CHAPTER X
The Signed Letter
Philip Barry stood staring at the paper the detective had handed tohim.
"What foolery is this?" he said, angrily. "I never saw this before."
"No?" said Prescott, a sarcastic smile on his face. "How'd you writeit then? Blindfolded?"
"So it was you!" Millicent Lindsay cried. "I knew we'd get at thetruth, but I didn't think you were the criminal, Philip! Oh, you mayas well own up--the proof is positive!"
"Not positive," Phyllis said, looking at Barry, kindly. "It isn't surethat Mr Barry killed Mr Gleason, just because he wrote this note--isit, Mr Prescott?"
"Looks mighty like it," the detective returned. "But we'll listen towhat he has to say. You wrote this?"
"I did not!" and Barry's eyes flashed ominously. "I tell you I neversaw it before."
"That is your signature?"
"It looks like it, I admit, but it can't be, for I never wrote thatletter. Where'd you get it?"
"In Mr Gleason's desk. At his apartment. As you see, it's dated theday before the murder took place, it's--to say the least--a bitincriminating. What's your explanation?"
"I haven't any--I----"
"Wait a minute, Mr Barry." Prescott spoke seriously. "Here's athreatening note, signed by yourself, written on your Club paper to MrGleason. Unless you can prove that signature forged, I think yourdenial of any knowledge of this document cannot be believed."
"Believe it or not," Barry stormed, "I tell you I never wrote that. Inever saw it! I don't know anything about it! I've been outinvestigating the case, getting evidence and all that, and I came backhere with it and you thrust that thing at me! I tell you it's aforgery! Somebody's trying to get me into this thing--but the gamecan't be worked!"
"Will you sign your name, Mr Barry?" Prescott asked quietly.
"No, I won't! I deny your right to ask it!"
"But a refusal is a tacit admission----"
"No admission at all! I refuse to do a silly thing like that! Thesignature does resemble mine--but it can't be mine, for I didn't writeit."
"Have you any of Mr Barry's signatures in your possession?" Prescottasked of Phyllis.
"No," she said, promptly, and though Prescott doubted her word, hedidn't say so.
"How silly!" Louis exclaimed. "It's dead easy to get a signature ofyours, Phil, why not write one now, and have it over with. Of coursethe thing is a forgery!"
Apparently seeing the sense of this, Barry went to the desk and dashedoff his name on a sheet of paper.
"There!" he cried, angrily, as he flung it at Prescott.
The detective examined the two, and gave a short whistle.
"Well," he declared, "if I knew of anybody who could forge as well asthat--I'd get him behind bars as quick as possible! Why, man, thesignatures are identical! As to the typing, that is as personal aspenmanship. Have you a typewriter?"
"No"; growled Barry, looking like a wild beast at bay. "I haven't."
"Do you ever use one?"
"No."
Louis looked up, with such a surprised air, that Prescott said, "Yes,you do. Whose?"
"Nobody's," repeated Barry, now furiously incensed. "You quit theseabsurd questions! I won't answer any more!"
"Why, Phil," said Phyllis, gently, "don't get so angry. Mr Prescott isonly trying to find out about this letter."
"And an important letter it is," cried Millicent.
She was greatly excited, her eyes flashed and her lips trembled, asshe fairly glared at Barry.
"So you're the criminal," she went on, "you killed my brother! Someneed to ask why! Just because you're in love with Phyllis and youfound Robert was cutting you out! A fine way to remedy matter--to killyour rival!"
"Oh, Millicent," Phyllis begged, "don't jump at conclusions like that!Even if Phil did write that letter it doesn't prove he killed MrGleason."
"No"; Barry said, as if struck with a new view of it all; "even if Idid write that, it proves nothing further."
"Oho!" said Prescott, "you're admitting that you wrote it, then?"
"I admit nothing. I deny nothing. I only say----"
"Don't say anything, Phil," Louis warned him. "You say too much,anyway. Prescott's on the job, let him find out who wrote the letter,and who signed it."
"As if there was any doubt;" the detective scoffed. "But, laying asidethe question for the moment, did you say, Mr Barry, that you have beendoing some investigating on your own account?"
"On my own account, and on account of my friends here," Barry replied,but his tone and expression betrayed agitation. "I've found out whoowns the fur collar."
"Who?" Prescott asked.
