry. “I’ve no idea what his motive could have been. But, for my part, I don’t believe in hunting the motive first. A motive for murder is far more likely to be a secret than to be something that anybody can deduce or guess.”
“Guessing is foolishness,” Pollard remarked, “but don’t you all remember that Davenport mentioned fear as a common motive. I recollect he did, and while I don’t for one minute incline to Barry’s suggestion, yet I can admit the possibility of fear.”
“You mean Doc was afraid of Gleason? Why?” Lane spoke sharply.
“I don’t know why. I don’t know that he was afraid—of Gleason or anybody else. But I do say that he might have been—there are a hundred reasons why a man may be secretly afraid of another man. Who knows the secrets of his neighbor’s heart? I’m making no claim, educing no theory, but it’s at least a fact that Davenport did speak of fear as a motive. Now, I merely say, if you’re going to suspect him, you may as well use that tip. That’s all.”
Pollard smoked on in silence, and each of the four thought over this new idea.
“It’s shocking, that’s what it is, shocking!” exclaimed Dean Monroe, at last. “I’m ashamed of you all, ashamed of myself, for harboring this thought for a minute. Forget it, everybody.”
“Not so fast, Dean,” Barry rebuked him. “Any thought has a right to expression—at the right time and place. I’ve given you this suggestion for what it’s worth. I’ve nothing to base a suspicion on—except that the first man to hear of a crime or to go to the spot is a fair topic to think about.”
“But a doctor—called there!” Monroe went on, “You might as well suspect the police themselves!”
“Yes, if they gave us a surprising story of a man killed by a shot and afterward telephoning for help.”
“That story is fishy,” admitted Lane.
“You bet it is,” assented Barry. “I can’t see that telephoning business at all!”
CHAPTER VIII—Miss Adams’ Story
In the offices of the District Attorney, Lane discussed the case with Belknap. Without giving names or making any definite accusations, the lawyer asked the Assistant District Attorney what he thought of Dr Davenport’s story.
“True on the face of it,” replied Belknap, promptly.
“Yes,” Lane reminded him, “because it has not occurred to you to think otherwise about it. But, how can you explain that telephoning?”
“It can’t be explained, so far as we know about it now. But, look here, if Doctor Davenport killed Gleason—which, by the way, is the most absurd idea I ever heard of—the last thing he would do would be to make up such an unbelievable yarn as that of the man telephoning after he had been fatally shot.”
“Doctor didn’t quite say that.”
“Circumstances say that. Gleason called up the doctor’s office and said he was shot. The fatal shot was fired first. Elucidate.”
“I can’t. That’s the reason I’m here. We’ve got to find out about it. I’m the Lindsays’ lawyer, and Mrs Lindsay is having hysterics and all that. She’s of a revengeful temperament and wants the murderer of her brother punished. This is not an unnatural feeling, and I want to do all I can to push matters along. I don’t want the case to drift on and on, until it’s laid on the shelf with lots of other unsolved mysteries.”
“I don’t either, Lane,” Belknap said, earnestly, “and we’re working on it night and day. Any news, Prescott?”
The query was addressed to the detective, who entered at the moment.
“No, Mr Belknap. But what you folks talking about? Doctor Davenport?”
Guardedly, Lane spoke of the strange story the doctor had told and Prescott caught the drift at once.
“Where’d you get that dope?” he asked, his shrewd eyes scanning Lane’s face.
“It isn’t dope—if you mean evidence; it’s merely scouting for possible clews.”
“Yes, and it may be a boomerang clew! It may rebound against the man that started it. Who did?”
“Nobody in particular,” and Lane looked stubborn.
“Yes, they did, now,” persisted Prescott. “Somebody started that lead, and did it on purpose. Who made the suggestion? Manning Pollard?”
“No,” said Lane. “I’m not sure I know who spoke about it first.”
“Well, I’m sure you know, and you’d better tell. Unless you’re shielding somebody yourself. Better speak up, Mr Lane.”
“All right, then, it was Philip Barry. I believe it’s wiser to say so than to conceal it. You can’t suspect him.”
“Why can’t I? I can suspect anybody that can’t prove his innocence. And I’ve been thinking about Mr Barry myself. Isn’t he in love with the heiress?”
“What heiress?”
“Miss Lindsay—half heiress of Mr Gleason’s big fortune.”
“What if he is? I could name a dozen young men in love with Miss Lindsay. She’s a belle and has numberless admirers.”
