The moving finger

VERA glanced neither to the right nor to the left as she walked with firm steps toward the library, and thereby missed seeing a face peering at her from behind the folds of the portières which hung in front of the reception-room entrance. Her fixed resolve to get the interview with Detective Mitchell over and done with aided her in suppressing all sign of agitation, and her demeanor was calm and collected when she approached Mrs. Porter, who occupied her customary seat before the library table. Mitchell had planted himself at the opposite side of the table and spread several typewritten sheets before him. He did not rise on Vera’s entrance.

Mrs. Porter, who sat with one eye on the door, was the first to address Vera.

“Detective Mitchell desires to question you, Vera,” she said. “Sit here by me.” And she touched the girl reassuringly.

Vera almost exclaimed aloud at the coldness of her fingers. “Are you having a chill, Mrs. Porter?” she asked in alarm, observing the bluish hue of her lips. “Would you like some brandy?”

“No.” Mrs. Porter’s tone did not encourage further solicitude. “As soon as Mr. Mitchell completes his visit I shall go for a walk. Continue your remarks, Mr. Mitchell.”

Mitchell was about to comply with her injunction when Vera, who had remained standing by Mrs. Porter, spoke first.

“I have heard that Dr. Alan Noyes has been arrested for the murder of Mr. Bruce Brainard. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” Mitchell, keeping his finger at a certain point in the manuscript before him, watched Vera closely.

“Then the police have acted most unjustly,” exclaimed Vera vehemently. “Dr. Noyes is innocent.”

“Your grounds for that assertion?”

Vera hesitated, glanced dubiously at Mrs. Porter, whose adamantine expression gave her no encouragement, and then addressed Mitchell.

“I believe—” Her clear voice faltered, and she commenced again. “I believe that no murder was committed—Mr. Brainard killed himself.”

Mitchell made no attempt to conceal his incredulity. “Medical evidence proves that the wound in his throat could not have been self-inflicted except by a left-handed man,” he rejoined. “And reputable witnesses have proved that Bruce Brainard was not left-handed.”

“But he was ambidextrous,” retorted Vera. “He could shave himself with equal facility with either hand.”

Mitchell stared at her astounded, while Mrs. Porter, hanging on her words, drew a deep, deep breath.

“Where did you learn that about Bruce Brainard?” demanded Mitchell.

Vera met the detective’s accusing gaze squarely. “He told me so himself.”

“What?” Mitchell leaned across the table in his eagerness. “Did Brainard tell you that he was ambidextrous on Monday night?”

“No.”

“Then you had known him before Monday night?”

“I had.”

Mitchell sat back in his chair and scowled at Vera.

“Why did you not mention in your testimony at the inquest on Tuesday that you had known Bruce Brainard formerly?” His manner was stern. “You gave us to understand that you had not met Brainard until sent for to attend him after dinner on Monday night.”

“I was not asked the direct question as to whether we had ever met before,” replied Vera. “I did not volunteer the information because—”

“Because it would have led to an investigation of your acquaintance with him,” with insolent meaning, and Vera, her hot blood dancing in her veins, stepped nearer the detective, her eyes blazing with pent-up wrath.

Mrs. Porter, rising suddenly, intervened. “Stop, Mr. Mitchell; if you insult Miss Deane I shall have my servants eject you,” she said, and her slow, level tones warned the detective that he must not go too far in his heckling tactics. But before he could resume questioning Vera the library door, which she had left ajar on entering, was pushed open and Mrs. Hall came into the room.

“I couldn’t help overhearing what has just been said,” she began, ignoring Mrs. Porter’s indignant glare. “I was on my way to the pantry to get some bouillon for Miss Porter when I heard you talking.” She looked meaningly at Vera. “I’ve held my peace, Miss Deane, out of kindness to you; but now that Dr. Noyes is accused of killing Mr. Brainard it’s time for me to tell the detectives what I know about you.”

Vera gazed at her in amazement too deep for expression, while Mitchell, his eyes shining with excitement, stepped from behind the table.

“Go on, Mrs. Hall,” he said encouragingly. “Tell me everything.”

“I will.” Mrs. Hall paused dramatically. “On Tuesday morning about four o’clock I was awakened by hearing someone moving about in the dressing-room which connects our bedroom with Mr. Porter’s. I got up and looked through the partly open door and was surprised to see Miss Deane slipping on a fresh white skirt, while before her stretched over the stationary washstand was another skirt on which were bloodstains.” A low cry from Mrs. Porter interrupted her, and Mrs. Hall paused, to continue more rapidly as she met Vera’s indignant gaze.

