“Oh, not quite that,” Dean Monroe spoke very seriously. “Mr Gleason was a Westerner, and had different ideas from some of ours, but he was a good sort——”
“Good sort!” scoffed Barry. “I’d like to know what you call a bad sort, then!”
“Hush, Phil,” Phyllis said, quietly. “Don’t talk like that of a man who is dead.”
“Forgive me, Phyllis, I forgot myself. Well, Mr Prescott, I can only say you’ll have to solve your mystery on the evidence you find; for I assure you Mr Gleason would fit into almost any theory.”
Prescott questioned Dean Monroe next, remembering what Lane had told him over the telephone.
But, though interested, Monroe told nothing definitely suggestive, and at last Prescott said, directly, “Do you know anything, Mr Monroe, that makes you suspect that Mr Gleason might have been killed by an intruder?”
“Why—why, no,” stammered the young artist, quite palpably prevaricating.
“I think you do, and I must remind you that I have a right to demand the truth.”
“Well, then,” Monroe looked positively frightened, “then—I say, Manning, maybe it’ll be better for me to speak out—I heard somebody say to-day, that he meant to—to kill Gleason.”
“Indeed,” and Prescott, accustomed as he was to surprises, stared wonderingly at the speaker. “And who said that?”
But Monroe obstinately shook his head and spoke no word.
Philip Barry raised his head with a jerk and looked straight at Manning Pollard.
Pollard’s face was white, and his voice not quite steady, but he stated, “I said it.”
“Why?” asked Prescott, simply.
“Oh—oh, because—I—I don’t—didn’t like Gleason.”
“And so you killed him?”
“I haven’t said so.”
“I’m asking you.”
“And I’m not obliged to incriminate myself, am I?” Pollard looked at him coldly.
“Where were you between six and seven this evening?”
“I refuse to tell,” Pollard answered, with a belligerent look, and Prescott nodded his head, with a satisfied smile.
CHAPTER IV—Pollard’s Threat
“Of course, you know, Mr Pollard,” Prescott said, “you are incriminating yourself by your refusal to answer my question. No one is as yet under suspicion of crime—indeed, it is not certain that a crime has been committed—but it is my duty to learn all I can of the circumstances of the case, and I must ask you what you meant by a threat to kill Mr Gleason.”
“It wasn’t exactly a threat,” Pollard returned, speaking slowly, and looked decidedly uncomfortable; “it was merely a—a statement.”
“A statement that you would like to—to see him dead?”
“Well, yes, practically that.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t like the man. I took a dislike to him the first time I saw him, and I never got over it.”
“But that’s not reason enough to kill a man.”
“I haven’t said I killed him. But I hold it is reason enough. I hold that an utter detestation of seeing a person around, a positive irritation at his mere presence, is a stronger motive for murder than the more obvious ones of jealousy or greed.”
“You weren’t jealous of Mr Gleason?”
Pollard started, the detective had scored that time.
But he replied, quietly. “Not jealous, no.”
“Envious?”
“Your questions are a bit intrusive, but I think I may safely say many men were envious of Mr Gleason.”
“On what grounds?”
“Oh, he was wealthy, important and of a happy, satisfied disposition. Truly an enviable person.”
Pollard’s manner was indifferent and his tone light and flippant. Prescott a judge of human nature and an expert detective, concluded the man was sparring for time, or trying to camouflage his guilt with an effect of careless unconcern in the matter.
“I think, Mr Pollard,” he said, seriously, “I shall have to insist on knowing your whereabouts at the time of Mr Gleason’s death.”
“And I refuse to tell you. But, look here, Mr Prescott, as I understand it, Mr Gleason was found dead in his room, with the door fastened. How do you argue from that a murderer at all? How could he get out and lock the door behind him? Where was the key?”
“Spring catch,” Prescott returned, shortly. “Snapped shut as he closed the door.”
“Oh, come now, Pollard,” said Philip Barry, “say where you were at that time. Six to seven, was it? Why, Pol, you were walking down Fifth Avenue with me. We left the Club together.”
“Did we?” said Pollard. His face was inscrutable. It seemed as if he had made up his mind that no information should be gathered from his words or manner. Prescott, watching him closely thought he had never seen such a strange man, and decided that he was the criminal he sought, and a mighty clever one at that.
Manning Pollard was tall and large, and of fine presence. He would not be called handsome, but he had a well-shaped head, well set on his broad shoulders. His special charm was his smile, which, though rare, was spontaneous and illuminated his face with a real radiance whenever he saw fit to favor his auditors. However, his expression was usually calm and thoughtful, while occasionally it became supercilious and even cynical.
When displeased, Pollard was impossible. He shut up like a clam and preserved a stony silence or blurted out some caustic, almost rude speech.
“Yes, we did,” went on Barry, eagerly. “And I left you at Forty-fourth Street.”
“Did you?” said Pollard, in the same colorless voice.
Now Philip Barry had little love for Manning Pollard. To begin with, they were both in love with the same girl, and—as either of them would have agreed—there was no use in going further than that.
Moreover, they were of widely different temperament. Barry was all artist; dreamy, impractical, full of enthusiasms and a bit visionary. Pollard was a hard-headed business man, successful, rich and influential, but not by any means universally liked, by reason of his sarcastic and cynical outlook. Yet he was polite and courteous of demeanor, and his imperturbable calm and unshakable poise gave him an air of superiority that could not be gainsaid.
Up to a few months ago the two men had been chums—were still—but the advent of Phyllis Lindsay into their circle had made a difference.
For, though many men admired the little beauty, Pollard and Barry were the most favored and each felt an ever-increasing hope that he might win her.
Then along had come Robert Gleason, the brother of Phyllis’ stepmother. He was at the Lindsay home continually, and by some means or for some reason he had persuaded the girl to marry him. At least, he implied that at the Club in the afternoon, and both Pollard and Barry had been greatly disturbed thereby.
But others were also greatly disturbed and the news, which had flown like wildfire, had caused panic in the breasts of several who were to attend the dinner or the dance.
Then had come the dinner, and the unexplained absence of Gleason. They had telephoned his place twice, but could get no response, Phyllis told the detective in the course of his questioning.
“H’m,” Prescott listened; “at what time did you call him up, Miss Lindsay?”
“Why, about seven o’clock, I think. I was dressing for dinner, and I happened to think of something I wanted to ask Mr Gleason, and I called his number. But nobody answered, so I concluded to wait till he arrived to ask him.”
“And the next time? You called him twice?”