“Yes, but Philip Barry’s a favored one, I’ve heard. Now, didn’t he know Miss Lindsay would inherit?”
“I don’t know whether he did or not.”
“You knew it—you drew up the will.”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell anybody?”
Lane stared at him. “I’m not in the habit of babbling about my clients’ affairs!” he said, coldly.
“Of course not. But did it leak out in any way—say, in general conversation? Such things often do. It was no real secret, I suppose.”
“I treated it as one,” said Lane. “Of course, I considered it confidential.”
“Of course,” put in Belknap. “Lawyers have to be close-mouthed people, Prescott.”
But Prescott would not be downed.
“I know all that, Mr Belknap, but listen here. The news of that inheritance might have leaked out in a dozen ways. Not purposely, of course, but by chance. Wasn’t anybody ever in your office, Mr Lane, when Mr Gleason was there, talking about it, or didn’t you ever mention it in conversation with some intimate friend, say?”
Lane thought back.
“No,” he said, decidedly. “Unless—yes, one day, I remember, Manning Pollard was in my office when Gleason came in. Gleason only stayed a few minutes, but he did refer to his will, and after he went, I think I did speak of it to Pollard.”
“Did he ask you about it?”
“No, I’m sure he didn’t. I think I volunteered an observation on the queerness of the Western man, and, as Pollard didn’t like him, anyway, very little was said.”
“But the terms of his will were spoken of?”
“Yes, incidentally. Pollard is a close friend of mine, and I may have been a bit confidential.”
“There you are, then,” and Prescott nodded his sagacious head.
“Manning Pollard is a babbling sort of chap. I mean, he says things to make a sensation—to shock or astound his audience. Ten chances to one, he implied a knowledge of Gleason’s intentions just to appear importantly wise.”
“No,” Lane demurred. “Pollard isn’t that sort, exactly. He does like to make startling speeches, but they’re usually about himself, not gossip about others.”
“Well, anyway, say Barry got an idea Pollard knew of Gleason’s will, and got at the truth somehow. Or, maybe Barry found out from some one else. Didn’t Miss Lindsay know of her inheritance?”
“I think not.”
“It doesn’t matter how he found out; say, Barry knew Miss Lindsay would inherit, say, also, he was jealous of Gleason—which he was—and say—just for the moment—he did kill Gleason. Wouldn’t he be likely to try to turn suspicion on some one else—and who could he select better than Doctor Davenport himself?”
Prescott beamed with an air of triumph at his conclusion, and looked at the others for concurrence.
“Rubbish!” Lane scoffed. “You surely have built up a mountain out of a silly molehill. Try again, Prescott.”
“I will try again, but it will be along these same lines,” and the detective shook his head doggedly. “What say, Mr Belknap?”
Belknap looked thoughtful.
“I don’t see much in it,” he declared, “yet there may be. All you can do, Prescott, is to investigate. Check up the doctor’s story, the nurse’s story, and keep a watch on Barry. Your evidence is nil, your suspicion has but slight foundation, and yet, it’s true Philip Barry is a favored admirer of Miss Lindsay, he was jealous of Robert Gleason, and whether he knew of the will or not, his name can’t be ignored in this connection.”
“Go ahead,” said Lane, “investigate Barry thoroughly, but for heaven’s sake, don’t be misled. Don’t assume his guilt merely because he admires Miss Lindsay and was jealous of Gleason! Get some real evidence.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr Lane,” Prescott said, looking at the lawyer with some irritation. “I must find a direction in which to look, mustn’t I? I must look in every direction that seems likely, mustn’t I? I happen to know that there was bad blood between Doctor Davenport and Mr Barry——”
“What do you mean by bad blood?” asked Lane.
“I mean they didn’t like each other—weren’t friendly—never chummed. And the reason was that they were in love with the same girl.”
“Natural enough state of affairs,” commented Belknap. “Go ahead, Prescott, look up the doctor’s yarn, look up Barry’s alibi, but, as Mr Lane says, go carefully. I fancy, that though you may not get anything on either of these men, you can’t help turning up something in the way of evidence against somebody! Get all the facts you can, all the information you can, and then see how it affects the individuals. Of course, you must see the nurse that took the message from Gleason. I’m surprised that hasn’t been done.”
“We simply accepted the doctor’s story,” said Prescott. “Now, I’ll verify it.”
But before the detective began his promised verification, he elected to go again to the Gleason apartments.