“There was something secretive in Miss Deane’s air that stopped my impulse to ask her what she was about, and I went at once by way of the hall to Mr. Porter’s bedroom, thinking perhaps he might have had a hemorrhage; but I found him lying as usual, apparently asleep. I did not then know that Mr. Brainard was in the next bedroom. Thinking Miss Deane had had a nosebleed I went back to my room and to bed, as I had not been well the day before and needed rest. Some time later Miss Deane came in carrying a skirt in her hand. Hanging it up in the closet, she returned to Mr. Porter’s bedroom.”

“What happened after that?” prompted Mitchell as she stopped.

“I got out of bed and went over to the closet and examined the white skirt which Miss Deane had hung there a few minutes before. The bloodstains had been carefully removed with the aid of cornstarch, and a hot iron passed over the skirt. There is an electric iron and battery for our use in the dressing-room,” she supplemented. “The white skirt bore Miss Deane’s initials inside the belt.”

“Why have you not told all this before?” asked Mrs. Porter, staring at Mrs. Hall with intense dislike discernible.

“I waited, hoping that Miss Deane would voluntarily explain her connection with the murder of Mr. Brainard.” Mrs. Hall moved uneasily; she was not pleased with the rôle Fate had cast for her, but a growing jealousy, fostered by envy, kept her to her determination to tell all she surmised against Vera Deane. “As Miss Deane has not done so, and is sheltering herself behind the arrest of an innocent man—”

“Stop!” commanded Mrs. Porter. “Your unsupported charges cannot involve Vera Deane in Bruce Brainard’s murder.”

“Ah, but they can, in view of what I already know,” broke in Mitchell triumphantly. “Police Headquarters in Pittsburgh reported to me on the long-distance telephone, Miss Deane, that they had found among the court records a certificate of the marriage of Bruce Brainard and your sister, Dorothy.”

Mrs. Porter collapsed in her chair in speechless astonishment and stared at Vera, whose set face was as white as her linen uniform.

“Is this true?” she gasped.

“Yes,” replied Vera. “They were married just after Dorothy left boarding-school. She met Bruce while visiting the Arnolds in Chicago; it was a runaway match.”

Mitchell, who had listened closely to her statement, nodded his head. “So I learned, and my assistant, who has been investigating Brainard’s past career, also told me that Brainard deserted your sister two months after their elopement. He also refused to support her.”

“On the contrary, my sister declined to be supported by him when she found what manner of man she had married,” retorted Vera proudly. “She also refused to use his name, and never announced her marriage.”

“But you knew it, and you knew what she had suffered at Brainard’s hands,” broke in Mitchell roughly. “Do you deny this?”

“No.”

Mitchell’s smile was not pleasant. “Were you also aware that your, eh, brother-in-law’s engagement to Miss Millicent Porter was announced on Monday night?”

“Yes.” Vera’s gaze did not shift and her voice was steady. “Mr. Hugh Wyndham told me of the rumored engagement.”

“Hugh!” Mrs. Porter raised her hands to her temples in bewilderment. “Did Hugh know that Dorothy was the wife of Bruce Brainard?”

“Yes.” Vera’s cold hands closed convulsively over the chair back against which she was leaning. “Dorothy was honest with him, Mrs. Porter.”

“Poor Hugh!” exclaimed Mrs. Porter, her eyes filling with tears. “He loves her devotedly.”

Mitchell moved impatiently. “Miss Deane, I want your full attention,” he announced brusquely. “You have asserted that Bruce Brainard committed suicide. Where did he get the razor?”

Vera paused; should she speak of the razor which Millicent had dropped in her flight from the house the night before? After all, had Millicent dropped it? Was it fair to involve Millicent until she had first had an opportunity to explain?

Mitchell repeated his question with more emphasis: “Where did Brainard get the razor?”

“I don’t know.”

The detective moved closer. “Your theory is good, but it doesn’t hold water,” he declared. “You recognized Bruce Brainard as your sister’s husband; you knew of his despicable conduct to your sister; you had just heard that he considered himself engaged to Miss Millicent Porter, in spite of the fact that the law courts would hold him legally married to your sister.” Vera stirred uneasily. “You had Bruce Brainard here at your mercy—and Mrs. Hall saw you, nearly two hours before you admitted discovering the murder, removing bloodstains from your dress. Oh, come, you might as well confess—and claim the leniency of the court.”

“I will claim nothing but fair play,” cried Vera hotly. “I am innocent. I did not kill Bruce Brainard, much as I loathed and despised him.”

“Then who did kill him?”