"Ivy Hayes."
The effect of his announcement was slight on all present, except LouisLindsay. He started, looked frightened, began to speak and thenchecked himself.
"Well, Louis," Barry said, "out with it! I know you're interested inMiss Hayes--what's the word?"
"This is the word," said Louis, and his low voice was intense andincisive, "if you or anybody else undertakes to drag Ivy Hayes' nameinto this muddle, you'll have to reckon with me!"
"Oh, come, now," Prescott smiled, "in the first place, I won't have mycase called a muddle--next, if Miss Hayes or anybody else is connectedwith it in any way, she's in it already, without having to be draggedin--as you call it. Go on, Mr Barry, what did you learn from or aboutMiss Hayes?"
"I learned that she was in Mr Gleason's apartment the afternoon of themurder----"
"She wasn't!" Louis exclaimed, "She wasn't!"
"Oh, hush, Louis," Barry said, contemptuously, "she told me herselfshe was."
"Go on," said Prescott.
"She left Mr Gleason alive and well, when she departed."
"At what time?"
"She doesn't remember exactly--it's the hardest thing in the world tomake people assert a time. But I gathered it was not far from sixo'clock when she left Gleason's rooms."
"That's getting pretty close to the time of the murder," Prescott saidthoughtfully.
"Oh, she didn't kill Gleason," Barry put in, "He was planning to takeher next day to buy a bracelet--as Ivy said, why would she kill a manwho was about to do that?"
"You innocent!" exclaimed Millicent; "of course, she said that to pullthe wool over your eyes! I don't believe you did it after all, Phil! Ibelieve it was that Ivy person! A girl like that wouldn't leave herfur collar, unless she went away in a fearful hurry or trepidation."
"A point, Mrs Lindsay," and Prescott looked at her admiringly. "Itwould indeed denote a preoccupied mind, to leave a fur collar. And shewas there about six, you say. But the man wasn't killed till nearlyseven."
"Oh, she didn't tell the truth about the time," said Millicent,nodding her head sagaciously. "I'm surprised she admitted being thereat all--but, I'm told they always slip up on some details."
"Well, at any rate, there are several matters to be looked into,"Prescott said, rising to go. "I'm interested in your story of theHayes girl, Mr Barry, but I'm even more interested in this letter youwrote."
"I didn't write it, I tell you!"
"I know you tell me so, but I can't take your word for that. I'm goingto consult a penmanship expert. And, if you'll take my advice youwon't try to leave town--for, you'd find it difficult."
"Meaning I'm to be under surveillance?"
"Oh, well, the matter has to be cleared up," Prescott shrugged.
"Perfectly ridiculous!" Barry stormed on, after the detective hadgone; "you know, don't you, Phyllis, I had nothing to do with thematter?"
"Of course," Phyllis replied, but her voice was disinterested and hergaze was far off. "But, look here, Phil, tell me something. When can Iget my money--or some of it?"
"How much?"
"Twenty thousand dollars."
"Whew! What do you want of all that? Are you mercenary, Phyllis?"
"No; but I want it----"
"Oh, she does!" cried Millicent. "She's been harping on that all day.I think it's disgraceful!
She thinks of nothing but that."
"Oh, no, Millicent," and Phyllis' face flushed painfully--"I do wantsome ready cash, for an important purpose----"
"And sometimes I go back to my first idea that you killed my brother,"Mrs Lindsay glared at her stepdaughter.
Millicent Lindsay was becoming more and more nervously unstrung abouther brother's death. Hers was a super-emotional nature, and combinedwith a desperate spirit of revenge, she grew excited every time thesubject was discussed. And as she never lost a possible chance todiscuss it, the state of her nerves was becoming permanently affected.Not content to leave the matter to detectives, she continuallydiscovered, or thought she did, new evidence, and promptly changed hersuspicions to correspond. She transferred her accusations from onesuspect to another with remarkable speed and often unjustifiableassurance.
At present she was quite willing to believe in the guilt of Ivy Hayesor Philip Barry, or, as she just stated, to turn back to her originalsuspicion of Phyllis.
"Oh, Lord," Barry groaned, "you're the limit, Millicent! You are quitecapable of believing every one of us killed Gleason! Why do you exceptold Pollard from your mind? He said he was going to do it, you know."