“Yes; the next time was when dinner was ready—about eight. He wasn’t here, and I thought it so strange—I—telephoned——”
“Yourself?” asked Prescott, quickly, scenting unexpected information.
“No—I—I asked one of the guests to do it.”
“Which one?”
“Me.” Pollard smiled at Phyllis. “Miss Lindsay asked me to telephone to Mr Gleason, and I did, but no one answered the call.”
The speaker turned his calm eyes to Prescott, and met the detective’s suspicious gaze.
“You’re sure you called, Mr Pollard,” Prescott asked, his tone plainly indicating his own doubt.
“I have said so,” Pollard replied, and let his own glance wander indifferently aside.
“Well, I don’t believe you!” Prescott was angered at Pollard’s quite evident lack of interest in his inquiries, and he now spoke sharply. “I believe, Mr Pollard, that you know more than you have told regarding this matter, and unless you see fit to become more communicative, I shall have to resort to outside inquiry as to your own movements this evening, prior to your arrival here.”
“That is your privilege,” Pollard said, with an exaggerated politeness.
“It is my duty also,” Prescott retorted, “and I shall begin right now. You say you left Mr Pollard on Fifth Avenue, Mr Barry?”
“Yes,” was the reply.
“At what time?”
“About six o’clock.”
“It was ten minutes past,” Pollard volunteered, still with the air of superior knowledge that exasperated Prescott almost beyond bounds.
“Did any one present see Mr Pollard between that time and his arrival here for dinner?” Prescott looked about the room.
No one responded, and the detective said, curtly:
“Where do you live, Mr Pollard?”
“At the Hotel Crosby, Fortieth Street, near Fifth Avenue,” and this time Pollard gave his questioner one of his best smiles, which had the effect of embarrassing him greatly.
But with determination, he took up the telephone and called the hotel.
“Ask for the doorman,” said Pollard, helpfully.
Prescott did, and learned that Mr Pollard was out. “Had he been in?” “Yes, he had come in soon after six o’clock, and had left again, later, in a taxicab.”
Nothing more definite could be learned, and Prescott hung up the receiver, conscious only of a great desire to get down to the hotel and ask questions before Pollard could get there himself.
But first, he must look into other matters, and he turned his attention to the guests who sat round, all looking decidedly uncomfortable and some very much scared.
“Now look here, Mr Prescott,” said Pollard, with the air of one humoring a spoiled child, “you have your duty to do—we all comprehend that. But can’t you satisfy yourself regarding the innocence of most of these men and women, and let them go home? I assume there will be no dance this evening, and the troublesome circumstance of sending away the guests who are yet expected will be about all Miss Lindsay—and her brother,” he added, with a sudden remembrance of the unhelpful Louis—“can cope with. I will await your pleasure, as you seem to have picked me out for suspicion, but do get through with these others.”
Angry at this good advice, coming from the man he was questioning, and embarrassed because it was really good advice, Prescott began, a little sulkily, to take the names and addresses of many of them, and inform them they were free to leave. He detained any he thought might be useful to him, and among them he held Barry and Dean Monroe.
This matter took some time, especially as Prescott was twice interrupted by telephone.
Mrs Lindsay and Louis had retired to their rooms, and Phyllis, at the helm of the situation, proved herself a staunch and capable upholder of the dignity of the Lindsay family.
“Send away all you can, please, Mr Prescott,” she requested. “Mr Pollard is right; I have my hands full. I will give the doorman, who is from the caterer’s, instructions to explain the situation and admit none of the evening guests. But, I daresay some intimate friends will insist on coming in. Shall I allow it?”
“Better not, Miss Lindsay. You see, there’s no use giving the thing more publicity than you have to. The reporters will come, of course. Will you see them?”
“Oh, goodness, no! Let some of the men do that. Mr Pollard, won’t you?”
“I’d prefer Mr Monroe should,” interrupted Prescott, and winced under Pollard’s smile.
“Oh, Manning,” said Dean Monroe, “why do you act like that! You make people suspect you, whether they want to or not.”
“Suspect all you like, Dean,” came the quiet reply; “if I’m innocent, suspicion can’t hurt me. If I’m guilty, I ought to be suspected.”
“You did say you intended to kill Gleason,” Monroe repeated, staring at Pollard. “It’s queer he should be killed right afterward.”
“Mighty queer,” agreed Pollard. “But are you sure he was murdered?”
“Yes,” said Prescott. “Inspector Gale told me over the telephone just now, that further investigation proves it is a murder case. I think, Mr Pollard, I’ll ask you to go with me right now to your hotel. I want to check up your story.”
“But I haven’t told you any story,” said Pollard.
“Well, then,” Prescott shrugged impatiently, “I’ll check up the story you didn’t tell! Come along. Anybody got a car I can borrow?”
Nobody had, as the guests had all expected to remain the whole evening. So Prescott called a taxicab, and soon the two started for Pollard’s hotel.
“You’re a queer guy,” the detective said, the semi-darkness in the cab giving him greater freedom of speech.
“As how?” asked Pollard, quietly.
“Well, first, saying you proposed to kill a man.”
“I’m not unique. I’ve often heard people say, ‘I’d like to kill him!’ or ‘I wish he was dead!’”
“Yes, but they don’t mean it.”
“How do you know I meant it?”
“I don’t, for sure, but I’m going to find out. If you haven’t got an air-tight alibi—it’s going to be trouble for yours!”
“I haven’t any alibi. Guilty people prepare alibis.”
“That’s all right. You’re cute enough to fix an alibi that don’t look to be fixed! But I’ll see through it. Here we are. Come along.”
“A little less dictating, please, Mr Prescott. Remember, I’m not under arrest.”
“Not yet—but soon!” was the retort as the two men entered the small, but exclusive, hotel where Manning Pollard made his home.
The doorman bowed, pleasantly, but not obsequiously, and Prescott went straight to the desk.
“I want to learn,” he said, straightforwardly, “all you can tell me of the movements of Mr Pollard tonight between six and seven o’clock.”
The clerk at the desk smiled at Pollard and gazed inquiringly at the other.
“Better tell him, Simpson,” said Pollard; “he’s a detective, and he’s a right to ask. I’m under a cloud—I think I may call it that—and he’s going to—well, clear me.”
Pollard’s smile flashed out, and the desk clerk, in his turn, smiled at the investigator.
“Go ahead, sir,” he agreed, “what do you want to know?”
“What time did Mr Pollard come in this afternoon?”
“What time, Henry?” the clerk asked the doorman.
“’Bout quarter past six,” was the reply. “I come on at six, and I’d been here a bit before Mr Pollard came along.”