Here he visited Miss Adams, whose story, told him by Belknap, interested him.
He used his best powers of persuasion on the spinster, and his wheedlesome ways, and pleasant smile made her affable and loquacious.
By roundabout talk, he drew from her at last some descriptions of the callers or visitors at the Gleason apartment.
She was loath to admit her curiosity, but she finally confessed that she occasionally hung over the stairway to watch matters below.
She defended her deed by explaining that she was lonely, and a little diversion of any sort was welcome.
“And, indeed, why shouldn’t I?” she asked; “it’s no crime to watch a body going or coming along the street, or into a house!”
“Of course it isn’t,” agreed Prescott, sympathetically. “Now, whom did you see go into Mr Gleason’s apartment on the day of the murder?”
“Two people.”
“Two! Both at once?”
“No; the lady came first.”
“Oh, she did. Wait a minute—did you see Mr Gleason himself come in?”
“I heard him.”
“What time?”
“After five. I don’t know any nearer than that.”
“Go on, then. A lady came? When?”
“Quite soon after Mr Gleason himself. I heard a light step on the stairs and I looked out.”
“Describe her.”
“She was a gay little piece. Big eyes, tomato-colored cheeks and a nose powdered like a marshmallow.”
“Small? Young?”
“Both; that is, very slim, but about average height. I looked mainly at her clothes.”
“What were they?”
“Mostly fur, and long gray stockings and a little round cap of gray fur.”
“Squirrel fur?”
“Yes, I guess so. Gray, anyway. A pert little thing she was, and yet pretty too, in a sort of way.”
“What sort of way?”
“Oh, fly, flippant—flirtatious.”
“I don’t know—she just gave me that impression.”
“Would you know her if you saw her again?”
“I’m not sure—those little trots all look alike. But I’d know the clothes.”
“Don’t squirrel furs all look alike?”
“Perhaps—yet I think I’d know her. You don’t think she killed Mr Gleason, do you?”
“Gracious, no! Do you?”
“Well, I never saw her come out.”
“But you weren’t on watch all the time, were you?”
“No; of course not.” Miss Adams turned thoughtful. “But I didn’t hear her go out—funny.”
“Who was the other caller?”
“A man.”
“After the girl came?”
“Yes; soon after. He was a swagger, well-dressed chap; not very large, but tallish.”
“Derby hat?”
“No, sort of soft felt——”
“Gray?”
“Maybe—but more like olive green—dull olive.”
“Overcoat?”
“Yes, of course. Dark, plain, but with an air.”
Prescott looked at the old maid interestedly. How should she know when men’s clothes had an air?
“I’m very observant,” she said, catching his expression.
“I’m fond of clothes, though I never had a smart gown in my life. But I know when people are well-dressed.”
“The man went in then, before the girl came out?”
“Why, yes; but I never saw or heard the girl come out.”
“Did you see or hear the man come out?”
“No; but that’s not so strange. I wasn’t interested in him.”
“And you were in the girl?”
“Yes, I was. She’s no right to be calling at a man’s apartment! I’d no thought of the man visitor, but I’d like to catch hold of that silly young thing and give her a talking to.”
“Do you think she’d listen?”
“I know she wouldn’t! But I’d like the satisfaction of giving her a piece of my mind!”
“You may get it. I’m going to try to find her.”
“Can you?”
“I don’t know. Well, now, see here; we are assuming that Mr Gleason died at about quarter to seven. Do you think either or both of those people stayed as long as that?”
“How on earth can I tell? I didn’t see them leave, you know.”
“And you saw no one else enter?”
“No.”
“Nor heard any one?”
“Not that I know of. After six o’clock, there’s more or less trafficking on the stairs anyway. The tenants come home, you know.”
“Yes; now, you’re sure about these two, and that they came about five o’clock?”
“I’m sure they came, but I can’t say certain about the time. It was quite some after five, but I’ve no idea just how much after.” Concluding he could learn no more from Miss Adams, Prescott went to Doctor Davenport’s office to interview Nurse Jordan.
He found a calm, placid-faced woman, who, being interrogated, told the story just as the doctor had told it.
“Describe the voice that came to you over the telephone,” said Prescott.
“Well, it was gasping and faint—just what you would expect a man’s voice to be after he had been shot.”
“Fatally shot?”
“Of course not! But I heard it, and I know what he said. Now if he spoke, he must have been alive, and if he was alive, he hadn’t yet been fatally shot. Had he?”