"Yes; that's why I know he didn't! If he had intended it, he wouldn'thave said so."
"I say, Mill, you do have flashes of insight," Louis said, "that's theway I look at it."
"But I saw Pollard down in the vicinity of Gleason's place today,"said Barry. "Now, what was he doing down there?"
"Drawn back to the scene of his crime!" Louis chaffed. "They saythat's always done. No; Phil, you can't hang anything on Pollard.Prescott checked up his movements at once. Also, I want you to dropIvy Hayes' name. For my sake, old chap, do let up on that. Now, whatabout yourself? Explain that letter, boy."
"I can't," Barry looked troubled.
"Oh, bosh. Why not own up you wrote it, but you didn't mean murder anddidn't commit murder. That's the truth, you know."
"No, Louis--I didn't write it."
"'Scuse me, but your tone and look are not those of a man telling thepure unvarnished. Now, I know that nobody on this green earth couldhave written that signature but Philip Barry himself. And I alsorecognize the typewriter you used. As Prescott says, typing is astraceable as penmanship, and that note was written on the machine inthe writing room at the Club. It's been there for years, and we allwrite on it now and then. So you see, Phil, you'd better be carefulwhat you say."
"Be quiet," Phyllis warned them; "here comes Mr Pollard; I don'tsuppose you want him to hear this."
"Why not?" said Louis, but Barry checked him with a look as Pollardcame in.
"May I come?" he said, as he greeted the women. "I'm starving for acup of tea, and you asked me to come informally and unbidden----"
"Of course we did," Phyllis smiled; "sit down, tea is imminent."
"I've been writing my head off all day," Pollard went on, as he tookan easy chair. "Haven't even been out for a breath of air----"
"Why--" Phyllis was about to say that Barry had seen him down near theGleason home, but she stopped herself in time. She had no wish to tripup Phil Barry--indeed, her feelings prompted her to shield him--butsurely, surely, he had falsified in this instance! Why?
There was but one answer. Barry was trying to make Pollard againsuspected. Notwithstanding Barry's insistence on Pollard's alibi, astray hint, such as he had given about seeing him down town, madethings questionable again.
Quickly changing the subject, Phyllis made the conversation general,and though the Gleason matter cropped up now and then, other topicswere mentioned.
Also, Phyllis returned to her great desire to get some of herinheritance at once.
"Why, surely you can," Pollard said; "how much do you want? Can't Iadvance you some?"
"No; I want twenty thousand dollars, and I don't want to say whatfor."
Like a flash, Pollard's mind went back to that afternoon--the day ofthe murder--when he saw Phyllis pass him in a taxicab. He had beenstanding, he remembered, in the corner of Fifth Avenue andForty-second Street, and he distinctly saw Phyllis, and a strange manwith her. She had not seen him--of that he was sure--and now, as shevoiced this strange desire, he wondered what in the world she had beenup to.
"I'm not asking what you want all that for," he said, with a kindlysmile, "but maybe you'd care to say."
"No; I wouldn't." Her face was pink, but her voice was calm and herglance at him steady. "I will say, however, that it is for a purposewhich no one could disapprove of----"
"Then why not tell?" Millicent exclaimed. "That's Phyllis all over, MrPollard; she'd make a mystery out of nothing! If her purpose is a goodone, why keep it so secret? I'll tell you why; only because Phyllisloves to create a sensation! She loves to be wondered at and thoughtimportant."
"Oh, Millicent, what nonsense!" Phyllis blushed painfully now.
"Let up, Mill," Louis said; "my sister is not like that. I can easilyunderstand why she might want a round sum of money, for a perfectlygood reason, yet not want to tell everybody all about it. And sheought to have it, too. Lane could give it to her, if he chose----"
"He says he can't," Phyllis said.
"I'll be glad to lend it to you," Pollard told her, "as soon as I canget it together. I've stocks I can sell----"
"Don't you do it, Mr Pollard," said Millicent. "Phyllis can wait.There's no such desperate haste--or, if there is----"
"Hush, Millicent!" Louis spoke sternly. "You're going to insinuatesomething about Phyllis and the--the affair--and I won't have it!"
"Oh, Mr Pollard," Millicent broke forth, "you haven't heard about PhilBarry's note, have you?"