“What did he do?” went on Prescott, a little less certain of his convictions.
“Went up in the elevator.”
“Same elevator boy on now?”
“Yes, sir. The car’s up. Be down in a minute.”
It was; and the elevator boy related that he had taken Mr Pollard up as soon as he came into the hotel.
“Went right to his room, did he?”
“Yes, sir.” The woolly-headed one rolled his eyes in enjoyment of his sudden importance. “I knows he did, kase I watched after him.”
“Why did you look after him?”
“No reason, p’tikler. Only kase he’s such a fine gentleman. I most allus looks at him march down the hall. He marches like a—a platoon.”
“He does? And he marched straight to his room?”
“Yessuh.”
“When did you bring him down again?”
“’Bout an hour later, all dressed up in his glad raggses. Just like he is now.”
“Just so. Now, during that hour do you know that Mr Pollard didn’t leave his room? Didn’t go down stairs again?”
“Not in my car, he didn’t. And he always uses my car.”
“Ask the other boy.” Prescott gave this order shortly. The scene was getting on his nerves. Pollard, quiet, calm, but superior. The clerk, ready to enjoy the detective’s discomfiture, if he failed to prove the point he was evidently trying hard to make. Black Bob, the elevator boy, his white teeth all in evidence, and his admiration for Pollard equally plain to be seen. And even the telephone girl, smirking from her switchboard nearby.
All of these were in sympathy with Pollard, and Prescott felt himself a rank outsider. But he persevered.
Joe, the other elevator boy, declared he had not carried Mr Pollard up or down that evening, and the clerk said there were but two cars.
“Go on, Mr Prescott,” Pollard adjured him. “I have prepared no air-tight alibi.”
“Did any one here see Mr Pollard in his room,” the detective asked in desperation, and to his surprise a bellhop piped out, “I did.”
“You did!” and Prescott turned to him. “How did you happen to do so?”
“He rang, and I went up there, and he gave me a letter to mail for him. It was a wide letter, too wide to go in the chute.”
“Did you mail it?”
“I put it with the stuff for the postman to take. He hasn’t been round yet.”
“Get the letter.”
The bellhop did so, while the others looked on.
It was a large, square envelope addressed to a business firm downtown.
“Your writing, Mr Pollard?” said Prescott, not knowing, in fact, just what to say.
“Yes,” said Pollard, glancing at it. “Open it, if you want to. It’s not private business.”
“No; I don’t want to. It looks very much as if you were in your room during the hour between six and seven.”
“It does have that appearance,” said Pollard, “but I make no claims.”
“He telephoned twice,” vouchsafed the girl at the switchboard.
“He did!” Prescott wheeled on her.
“Once not very long after he came in—maybe fifteen or twenty minutes after.”
“To whom?”
“To a Cleaning Establishment. I remember, because I couldn’t get them—the shop was closed. And then, he telephoned again for a taxi, when he was ready to go out.”
“At what time?”
“About half-past seven—or maybe a little earlier.”
“Earlier,” said the doorman, who had drawn near again. “Not more’n twenty past. I put him in the taxi myself. And it wasn’t as late as half past.”
“Where did he drive to?”
“I don’t know. He ’most always gives the driver a slip of paper with the numbers on it—’specially if he’s going to more than one address. He did this tonight.”
“Where’s that taxi man?” asked Prescott, feeling his last prop being pulled from under him.
“He’s outside now,” said the doorman. “He’s waiting for a man upstairs.”
“Call him in.”
The taxi driver looked at Pollard, nodded respectfully, and replied to Prescott’s queries by saying that Mr Pollard did give him a memorandum of the places he wanted to go to, and that they were, first, the Hotel Astor, where he went in for a moment, and came back with some theater tickets which he was putting in his pocket.
“How do you know he had theater tickets?”
“Well, he had a little pink envelope, and he often does get tickets there. Next, he stopped at Bard’s, the Florist’s, and brought out a small square box with him, and next I took him up to a house on Park Avenue, and he stayed there, and I came back.”
“All right, Mr Pollard, my duty is done.” The detective looked a respectful apology. “But I had to find out all this. And remember you did make a surprising statement.”
“Surprising to you, perhaps. But my friends, who know my eccentricities, weren’t surprised at it.”
“No? Well, if it’s your habit to threaten to kill people you don’t like——”
“I’d rather you didn’t call it a threat. To my mind, a threat is spoken to the intended victim.”
“I don’t know,” Prescott gazed thoughtfully at the speaker. “Can’t you threaten——”
“But I didn’t threaten. I merely said I should kill Gleason some day. It’s too late, now, to make good my promise, and you’ve satisfied yourself—or, haven’t you?—that I didn’t do it?”
“Yes, I’m satisfied. You couldn’t be here at home and in a taxicab doing errands, between six-fifteen and seven-forty-five, and have any chance to get away long enough to get yourself down to Washington Square and do up that murder business, too.”
“It does look that way,” Pollard agreed. “You’ve checked me up pretty thoroughly. Now do you want me any further? For, though I’m as good-natured and patient as the average man, I have something else to do with my time when you’re through with me.”
“Of course, of course. But, I say, Mr Pollard, can you give me a hint which way to look?”
“Sorry, but I can’t.”
The two had drawn aside from the hotel desk, and were by themselves in an alcove of the lobby. Prescott, eagerly trying to learn something further from his vindicated suspect—Pollard, calm and polite, but quite evidently wishing to get away about his business.
“You don’t suspect anybody?”
“No; you see I knew Mr Gleason but slightly. I didn’t like him, but I assure you I didn’t kill him. And I don’t know who did.”
CHAPTER V—Mrs Mansfield’s Story
“Distrust the obvious, Prescott,” said Belknap, didactically. “It is the astute detective’s weak point that he cannot see beyond the apparent—the evident—the obvious.”
“Oh, yes,” Prescott sniffed; “distrust the obvious is as hackneyed a phrase as Cherchez la femme! and about as useful in our every day work. You make a noise like a Detective Story.”
“And they’re the Big Noise, nowadays,” Belknap returned, unruffled.
“All the same,” and Prescott spoke doggedly, “when a guy says he’s going to kill somebody, and that somebody is found croaked a few hours later, seems to me——”
“Seems to me, your guy is the last person in the world to suspect. It’s the obvious——”
“Yes, an obvious that I sorta hate to distrust!”
“Nonsense! And you’ve disposed of Pollard anyway, haven’t you.”
“Yes, I have. Half a dozen people were in touch with him all through the time of the murder. He’s out of it.”