“Not likely. Then you assume the second shot was the fatal one?”
“How can I, when the doctors say otherwise?”
“What, then, do you think about it?”
“I don’t know what to think. If any other nurse had taken that message I’d say she dreamed the thing. But I took it myself, and I know. The only possible explanation I can think of, is that the murderer stood there ready to shoot, but hadn’t yet fired. The victim somehow managed to get the telephone call——”
“How could he? Why would the murderer let him?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. But, say the murderer threatened him, and say the victim made some plausible plea that made the murderer grant him a moment’s respite to telephone——”
“Oh, I see. Or, say, the murderer was threatening Gleason’s life unless he telephoned a certain party—not the doctor. Then say, Gleason called this number as a last hope—and shouted that he was already shot, when he was merely anticipating the deed, and in his frenzy of fear, hoped that to tell the doctor that, would be to stay the murderer’s hand.”
“That’s a way out,” Nurse Jordan said, musingly. “And that’s all I can think of—that it was something of that sort. As I say, the voice was husky and scared, but it would be that if he was threatened. Still, it certainly sounded like the voice of a suffering, dying man. It was short, gasping—as if strangling.”
“In that case, if he were already shot when he called up, I mean—the death shot was not instantaneous, as is supposed, but the victim lived a few moments. Might that be so?”
“I can’t say. I’ve never known Doctor Davenport to make a false diagnosis and, too, the other doctors agree the shot in the shoulder was fired after the man was dead.”
“That seems to be inexplicable.”
“It’s all inexplicable. There’s Doctor Davenport himself—talk to him.”
Prescott blessed his luck that the doctor came in just then, and eagerly began to question him.
“I was at Mrs Ballard’s,” the doctor said; “up on Ninetieth Street, near Fifth Avenue. After I got the nurse’s message, I hurried down to the Gleason place as fast as I could. I didn’t know the exact number——”
“You didn’t!” Prescott felt sure this was meant as a blind, to indicate the doctor’s slight acquaintance with Gleason.
“No; I didn’t. I had to telephone some one to find out. I tried the Lindsays first, but the wire was busy, so I called up Manning Pollard.”
“And he told you?”
“Yes, I didn’t get the call, but the Ballards’ butler did, and Pollard gave him the address. Of course, the man told Pollard I wanted it.”
“I see. Then you went right down there?”
“Yes; and the rest is public knowledge. Look here, Prescott, what are you getting at?”
“Only the truth. Go on, tell the story. I have to get these details.”
“What details?”
“Of what happened before the police came.”
“Oh, you know it all. How I got help and broke in the door, and found Gleason on the floor, dead.”
“He was dead when you entered?”
“Of course he was.”
“With two shots in his body.”
“Yes; why go over these things with me? I’ve made my report.”
“I know! but I want to find out about the telephoning. How do you account for a man telling of his own death?”
“That’s the puzzle. It’s the queerest thing I ever knew, Prescott, but it isn’t my province to ferret out the truth. My duty in the case is done, and you know it. Now good-by.”
“One minute, Doctor. Will you tell me where you were that afternoon—the afternoon of the murder?”
Davenport stared at him.
“Meaning that you suspect me of the crime?”
“I haven’t said so. Are you one of those people who think every question a detective asks implies an accusation? There might be a dozen reasons for my asking you that besides suspicion of you as Gleason’s murderer.”
“Well, of course, I’ve no reason for not telling. I left the Club with Dean Monroe. I set him down at his home, in West Fifty-sixth Street, and then I made a short round of calls. Not more than three or four, special cases. And while I was at Mrs Ballard’s the message came from Nurse Jordan. Satisfied of my alibi?”
Davenport’s tone was sarcastic, and his smile was not pleasant. But, as Prescott reflected, nobody likes to be wrongfully suspected.
A fleeting thought went through the detective’s mind that if Doctor Davenport had killed Gleason he might have done so when he went down there at seven o’clock. But that would mean that Nurse Jordan told a string of falsehoods, and the whole affair would have been a most complicated proceeding. No, if the doctor were the murderer, he would not have called up Pollard to get that address.
But did he do that? Prescott went away and went straight to a telephone booth and called Pollard.
“What?” Pollard said as he heard the query. “Called me up to ask Gleason’s address? Why, no—oh, yes, he did. I remember now. He did, and I gave it to him. Why?”
“Tell you some other time,” said Prescott. “Good-by.”