"No, he hasn't," said Barry, looking daggers at Millicent; "but, ofcourse, he soon will, so I'll tell it myself. Why, Pol, a note hasbeen discovered among Gleason's papers, signed by me."
"Well, did you sign it?"
"Never! But----"
"If you didn't sign it, why bother? Experts nowadays can tellpositively a forgery from a real signature. You're all right. But whatwas the note? Of any importance?"
"Oh, it contained what might be looked upon as a threat againstGleason's life."
Pollard smiled involuntarily.
"We're in the same boat, then, Phil. You know I'm accused ofthreatening the same thing."
"Yes, but you did threaten it--I heard you. And you were just talkingfoolishly. But this written matter is different. The thing said ifGleason didn't let Phyllis alone, I'd do for him."
"Why, internal evidence, then, proves you never wrote it. You wouldn'texpress yourself in that way in a thousand years."
"I haven't quoted it verbatim. That's only the gist of it."
"Oh, well; tell me more. Is it all written by you--apparently?"
"No; but it's on that typewriter--over at the Club--you know----"
"I know," Pollard looked serious now. "A note written on that oldjunk-heap, and signed by you--I don't get it, Phil."
"Of course you don't, Pol, I don't myself! There's a conspiracyagainst me, I believe! Somebody----"
"Oh, come, now, Barry, what sort of talk is that? You had no animosityagainst Gleason----"
"Oh, didn't I? Well, then, I did--very much so!"
"Phil, stop!" cried Phyllis. "Don't you see you oughtn't to say suchthings? Please don't."
"It doesn't matter, here among ourselves," said Pollard, "but speakout, Phil; say where you were at the time of the murder. Quash allpossibility of suspicion at once. I used that bravado stunt, andthough it's all right now--yet it made him a lot of bother. I wouldn'tdo it again, nor advise any one else to."
"Do what again?" asked Millicent.
"Oh, that smarty-cat business of not telling where I was at the hourof the crime. Of course, being right there at home, I knew they'd haveto prove it, but it was sheer, silly bravado that made me refuse tospeak plainly and tell my own story. And, now, that the case isfarther along, I'll tell you, Phil, you make a mistake if you try thatfool game. Speak up, man, where were you?"
/> "Why," Barry spoke slowly, "I left the Club with you."
"I know you did. We walked together down to your street,Forty-fourth--and then you turned off and I went on down home. Whatdid you do next?"
"Nothing. Just dressed for dinner."
"Hold on, there was a long time in there. We parted about six, anddinner was at eight. Dressing all the time?"
"Yes--yes, I think so. Or in my room, anyway."
"Anybody see you?"
"Oh, I don't know. Let up Pollard, I won't be quizzed!"
"I'm not quizzing you, old chap, but I'm warning you that others will.What you tell me about this letter, doesn't sound good to me. I don'tsay you wrote it, but I do say the experts will know--and if theyprove it on you--the letter I mean--you'll be questioned, and mightyclosely, too."
"But I didn't do anything--I'm not afraid of being questioned."
"All right, son. Neither was I. And when they questioned my hotelpeople they were satisfied of my innocence. If you're fixed like that,you're all right, too."
Barry looked thoughtful. Pollard watched him, though not seeming to doso. This letter business sounded queer to them all.
Phyllis and Louis watched Barry in silence, but Millicent exclaimed:
"Did you do it, Phil? Oh, say you didn't. I can't stand suspense--tellme the truth."
"No, Millicent, of course, I didn't kill your brother," Barry said;"nor did I write him a letter saying I would do anything----"
"That's enough, Barry," Pollard said, cordially. "I wouldn't ask youmyself, but since you make that statement, that's all I want to know.Now, about that money, Miss Phyllis. I'm sure I can get it for youinside of forty-eight hours. Will that do?"
"Yes," and Phyllis gave him a grateful look. "I hate to ask you, butMr Lane only laughs when I talk to him, and tells me not to beimpatient."
"Most girls are impatient," Pollard smiled. "Very well, then, I'llbring it to you day after tomorrow--or tomorrow, if possible."
And then, to their surprise, Prescott returned, and asked Barry to gowith him to the District Attorney's office, which, perforce, and witha bad grace, Philip Barry did.
"Oh, say you think he is innocent," Phyllis begged of Pollard, afterBarry's departure.
"I would say so," Pollard returned, "but if that note is proved to befrom him, it looks a little dubious."