Prescott looked as disheartened as he felt.
“And you’ve wasted good time tracking him down, when you might have been investigating the evidence while it was fresh! I’m disappointed in you, Prescott; you oughtn’t to have fallen for a steer like that.”
Belknap was the Assistant District Attorney, and the Gleason case seemed to him important and absorbing. In his office the morning after the murder, he was getting all the information Prescott could give him, and he was really disgusted with the detective for having followed up the wild goose chase of Manning Pollard’s impulsive speech about the Western millionaire.
Belknap was an earnest, honest investigator, not so much brilliant by deduction as clear-sighted, hard-headed and practical.
He distrusted the obvious, not so much because of the hackneyed aphorism as because his own experience had proved to him that nine times out of ten, or oftener, the obvious was wrong. It must be looked into, of course, but not to the exclusion of other evidence or the neglect of other lines of investigation. And now, he felt, the trail had cooled somewhat, and valuable clews might be lost because of Prescott’s conviction of Pollard’s guilt.
Belknap was of a higher mentality than Pollard, and he also was a man of more education and refinement. He was especially interested on this case, for the Lindsays were an exclusive family and kept themselves out of the limelight of publicity.
But there were rumors that the lovely daughter was a harum-scarum, that the son of the house was addicted to bright lights and high stakes, and that the still young stepmother was quite as fond of social life as her two charges.
But never were their names seen on the society columns or in the gossip papers and now, Belknap reflected, they could be approached by reporters.
Indeed, he saw himself admitted to that hitherto inaccessible home, and in imagination he was already preening himself for the occasion.
But Belknap was methodical, and he was preparing to go at once to the Gleason apartment, to begin his line of investigation.
“How does Mrs Lindsay act?” he allowed himself to ask as he and Prescott started for Washington Square.
“Oh, I don’t know,” returned Prescott; “about like you’d expect a sister to act. She was fond of her brother, I take it, but—well, I didn’t see much of her; still, I’ve a vague impression that she’s revengeful—anxious to find and punish the murderer—that struck me more than her grief.”
“You can’t tell. She may be sorrowing deeply, and also be desirous of avenging her brother’s death. No question of suicide?”
“Not now, no. There was at first. But an autopsy showed the second shot was fired first.”
“What do you mean?”
“The one they thought was second was first. It seems the first shot—through the temple—killed Gleason. And then, for some unexplained reason, the slayer fired again, through the dead man’s shoulder.”
“Whatever for? And how do they know?”
“Oh, the doctors could tell, by the blood coagulation or something. As to why it was done, I’ve no idea. What’s the obvious—I want to distrust it.”
“Don’t be too funny, Prescott. This is a big case. Not only because of the prominence of the people involved, but it’s pretty mysterious, I think. We ought to get something out of the other people in the house.”
“Not a chance. I tried it.”
Belknap said nothing, but a close observer might have thought his silence not altogether an assent to Prescott’s corollary.
“In fact,” Prescott went on, “I believe you’ll find your murderer among Gleason’s own bunch. Not the people in the house he lived in. You see that place was wished on him by a friend, and Gleason hated it. I got this from those men who know him. Miss Lindsay agreed to it. Gleason meant to move out—only took it because it was represented to him as a bijou apartment, and he thought it was a luxurious little nest—and, it isn’t. As you can now see for yourself.”
At the house, Prescott pushed the button below McIlvaine’s card, and after a moment the door clicked, and grudgingly, as it seemed, moved itself a little, and Prescott pushed it open.
“That’s the way the murderer got in,” he said positively.
“Maybe not,” demurred Belknap. “Maybe he came in with Gleason.”
“Oh, maybe he came in at the window, or down the chimney!” exclaimed Prescott shortly; “you can’t admit the obvious ever, can you?”
Belknap chuckled at the other’s quick temper, and they went upstairs.
They found Policeman Kelly in charge, and he greeted them gladly.
“Get busy,” he said, genially. “Sure, there’s enough to engage your attention.”
Belknap, beyond a word of greeting, ignored the officer, and took a swift, comprehensive survey of the place.
It was a large front room, apparently library and cutting room. A bedroom was back of it and a bath room behind that. An old house, quite evidently remodeled for bachelor or small family apartments.
Though up to date as to plumbing, lighting and decoration, the window and door frames proclaimed it an old building. The furniture was over ornate, and the pictures and ornaments a bit flamboyant. But it was a comfortable enough place, and the personal belongings of the dead Gleason were scattered about and gave a homey appearance. A silver framed photograph of Mrs Lindsay was on a table, and on another were two more portraits of less distinguished-looking ladies.
“That’s Ivy Hayes, the movie star,” Kelly said, as Belknap looked at one picture.
“I know it,” the attorney said, so shortly that Kelly lapsed into silence.
“Nothing been disturbed?” Belknap asked presently, and receiving a negative answer went on observing.
Kelly winked at Prescott, with an expression that said, “I like ’em more sociable, myself!” and Prescott nodded acquiescence.
But at last Belknap began to talk.
“Dressing for dinner, they tell me,” he said.
“Yes,” said Prescott, eagerly, “I was here right away, quick, you know. They took the body to the Funeral Rooms, early this morning. But he was in his shirt sleeves—day shirt——”
“Yes, here are all his evening clothes on the bed in the next room. Was he going to the Lindsay dinner?”
“Yes, he was. I believe he said it was to be the occasion of the announcement of his engagement to Miss Lindsay——”
“Does she say that?”
“She does not! She denies it.”
“Then you’d better keep still. You have no gumption, Prescott. Don’t you see you mustn’t say those things?”
“Oh, bother! let up on knocking me, and get down to business. Don’t touch the telephone or revolver. I’ve had them photographed for fingerprints.”
“Yes, that’s good.” Belknap was getting more genial. “Anybody been through his papers?”
“No; Lane is his lawyer, Fred Lane. He’s coming here to-day to look over them.”
“All right.” Belknap was already absorbed in the loose papers scattered on the desk. “Several notes from ladies.”
“Yes, I noticed them. Old Gleason had a few friends in the chorus, I judge. But, unless they have any bearing on the case, there’s no call to exploit ’em, eh?”
“No, of course not. Nor any reason to mention them to the Lindsays.”
“They’ll know all there is to know. You can’t fool ’em. Miss Phyllis is as wide-awake as they come, and the Mrs is nobody’s fool. The boy, I don’t think much of. Say, aren’t you going up there? Don’t you want to see them?”
“Later, yes. But me for the other tenants here, first. Here’s where Gleason lay, was it? Near the telephone table—look here, if the first shot did for him, how could he telephone to the doctor that he was wounded?”