CHAPTER IX—Ivy Hayes
“I’ve no faith in the police, no faith in detectives and no faith in anybody!”
This wholesale skepticism was voiced by Millicent Lindsay, and addressed to her small audience of friends gathered in her library.
“It’s outrageous,” she went on, “nearly a week has passed since my brother’s murder, and no real step has been taken to find his murderer.”
“Steps have been taken,” said Louis, “but they all seem to have been taken in the wrong direction.”
“At any rate they led nowhere,” Millicent went on. “Nobody knows anything; nobody can explain the mystery of the two shots. Nobody knows of any motive for the crime.”
“You’ve ceased to suspect Phyllis, then,” Philip Barry said, his smile a little forced as he eagerly awaited the answer.
“I have and I haven’t,” Millicent returned, speaking slowly. “Of course, it seems absurd to think a young girl like Phyllis would do such a dreadful thing—but—she won’t tell where she was, and, too, she didn’t like my brother—at least, she didn’t welcome his offer of marriage, and if she knew of his will, and I think she did, why shouldn’t I suspect her?”
“Well, quit suspecting her,” Louis growled. “Phyllis is as innocent as a baby. You’re off your head, Millicent, to dream of such a thing.”
“All right, why won’t she tell where she was at the time of the crime, then?”
“She doesn’t have to. Nobody really suspects her, and her affairs have no reason to be inquired into. That right, Barry?”
“Yes, of course. I think Phyllis would be wise to say where she was at the time. But, I say, Millicent, I’m going to get busy myself, and do a little detective work. Like you, I feel the investigations so far have led nowhere.”
“Have you a suspicion——” began Louis.
“Not a suspicion, exactly, but a pretty strong notion of which way to look. I won’t say what it is, for I had another hunch, that pretty much fell through; but now I’m going to work on a new line, and I think I may unearth something.”
“You won’t,” said Millicent, despondently. “You’re all alike—dig up a lot of evidence and then never prove anything from it. Do tell me, Phil, what way your suspicions turn.”
“Why, yes, I’ll tell you, for I think you ought to be kept informed. I can’t help leaning to the chorus girl theory. I feel sure that fur collar was left by the girl at that time, and as I see it, she could have gone there with some man, a friend of hers who either was jealous of Mr Gleason, or who had it in for him for some other reason. Then suppose, in a quarrel, the man shot Gleason—perhaps Gleason threatened him—anyway, you can’t tell what occurred, but I’m going to find the girl.”
“You’re all wrong,” said Louis, and his voice was so full of concentrated passion that Barry looked up quickly.
“You’re all wrong,” Louis repeated; “the idea of a man shooting another man before a girl! Do have a little sense of probability, Barry.”
“I have, and it’s not an impossibility that the deed should have been committed before the girl witness. I’ve thought it all out. I don’t believe it was premeditated, but suppose the pair went there to settle a grievance and Mr Gleason lost his temper and threatened his visitor—the man—and in a quarrel, the pistol was flourished about, and the visitor grabbed it and shot, maybe in self-defense.”
“All theory,” scoffed Louis. “Nothing at all to back it up.”
“I’m going to find out,” Barry persisted. “I’m going to find the owner of that fur——”
“I wish you wouldn’t, Phil.” Louis’ face was white and his voice trembled a little.
“Why, Louis,” Millicent exclaimed; “what’s the matter? Do you know anything about this business? Actually, from your agitation you might be unduly interested.”
“No! I don’t know anything about it, but I think it’s awful to hunt down some poor little innocent girl——”
“I’m not hunting her—I’m hunting the man who was with her.”
“A purely imaginary man!” Louis exclaimed.
“So far. But if he doesn’t materialize, there’s no harm done.”
Just then, Phyllis came in with Manning Pollard.
“We’ve been for a walk,” she said, and the roses in her cheeks proved the good effects of the exercise. “Mr Pollard said I needed more outdoor air, so we walked forty-five blocks. I wish you’d go out, Millicent, it would do you good.”
“Come on, Mrs Lindsay,” Pollard suggested; “I’ll take you next.”
“Thank you, I may go some other time. Now, we’re discussing the case. Sit down, and tell us what you think, Mr Pollard.”
“My opinion is no secret. I incline to some earlier acquaintance of Mr Gleason’s. Perhaps some one from his Western home, or from anywhere. I’ve heard all the evidence that has been brought forward about any one of his New York acquaintances, and I must admit there’s not a shred of it worth considering. Indeed, there’s practically no evidence—do you know of any, Barry?”