Mrs. Hall, who had drawn back as Mitchell approached Vera, was roughly pushed aside as Hugh Wyndham, making no attempt to conceal his anger, stepped in front of the detective.

“What’s going on here? What foolery are you up to, Mitchell?” he demanded. “Vera, there’s no law which compels you to answer this man’s questions.”

A clamor in the hall, which grew louder as footsteps approached, drowned Vera’s answer, and Millicent Porter, clutching Murray’s coat sleeve, burst into the room with the footman.

“There, there, miss, don’t take on so,” pleaded Murray, hardly noticing the others in the library in his endeavor to calm Millicent. “I told you he wasn’t dead.”

But Millicent was past calming and, her dressing-gown fluttering with the haste of her movements, she flung herself into her mother’s arms.

“Mother!” she moaned. “Alan has tried to kill himself. Oh, you must tell the police that the razor belonged to Craig.”

A startled exclamation broke from Mitchell and Mrs. Porter winced.

“How would that clear Alan Noyes?” she asked bitterly. “I presented the set to Alan on Monday morning.”

“But you know he never took them, mother,” pleaded Millicent, her eyes dark with terror. “I found the set in your boudoir on Tuesday morning.”

“But one razor was missing—” The comment escaped Mrs. Porter unwittingly in the agitation of the moment.

“Hush! Mother, how could you?” Millicent clapped her hand on Mrs. Porter’s mouth and glanced fearfully around, to encounter Mitchell’s eager gaze, and shuddering she looked away.

Wyndham, who had listened to Millicent with tense eagerness, turned with such suddenness that he collided against the large leather bag which Murray was holding, having, in his excitement, forgotten to put it down. The bag, insecurely fastened, burst open and out rolled splints and bandages and a miscellaneous array of surgical instruments and a razor. Wyndham reached for it, but Mitchell jostled him to one side and picked it up.

“The razor is one of the set!” he cried. “Where did you get that bag, Murray?” clutching the footman and giving him a shake. “Answer!”

“From Dr. Thorne’s office, sir,” stammered Murray. “The doctor sent me back to say that Dr. Noyes had shot himself and for the nurses to prepare his room; he also told me to stop at Thornedale to get surgical dressings. The old butler didn’t answer the bell, so I climbed through a window and found this bag sitting in his office. I looked in it and seeing bandages and splints brought it along just as it was.”

Vera looked quickly at Mitchell and his expression gave her the key to his thoughts—good heavens! Would he try to fix the crime upon Beverly Thorne? Could it be that Thorne, like the others, had believed her guilty of Brainard’s murder and had taken the razor from her so that it would not be found in her possession and further incriminate her? If so, he had jeopardized himself to protect her. Her face flamed at the thought.

“I can explain Dr. Thorne’s possession of the razor,” she said clearly. “He got it from me.”

“He did!” Mitchell wheeled on her. “So you admit at last that you had the razors.”

“I admit that I picked up the razor after Millicent dropped it last night,” retorted Vera.

“Millicent!” gasped Mrs. Porter.

“I thought I hid all six in the cannon,” faltered Millicent, raising miserable, hunted eyes to Mitchell. “I admit I had the set—because—because—Murray, where did Dr. Noyes shoot himself?” turning desperately to the footman.

“At that lean-to near the top of Elm Ridge.” Murray’s eyes lighted on Mrs. Hall, who was edging her way to the door unobtrusively. “I went upstairs to find you, Mrs. Hall, to tell you they were bringing Dr. Noyes home, but I ran into Miss Millicent and she seen I was a little excited,” with an apologetic glance at Mrs. Porter, who was paying scant attention to him as she strove to quiet Millicent. “She made me tell her about Dr. Noyes.”

Nurse Hall, finding attention centered upon her, colored.

“I will go up and arrange the room now, that is, if I am not required here.”

“You can go,” directed Mitchell. “But remember, I must see you later.”

“Yes, sir.” And Mrs. Hall slipped away, only to return a moment later. “They are bringing Dr. Noyes in the front door, now,” she announced. “And there’s a gentleman asking for you, Mr. Mitchell.”

Before Mitchell reached the hall door Sam Anthony, the Secret Service agent, appeared at the threshold. “Bring Dr. Noyes in here,” he called over his shoulder. Then addressing Mitchell: “He’s regained consciousness.”

There was a surging toward the door of Mitchell, Wyndham and Murray, but they halted as two Secret Service operatives came in supporting Alan Noyes, who walked between them, Beverly Thorne’s arm steadying him from behind.

Noyes stopped at sight of Mitchell, and leaned wearily against Thorne.

“I asked for you,” he began. “To give myself up for the murder of Bruce Brainard.”