“Oh, I don’t know! I don’t believe that dope about the doctors knowing which shot came first. And, as you say, it couldn’t have been the fatal one first, or how could he have phoned? Anyway he could only have called the doctor if it was a suicide. You don’t think, do you, that the murderer would stand by and let him call up!”
“Scarcely. That’s why I haven’t given up the idea that it was a suicide.”
“Never mind, Oscar, you will. Why, that man was too happy to kill himself. His friends all say so. No, he was shot, all right, but the two shots make a mystery that I can’t get yet.”
Belknap frowned deeply, and thought for a few moments.
“Great mistake,” he said at last, “to reason from insufficient data.”
“Another of your ‘familiar quotations,’” chaffed Prescott.
“Another good rule,” retorted the attorney, and went out in the hall.
Prescott followed and together they went to the Mansfields’ apartment.
“We’ve been thinking it over,” Mrs Mansfield said, after she had admitted her callers and taken them to her living room, “and my husband and I feel we ought to tell all we know.”
“You certainly ought to,” Belknap assured her.
“Well,” the blonde head nodded mysteriously, “that man, Gleason, he was a gay old bird.”
“Just what do you mean, Mrs Mansfield? Speak plainly,” adjured Belknap.
“Oh, well,” she shrugged her shoulders pettishly, for she was the sort of woman who loved innuendo better than statement. “I don’t know the girls, of course, I’m not in that class of society, but he did have gay looking girls coming to his apartment now and then.”
“Every day?” Belknap looked at her sharply.
“Oh, my land, no, not every day. Just now and then?”
“Every other day?”
“No,” pettishly.
“Maybe once a week?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe, you saw one, once——”
Mrs Mansfield laughed out.
“That’s it, Mr Belknap,” she said. “How you do pin me down. Well, all I can swear to is one time I did see a fly little piece of baggage go in at his door.”
“Day or night?”
“Daytime.” Mrs Mansfield spoke aggrievedly, as if all the zest had been taken out of her news.
“Humph! And she might have been his lawyer’s stenographer, with an important paper.”
“She might not!” Mrs Mansfield declined to lose her last shred of excitement. “Stenographers are flippy enough, Lord knows! But this little snipjack, now, she was a real little vamp!”
“You don’t know her?”
“My land! I guess I don’t! I’m a respectable married woman——”
“And probably she is a respectable unmarried woman——”
“Coming to see a man in his apartment?”
“Well, until we know the circumstances we can’t judge her. I say, Prescott, get that photograph, will you. You know, the——”
“I know,” and Prescott went back across the hall. He returned with the picture of the girl Kelly had called Ivy Hayes.
“This the lady?”
“That’s the one,” said Mrs Mansfield, drawing away from it, “but she’s no lady.”
“Oh, come, now, you don’t know her. She’s a little moving picture actress. She may have had business with Mr Gleason.”
“She may have!” and the disdainful lady sniffed. “But it’s none of my business, and I don’t care to discuss her.”
“You say you saw her go in there, yesterday?”
“Good land, no! I didn’t say yesterday! I said, one day.”
“All right, I’m glad you told us about it. It might mean something and it might not.”
“Of course, it means something!” Mrs Mansfield didn’t want her news scorned as naught. “An actress calling on a man like that—of course it means something!”
“If it does we’ll find it out,” Belknap said. “You don’t think this little thing shot Gleason, do you?”
“I don’t know why she couldn’t. Little women have done such deeds.”
“So they have. Now, you’ve nothing more to tell us?”
But though Mrs Mansfield said quite a bit more, she had really nothing more to tell them that they wanted to hear, and they got away, though with some difficulty, for the lady was of a garrulous type.
To the floor above Belknap went, Prescott returning to the Gleason rooms to look about.
The apartment above McIlvaine’s was occupied by a spinster named Adams who was, as the attorney deduced, from New England.
This good lady was even more disgusted than Mrs Mansfield with the whole matter of Gleason, his life and death. More especially the last for, it seemed to her, no one had a right to die a violent death under the same roof with refined and conservative people.
“Why, he was a loud-voiced man,” declared Miss Adams, as if pronouncing the last and worst word of opprobrium.
“Ah, you heard him from up here?”
“Sometimes, yes. He had chums visit him, and they would laugh and talk so loudly, I couldn’t help hearing them.”
“Could you distinguish what they said?”
“No; not words. But I could hear well enough to know whether he was merry or angry—for, I assure you, sometimes he was the latter.”
“Did you hear anything from that apartment yesterday?”
“Oh, yes, I heard the two shots.”
“You did! What did you do?”
“Nothing. What should I do? As a matter of fact I didn’t think they were shots. I thought them tire explosions or some noise in the street. But after I knew about the murder, I realized that I had heard the fatal shot.”
“Yet you said nothing to anybody?”
“Man alive, what could I say? I had nothing to do with Mr Gleason or his murder——”
“But your duty as a citizen——”
“Look here, what do you mean? Where was any duty? You people—you police people knew the shots were fired, didn’t you? Then why should I inform anybody that they were? And that’s all I knew—or know about them. They were fired. I heard them. No more.”
The sharp-featured, sharp-tongued old maid sat bolt upright in her chair, and glared at Belknap. Her hair was drawn up in a tight knot, after the fashion of New England spinsters, and Belknap wondered what it was about her appearance that seemed so strange.
Then he realized it was her exposed ears! He had not seen a woman with bared ears for so long that it looked most peculiar to him.
For the rest, Miss Adams was angular, even gaunt, and apparently of a decided and forceful nature. And her testimony might be valuable.
“Your knowledge is of importance,” he said, gravely. “To be sure we know the shots were fired, but a witness is always of interest. What time was it that you heard the shots?”
“I’ve no idea,” she returned, carelessly. “Oh, I know, in the story books, the witness always knows, because he was just going to keep an engagement—or, setting his watch, or something. But I don’t know at all.”
“You are quite conversant with detective stories, though!”
“Yes. I read them, since they’re getting so popular. Anything more you want to ask?”
“Yes, please. I want to try to fix the time of those shots.”
“And I tell you I can’t do it. Look here, did you meet any one you know, on the street yesterday afternoon?”
“Why, yes, I did—I met two or three.”
“All right. Mention one.”
“Well—a Mr Hartley.”
“All right, what time did you meet him?”
“I don’t know exactly——”
“About?”
“Oh, about half-past four or five—no, it was later——”
“There!” triumphantly. “It is not easy to state the time, when you paid no special attention to the occurrence.”