“Only the fur collar,” said Barry, with a decided nod of his head. “I think, as that is the only piece of real, tangible evidence, it ought to be run to earth. I believe Prescott tried to do so, but his effort fell through, somehow. At any rate, I’m going to take up that clew, and see if I can’t get a line on the truth.”
“All rubbish,” Louis growled. “Tell him not to do it, Pollard.”
“Why should I do that?” Pollard asked. “If Barry’s sleuthing leads to anything, I’ll be glad of it. Like Mrs Lindsay, I want to know who did this thing. I don’t have much faith in the fur collar sign-board, myself, for I think the thing was left there by some little girl caller, who had no connection whatever with the crime.”
“Maybe,” Barry acquiesced. “But in that case, I’ll do no harm. I promise not to bother the little girl—why do we all assume her to be little—if she knows nothing of interest to us.”
“How are you going about your task?” Louis asked. He was still annoyed about it. His bent brows and frowning face showed a special interest and a dislike of Barry’s plans. He moved uneasily in his chair, suddenly sitting bolt upright, and then falling back in careless relaxation.
“Do sit still, Louis,” said Phyllis; “you make me quite nervous—acting like that. I wish you’d go out for a walk. You sit mewed up here, brooding, until you’re in a perfect state of feverish excitement. Run out, dear; go for a brisk walk. The air is fine and bracing.”
Phyllis looked anxiously after her brother.
He returned her gaze, seemed touched by her concern for him, and finally rose and followed her advice.
“I’ve always had the care of him,” Phyllis said, as she looked fondly after him. “He’s a darling, but he has moods. And the best thing for him is to get away from this eternal discussion of the ‘case.’”
“Perhaps you’d like to get away, too,” said Millicent, tartly. “I don’t think you show any sympathy for me, Phyllis, in my trouble. But, why should you? You’ve got your inheritance and you’re rid of a troublesome suitor——”
“Don’t talk like that, Millicent,” Phyllis begged, tears in her eyes. “Indeed, I do sympathize with you, and I’m ready and willing to do anything I can to help you.”
“All right, then, turn your mind to thinking about who caused Robert’s death. You’re a bright girl, you have a really clever mind. Why can’t you ferret out the truth as well as a man? As I’ve been saying, I don’t think the police detectives get anywhere. I think friends know much more about the possibilities and probabilities——”
“We do,” Barry agreed. “And to prove it, I’m going to start on my search at once. I’m going down to the Gleason apartment, I’m going to get that fur and take it with me, and I’ll bet I’ll find somebody in the house, some busybody or curious woman who has seen a girl there with that fur on. We all know Mr Gleason had friends among the younger members of the theatrical profession. There’s no use blinking that fact, and I propose to find out something, at any rate.”
“Well, go on, then,” urged Millicent, impatiently; “don’t sit there and talk about it! Start off, now.”
“I go!” and with a smiling good-by, Barry departed.
“He won’t do a thing,” Pollard said, with an indulgent smile. “He’s on a wild goose chase. I’d like to help you, Mrs Lindsay, but I confess I don’t take any stock in the girls. Now, have you any old letters or papers of your brother’s that you can look over. I feel that in those you might find a past acquaintance or some old quarrel or altercation that might show you a way to look. This is only a theory, but it’s as plausible as any other I’ve heard put forth.”
“It is, Mr Pollard,” Millicent agreed. “I’ve none of Robert’s papers here—they’re all at his rooms still. And I suppose Mr Lane has charge of them. But I can get them, and I shall do just as you’ve advised. Of course, there may be something divulged that way, but I doubt if my brother had an enemy out West. He was a much-liked man——”
“I know that,” Phyllis interrupted, “but you must admit, Millicent, that even well-liked men may have enemies. There’s lots about a man’s private life that would contradict the general impression of him.”
“That’s you all over, Phyllis! You never lose a chance to cast a slur on my brother’s memory. I should think you would have a little gratitude to the man who left you a fortune.”
“I have, Millicent. And you must not misconstrue my words as you do. I am anxious, too, to find your brother’s murderer. And if, as Mr Pollard suggests, it may be some Western acquaintance, we must try to find him. And Mr Gleason’s private letters and papers may reveal much.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Now, with Phil Barry after the chorus girl, and Mr Pollard’s suggestions of hunting among the letters, we, at least have something to do. I shall send word to Mr Lane at once that I want all the papers from Robert’s desk.”