“You’ve proved your point, Miss Adams!” Belknap exclaimed, looking at her with new interest. “I wish you had noted the time—you would have done so accurately.”
“Yes, I should have. But I didn’t. Now, when I tell you that’s all I know about the whole matter, will you go away and leave me in peace?”
“No; Miss Adams, I won’t!”
“Why not?” and to Belknap’s satisfaction she turned a shade paler.
“Because, I am sure you do know more. You are too cute to be so ignorant. Your smartness has overreached itself. You’re trying to disarm me by the appearance of absolute frankness, and you almost did so—but—I’ve—well, I’ve got a hunch that you know something else.”
“I swear I don’t,” and Miss Adams set her thin lips in a tight, straight line. “You go away.”
“I’m going, I’ve much to do. But I warn you I shall return. You know something, Miss Adams, something of importance, but I do not think you are yourself implicated. Moreover, what you know frightens you a little, and you don’t want to tell it. Now, if I can get all the information I want, without yours, well and good. If not, I shall come back for yours. And don’t try running away—for you won’t get far!”
“Are—are you going to have me watched!” she gasped.
“No—not quite that. But if you attempt flight, we may have to follow you.”
As a matter of fact, the astute Belknap had sized up the old maid pretty carefully, and was convinced that what little she knew was unimportant to him, though it doubtless seemed vital to her. Also, he had no time just now, to persuade or wheedle her, and he feared frightening her would do little good. So, he concluded to wait and see what else he could find out, before seeing her again. A woman on the floor above could easily know something definite, yet somehow Miss Adams did not impress him as doing so.
He went downstairs, and looking in the door, said, “Come on, Prescott, let’s go up to the Lindsays’ and start out right.”
“All right. Wait a minute, come in here, will you? We’ve got word from the photographer, and there are no fingerprints on the revolver or on the telephone except Gleason’s own.”
“What! Suicide? No, not possible, if the fatal shot was fired first.”
“It was. I just called up Doctor Davenport, and he hedged at first, but then he acknowledged it was true. The shot in the shoulder was fired after the man was already dead. Now, what do you make of that! Why, in heaven’s name shoot a dead man?”
Belknap looked thoughtful. “It’s a deep game somebody’s playing,” he said. “We’ve got our work cut out for us. Come along, let’s get busy. Guard everything mighty carefully, Kelly. Don’t let anybody in, but people who belong. Our criminal is a slick one, and no obvious measures go, this time. No fingerprints! Some expert, that murderer!”
CHAPTER VI—The Fur Collar
Prescott, absorbed in the fingerprint matter, went off to see about it, leaving Belknap to take up the trail alone.
The attorney concluded to go first to Pollard’s, and note for himself the attitude of the man who had threatened Gleason’s life.
He found Manning Pollard in his rooms at the little hotel, and was greeted with courtesy, though with no great cordiality.
“Come in, Mr Belknap,” Pollard said, “I can give you a short interview, but I’ve a piece of important work on hand.”
“I’ll stay only a few minutes,” the other said, ingratiatingly, “but I’d like your help. I know all about that remark of yours concerning your dislike of Mr Gleason. That’s past history—though I may say it will become famous.”
“But why?” broke in Pollard, frowning a little. “You must admit there are lots of people who feel like that——”
“I know, but they don’t put it into words. Just as there are lots of people who would steal if they were sure they’d not be caught. But they don’t, as a rule, advertise this.”
“All right, go ahead. You don’t suspect me of the murder?”
Pollard’s frank glance seemed to compel an honest reply, and Belknap said, “I don’t—but only because it has been proved that it was impossible for you to have been in the vicinity of Gleason’s place at that time.”
“You couldn’t have much more positive proof, I suppose,” and Pollard smiled. “All right, then, what can I do for you?”
“Tell me whom you suspect.” Belknap shot out the words, in an effort to catch Pollard off his guard, for it was the attorney’s belief that the clubman knew more of the matter than he had told.
“You give me a difficult question, Mr Belknap,” Pollard said, in a serious tone. “I daresay everybody has vague suspicions floating through his brain, but to put them in words is—well, might it not start inquiry in a wrong direction and do ultimate harm?”
“It might, if spoken to the public, but to the investigators of the case, I think it is your duty to tell all you know.”
“Oh, I don’t know anything. Not anything. I assure you. But if I were to express an opinion or make a surmise, I should say look for some incident in Mr Gleason’s private life. I know enough of his character and temperament to feel sure that he had friends among people outside the social pale, and it seems to me there’s the direction in which to look. It’s really no secret that Mr Gleason entertained the sort of young ladies who are usually classed under the general title of ‘chorus girls’ whether they are in the chorus or not. Look that way, I imagine, and you will, at least, find food for thought.”
“You don’t know of any particular girl in whom he was interested?”
Pollard stared at him. “I do not. I knew Mr Gleason but slightly. I know nothing of his private affairs, and, as I told you, even the surmise I made is based merely on the man’s general characteristics. I have heard him refer to the girls I spoke of, but only in general conversation, and seldom at that. Please understand, I was not only no friend of Robert Gleason, but scarcely an acquaintance. I never met him more than three or four times.”
“Yet you took a positive dislike to him.”
“I did. I frequently take dislikes at first sight. Or, I am attracted at first sight. Mine is not a unique nature, Mr Belknap. Many people like or dislike a stranger at first meeting.”
“But they don’t threaten to kill them.”
Pollard reached the end of his patience. “Mr Belknap,” he said, “I’m tired of having that remark of mine quoted at me. If it had not chanced that Gleason was killed yesterday, that speech would never have been remembered. I do not deny the remark; I do not deny that it was spoken in earnest. But I do deny that I killed Robert Gleason. Now, if you still suspect me, go to work and bring the crime home to me, if not, let up on your insinuations!”
“All right, I will. I don’t believe for a minute that you had a hand in it—but I hoped you knew something more definite than you’ve told me. And, maybe you do. If for instance, you had suspicion of any friend of yours, or an acquaintance, you would, doubtless, try to throw me off the track, and point my attention to Mr Gleason’s little lady friends.”
Pollard looked at his visitor with fresh interest. “You’re cleverer than I thought,” he said, frankly. “I don’t mind telling you that if I did suspect a friend, the first thing I should do, would be to try to throw the police off his track.”
“Have you no sense of justice—or duty to the state?”
“Quite as much as most people, only I don’t pretend to more than I have—as most people do. Nine men out of ten would protect a friend, only they wouldn’t be so open-mouthed about it.”