She went away to telephone, leaving Phyllis and Manning Pollard alone.
“It’s a mere chance,” said Pollard, thoughtfully; “it may well be that Mr Gleason would destroy any letters that are indicative of the sort of thing we’re looking for.”
“I don’t think so,” the girl returned. “I imagine Mr Gleason would have kept such papers. You see, I knew the man better than you did. You hardly knew him at all, did you?”
“No; I never met him more than two or three times, and that in the most formal way.”
“Yet you threatened to kill him!”
“Don’t put it that way, Miss Lindsay—please. My idle words have been repeated till I’m tired of hearing them! I did say I disliked the man—and I did. That’s all there was about it.”
“I disliked him, too,” said Phyllis, slowly. “I always had a nervous dread of him. I don’t know why, but he always affected me unpleasantly, even when he was most kind.”
“Then you know what I mean. That unreasonable, inexplicable detestation of his presence. So, of course, when the man was killed, they assumed it was my work. I left it to them to find out where I was at the time for I knew that would be a surer proof of my innocence than if I vehemently denied guilt and tried to prove an alibi. But you, too, I’m told, refuse to say where you were at the time of the crime.”
“Yes,” Phyllis whispered. “Don’t ask me. I don’t want to tell. I have good reasons for my silence, truly.”
“And not connected with Mr Gleason’s death.”
Pollard did not voice this as a question, but merely as a statement of fact, and Phyllis gave him a glance of gratitude for his faith in her.
But she did not corroborate his assertion and his inquiring glance that followed met with no definite response.
“Now is there anything I can do?” Pollard asked, after a more or less desultory chat. “I’m at your command——”
“I thought you were a very busy man,” and Phyllis smiled at him.
“Not when I can be of any assistance to you or Mrs Lindsay. Though now that you have come into a great fortune, perhaps an humble pen-pusher will cease to interest you.”
“No,” said Phyllis, seriously; “on the contrary, I shall have more need than ever of friends who can advise me in certain ways.”
“Surely your lawyer will do that. Lane is a most capable legal adviser——”
“I don’t mean that. I mean in other ways—things on which I wouldn’t dream of discussing with Mr Lane. Oh, I have awful troubles——”
“I’m so sorry.” Pollard’s serious, kindly manner carried conviction. “I’d be glad to help you, but in important matters you’d better consult some one of sound judgment and special knowledge. If you don’t care to confide in Lane, ask him for the type of adviser you do need.”
“But, Mr Pollard,” the girl hesitated, “it isn’t a question of special knowledge at all. I just want advice from some man of the world—a man of our set, of our interests. Somebody who knows what to do in a crisis——”
“Please, Miss Phyllis—don’t talk like that! If you do, I shall be tempted to offer my own services, and I’m sure there are many better fitted for the position.”
“Oh, I wish you would help me——”
“Why not go to Barry?”
“Phil Barry? He’s a dear, and a good friend to me, but he has what is known as the artistic temperament—and you know what that means. No—the weight on my mind—the awful quandary I’m in, couldn’t be helped by him. He’s the last man to help me. Oh, Mr Pollard—I oughtn’t to ask you—in fact, I oughtn’t to tell anybody—but I feel so helpless. Perhaps Mr Lane would be the best one after all. I don’t know what I ought to do!”
Pollard looked at the lovely face, so full of grief and uncertainty. He wondered what it could be about. Was it the exaggerated fear of a young girl, that had little or no real foundation. Or—could it be possible that she had some knowledge, guilty or evidential, of the Gleason affair.
After a pause the man spoke.
“Miss Phyllis,” he said, with a gentle courtesy, “I want to help you, more than I can tell you—more than I ought to tell you. But I’m not going to take advantage of what may be merely a mood of confidence. You think things over; you consider your other friends—or legal advisers—and after careful thought, if you want to make me your confidant, I shall be honored, and I will advise you to the best of my powers. But don’t be hasty. Think it over well, and—may I see you to-morrow?”
“How kind you are!” the girl held out her hand with a pretty impulsive gesture. “That’s just what I want; to think it over a little and decide whether I want to tell Mr Lane,—or whether I’d rather confide in a—a friend.”
“Of course you do,” was the hearty response. “And Lane, who has wide knowledge, is also a good friend. Consider carefully, and decide slowly. But depend on me to the last ditch, if I can be of help.”
Meantime Philip Barry was on his quest.
He had decided on straightforward measures, and, gaining an accurate description of the fur piece, had gone directly to the home of Ivy Hayes, whose picture, he knew, graced the Gleason apartment.
He found the young lady and obtained an interview without difficulty.
“Well?” she said, as she appeared before him.
He saw a slim young thing, who might have been any one of thousands of young girls one meets everywhere, in the street or on the streetcars.
Muffs of dark hair over her ears; hand-painted cheeks and lips; saucy, powdered nose, and a slender shape encased in a one-piece frock, both scant and short.
“Miss Hayes?” said Barry, bowing politely.
“The same. And you are——?”
“Philip Barry.”
“Oh, are you? Hello, Phil, what’s the big idea.”
“Only to learn if you lost your fur collar?”
“H’m. My sable one—or my chinchilla?”
“Neither,” Barry couldn’t help smiling at the impertinent face; “your gray squirrel.”
“Oh, that one. Now, s’pose I say no?”
“Then you’re out one piece of fur.”
“And s’pose I say yes?”
“Then you get your fur back, but you’ll be asked a few questions.”
“Guess it’s worth it. Where’s the pelt?”
“The police have it.”
“Lordy!” Ivy dropped into a chair and pretended to faint. “Now how does that come about?” she asked, cocking one eye up at her caller.
“Oh, I fancy you know.”
“Come on—let’s put all the cards on the table. You don’t think I had anything to do with the—the fatal deed, do you?”
“What fatal deed?”
“Don’t be silly. I told you to be frank. Old Gleason’s murder, to be sure.”
“You left your fur there?”
“Yep, I did.”
“The day of the murder?”
“Sure. I was there that afternoon.”
“You admit this!”
“Why not? It’d be found out anyway, and, as I didn’t have anything to do with the shooting, I don’t see why I don’t get my fur back. It’s an awful nice little collar.”
“You’ll get it back, Miss Hayes; and now, instead of waiting for a police detective to interview you, suppose you tell me all you know about the matter.”
“I don’t know much, but what I have is yours. I went round there, that afternoon, on—an errand.”
“What was the errand? You may as well tell as to have me drag it out of you.”
“That’s so. Well, our old gentleman friend said he’d give a party for me and a few friends. Oh, a nice, proper supper party—after the theater some night. I’m in the chorus now. Used to be in the movies. Anyway, he promised and promised, and never set the time. So I telephoned and telephoned and I couldn’t get him to make a date, so I just went round there to try and persuade him.”
“Did you see him?”
“Sure I did.”
“Did he make the date?”
“No; the old fourflusher! He crawled out of it, and said if I’d let him off he’d give me a nice present. Said he’d take me to any jewelry shop I chose, to pick it out. Said he’d take me the next day. Now, you don’t suppose I’d croak a guy that was about to give me a bracelet, do you?”
“I do not. And you were so excited you came away and left your fur there?”
“Just that! I wasn’t sure I did leave it there, for I was at two or three other places that day. When do I get the squirly?”
“Oh, in a few days, I should say. I’ll take your yarn to headquarters, and they’ll do the rest. But, I say, when you came away from there, Mr Gleason was alive and well?”
“You bet he was! He fairly shooed me out—he was in a hurry to get ready to go to a party or something. Oh, my gracious!”
“What’s that exclamation for?”
“Nothin’. A pin stuck into me.”
Barry knew better. A sudden thought had come to the girl, a thought that filled her with dismay for some reason. But Philip Barry felt the matter was getting too serious for him, and he decided to put it in the hands of the police.
He went straight back to the Lindsays’.
“Come in, Mr Barry,” was the first greeting he heard, as he entered the library, where several people were sitting in conclave. “You’re just the man we want!”
The speaker was Prescott, the detective, and he held an open letter in his hand.
“We’ve nailed you,” he said to Barry. “No use your saying much. This letter speaks for itself.”
Mechanically, Barry took the paper the detective handed to him.
It was a letter, typewritten, on club paper. In ran thus:
Mr Robert Gleason: Sir:
There is small necessity of words between us. Unless you see fit to cease your attentions to a lady of our mutual acquaintance, I shall take matters into my own hands and shall so arrange things that it will be impossible for you to annoy her further.
Philip Barry.
The signature, pen signed, was undoubtedly Barry’s own, and the date was the day before the murder.