“That’s so; and in a way I’m glad you are so frank. Now, if I come to suspect any friend of yours, I shall return to you and get some information—from the things you don’t say!”
“Good for you, Mr Belknap. I like your shrewdness. And, truly, if the time comes when I can help, without running a friend’s head into the noose, I’ll do it.”
“And now, I’m going up to the Lindsay house.”
“I believe I’ll go with you. I may be of some help to them.”
“I thought you were so terribly busy!”
Pollard smiled. “I am. But, my business is a movable feast. I’m a writer, you know.”
“Yes, I know your two books.”
“And I’m just getting out another. I write essays for the magazines, and when I get enough, I bunch ’em up and call it a book.”
“And the reviewers call it a good book,” Belknap complimented.
“Some of them do. But, I’m my own master—if I neglect my work it hurts no one but myself, and nothing but my own bank account. And so, I’ll give up doing a bit of writing I planned for this morning, and go up to the Lindsays’ with you. If I can do anything for them, in any way, I’ll be glad.”
The Lindsay apartment wore the air common to homes where death has entered, yet not to one of the actual household. The shades were partly drawn and a few shaded lamps were lighted. A silent maid admitted the callers and they were shown into the living room where a group of people sat.
The three Lindsays were there, also Doctor Davenport, who had been prescribing for Mrs Lindsay.
“You’re all right,” he was telling her, “just keep quiet and——”
“But, Doctor,” her shrill voice responded, “how can I keep quiet, when I’m so excited? My nerves are on edge—I’m frightened—I can’t sleep or eat or rest——”
“The medicine I prescribed will help all that; now, just obey my orders and do the best you can to keep cool and calm.”
“Let me help you,” and Manning Pollard took the seat next Millicent; “sometimes the mere presence of an unexcitable person helps frazzled nerves.”
“You’re surely that,” and Mrs Lindsay smiled a welcome. “I never saw any one less excitable than you are. Do help to calm me.”
She laid her hand in Pollard’s and sank back in her chair, already quieted by his silent sympathy.
“Wait a minute, Doctor,” Belknap said, as Davenport was about to leave. “I’m asking a few questions, and I want you to tell me as to those two shots that killed Mr Gleason. You don’t mind being present, Mrs Lindsay?”
“Indeed, no. I want to be. I want to know every bit of evidence, every clew to the murderer of my brother! I am not excited over the investigation, I only get nervous when I think you will not avenge the crime!”
“We’re trying our best,” returned Belknap. “What is your theory, Doctor Davenport?”
“I haven’t any,” and the doctor looked slightly embarrassed.
“Well,” Belknap thought to himself, “all these people act queer! Are they all shielding the same person? Is it the precious son of the house?”
“I don’t believe in laymen having theories,” Davenport went on. “Those are for the police to form and then to prove.” He spoke shortly, but in an even time, as one who was sure of what he wanted to say.
“All right,” agreed Belknap, “and to form and prove our theories, we must get all the evidence we can. Now, Doctor, as to those shots.”
The doctor became all the professional man again. “There’s no doubt as to the facts,” he replied, straightforwardly; “the fatal shot was most certainly fired first, and the shot in the shoulder some minutes later—after the man had been dead at least several minutes.”
“How do you, then, explain Mr Gleason’s ability to telephone a message that he was shot?”
“I don’t explain it—nor can I conceive of any explanation. It’s the strangest thing I ever heard of!”
“It is strange,” Belknap mused, “but there must be some explanation. For he did telephone. Your nurse took the message?”
“She did. And she is a most reliable woman. Whatever she reported as to that message, you may depend on as absolute truth. Nurse Jordan has been with me many years, and she is most punctilious in the repetition of messages.”
“Mightn’t he have telephoned after the first shot,” Pollard said, his air more that of one thinking aloud, than of one propounding a theory, “and then with a spasmodic gesture or something, have fired the second shot by accident?”
“The second shot was fired after the man was dead,” repeated Doctor Davenport, positively.
“Then there was a murderer,” Belknap said, “which fact we have decided upon anyway. And an unusually clever murderer, too.”
“But I can’t see it,” Millicent Lindsay said, speaking in a low moaning voice. “Why would anybody shoot my brother after he had already killed him? I can’t see any theory that would explain that.”
“Nor I,” declared the doctor. “It’s the queerest thing I ever knew.”
“Leave that point for the moment,” Belknap advised, “if we get other facts they may throw light on that. Do any of you think that Mr Gleason,” he glanced furtively at Mrs Lindsay to see if he might go on, “was acquainted with—with young ladies——”
“Not in our set?” cried Louis; “he most assuredly was. Now you’re getting on the right tack! You don’t mind this talk, Millicent?”
“No; go on,” returned Mrs Lindsay. “I want to know the truth. And, of course, my brother was no saint. Moreover, if he chose to entertain chorus girls or that sort of people he had a perfect right to do so. I’m not surprised or shocked at anything of that kind. But if they were in any way responsible for his death, I want to know it. Do you know anything definite, Louis?”
“No,” was the reply, but the youth went white.
Belknap studied his face, feeling sure that to go white was not absolutely unusual with the young man. He was apparently anaemic, unstrung, and very emotional. His lips twitched, and he curled and uncurled his fingers.
As a matter of fact, Belknap was looking toward Louis as a possible suspect. Though, as yet, he had no reason for such a suspicion.
“I do,” said Phyllis Lindsay, speaking for the first time during this discussion. “I know he was intimate with some moving picture actresses. He had their photographs in his rooms.”
“When were you there last?” asked Belknap suddenly.
“I don’t know—about a week ago, I think. I called in one day to see a new picture Mr Gleason had just bought.”
Her face was slightly flushed, but she was cool and composed of manner. Belknap despaired of getting any real information here.
Doctor Davenport looked at Phyllis.
“Did you leave anything there?” he asked abruptly.
“Leave anything?” she repeated.
“Yes,” impatiently. “Any of your belongings—wearing apparel?”
“Why, no,” the girl smiled. “I didn’t.”
“Sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure. Unless I dropped a handkerchief, maybe. I’m forever losing those.”
“You didn’t leave a fur collar?”
“Of course I didn’t! My fur collars are too valuable not to keep track of.”
“Then,” and Doctor Davenport drew from his bag a small fur neckpiece. “Then, I guess it’s my duty to show up this. It’s a thing,” he looked a bit embarrassed, “I picked up in Gleason’s room when I first went there last night. I thought it was yours, Phyllis, and I brought it to you.”
“Well, of all performances!” exclaimed Belknap, astonished.
“Oh, come now,” and Davenport smiled, “I meant to give it up sooner, but I forgot it. I only thought, if it should be Phyllis’, she’d rather know about it——”
“All right, as long as I have it now,” and Belknap reached for the fur with an air of authority. “This may be the clew that will lead us straight to the murderer—or murderess.”
“It may,” agreed the doctor, “and it may set you off on the wrong track, hounding some poor little innocent girl!”
“Is it a valuable piece?” and Belknap held it out toward Phyllis.
“I don’t want to touch it,” she shrank back. “Please don’t make me.”
“Let me see it,” said Millicent reaching out a hand. “I’ll soon tell you.”
After a moment’s scrutiny she said, “It’s a fairly good fur, and it’s the latest style; what they call a choker. It’s new this season, but not worth more than thirty or forty dollars.”
“It might belong to ’most anybody, then,” mused Belknap.
“Yes,” said Millicent, “but you see by the label inside, it came from a shop patronized more by bargain hunters than by an exclusive class of customers.”
“Pointing to the less aristocratic type,” Belknap nodded. “Well, we must trace the owner of the collar. Where was it, Doctor?”
“In a chair in the room,” said Davenport, looking as sheepish as a censured schoolboy. “I was a fool I suppose, to take it, but I thought if it belonged to Miss Lindsay, it might lead to a lot of unpleasant notoriety for her——”
“All right, all right,” Belknap shut off his apologies. “Now to find an owner for the fur. Any suggestions?”
He looked around the group, with a general survey, but really scanning Louis’ face, in hopes the boy might show some sign of recognition.
But it was from Pollard that the advice came, “Advertise.”
“Just what I planned to do,” Belknap said: “I’ll take the fur and advertise for its owner. An adroitly worded advertisement ought to bring results.”
There was little more conversation of importance, the attorney merely taking some notes of certain data he desired, and learning of the arrangements for the funeral which was to take place next day at the Funeral Rooms.
“I probably shan’t see you again, Mrs Lindsay, until after I hear from the advertisement,” Belknap told her.
“Oh, come to see me whenever you have any fresh evidence or any news,” she urged him. “After the funeral, may be too late. Follow up all trails—spare no effort. I may be a peculiar person, Mr Belknap, but I can’t help it. I never thought I was of a revengeful nature, but I think it is a righteous indignation that I have now. And I will do anything, spend any amount to find the murderer of my brother.”
“You are his heir?” Belknap asked, casually.
“I have not inquired into that as yet,” was the reply, spoken rather coldly. “I don’t even know whether my brother left a will or not. Mr Lane is his lawyer.”
“My question was not prompted by idle curiosity,” Belknap assured her, “but it is of importance to know who will benefit financially by the death of this rich man.”
“If he left no will,” Mrs Lindsay informed him, “I am the only heir. If he left a will, I’ve no idea as to its contents.”
“I must inquire of Lane, then; though doubtless he will see you on the matter very soon.”
Belknap departed and first thing he did was to put an advertisement in the Lost and Found columns of several evening papers.
And the next afternoon his zeal was rewarded.
He had instructed the owner of the collar to call at a small shop on a side street, which had no apparent connection with Mr Robert Gleason or his affairs.
By arrangement with the proprietor, Belknap himself was behind the counter and greeted the sweetly smiling young woman who came for the fur.
“Are you sure it’s yours?” Belknap asked the fashionably dressed little person.
“No; are you?” she replied, saucily. “But I can describe mine.”
“Go ahead, then.”
“It’s a soft, gray fur, squirrel it’s called. And it has a label inside with the name of the store where it was bought.”
“Yes? And the store is——?”
“Cheapman’s Department Store.” She smiled triumphantly. “Guess you’ll have to give up the goods!”
“It looks that way,” Belknap smiled. “Now where did you lose it?”
“Haven’t the least idea. Somewhere between starting out from home and getting back there.”
“Day before yesterday?”
“Yep. I went to a whole lot of places——”
“Mention some. You see, the store you speak of sells a good many fur collars, so it all depends on where you left yours.”
The girl’s face fell. “Oh, come now,” she said, “s’pose I don’t want to tell?”
“Then I shall think you’re putting up a game on me, and trying to get a fur collar that doesn’t belong to you.”
“Oh, well, it doesn’t. But it does belong to a friend of mine—and I’m after it for her.”
“And she doesn’t want to admit where she lost it?”
“I don’t know why she wouldn’t. But you see, I don’t know all the places she went to, and——”
“Look here, Miss—you’ll have to give your name, you know.”
By this time the girl looked decidedly frightened. “I don’t want to,” she said, almost crying. “Let the old fur go—I don’t want it! I wish I’d kept out of this!”
“Tell me who sent you here, and you can keep out of it.”
The girl brightened decidedly, and looked at Belknap.
“Honest,” she said; “if I tell you who sent me, can I go home?”
“Certainly you may. I’ve no right to detain you.”
“All right, then, it was Mary Morton.”
“Address?”
She gave a street number in the Longacre district, and hurried away almost before Belknap finished writing it down.
Thanking and remunerating the shopkeeper for the use of his premises, Belknap went directly to the address he had obtained.
“Like as not she’ll be out,” he thought, “but if she is, I’ll go again. I’ll bet it’s one of Gleason’s lady friends, and though I’ve no idea she shot him—yet, she might have. Anyway, I’ll get a line on his gay acquaintances. It’s bound to be the owner of the collar, for her friend described it exactly, and gave the right maker’s name.”
Reaching the address given him, Belknap felt a sudden qualm of suspicion. It did not look at all like a boarding house, theatrical or any other kind. In fact it was a shop where electrical goods were sold.
“Upstairs, I s’pose,” Gleason mused, and went in.
But nobody at that number could tell him anything of Miss Mary Morton. No one had ever heard of her, and Belknap was confronted with the sudden conviction that he had been made a fool of!
“Idiot! Dunderhead!” he called himself, angrily, as he left the place. “I am an ass, I declare! That little snip jack took me in completely, with her honest gray eyes! Well, let me see; I’ve a start. That girl described that fur too accurately not to be the owner herself, and I’ll track her down again yet. It can’t be a hard job. I’ll see her picture in some theatrical office or somewhere.”
But it was a hard blow, and Belknap felt pretty sore at Prescott’s jeers when he learned the story.
“Anyway, it’s given us a way to turn,” said Belknap. “We’ve got the fur.”
“Yes,” grinned Prescott, wickedly, “we’ve got the fur, and that’s as fur as we have got!”