CHAPTER XI
Miss Adams Again
"Everything looks dubious!" Millicent exclaimed. "I do think it's ashame! Here the days are flying by and absolutely nothing done towarddiscovering who killed my brother! Unless the police achieve somethingsoon, I shall get a private detective."
"Oh, they're no good," Louis advised her. "They're terribly expensiveand they make a lot of trouble and never get any results, anyway."
"You speak largely, Louis," Pollard said, smiling at the boy. "Do youknow all that from experience?"
"No, not exactly; but I've gathered some such convictions from whatI've heard of private detectives as a class."
"What about Phil Barry and that letter?" Phyllis asked, her great eyesfull of a troubled uncertainty.
"He must have written it," Louis declared. "Isn't that right,Pollard?"
"I don't see any way out of it. It is most surely his signature, andhe often writes on that old machine. Also, he did have a grouch aboutMr Gleason's attentions to Miss Lindsay--that I know. But, I don't fora minute think he meant to kill Gleason and I don't think he did. Butthe note will make him a lot of trouble."
"You still suspect some Western friend?" said Millicent, lookingearnestly at Pollard.
"Scarcely a friend! But I do think that's a reasonable supposition,for I can't see any real indication anywhere else."
At this point Lane arrived, and joined in the wonderment about Barry.
"It's most surely his signature," Lane said, "I know it as well as Iknow my own--and it's no forgery. Why should it be a forgery, anyway?Supposing the murderer to be a Western man, or a chorus girl, or evenDoctor Davenport, who has most foolishly been mentioned in thisconnection, why should he write a note and forge Barry's name to it?"
"To throw suspicion on Phil," said Louis, simply.
"Yes, of course, but, I mean, how could it be done? Your Westernstranger or your chorus girl can't get into the Club to use thatmachine--"
"Are you positive the note was written on that typewriter?" askedPollard, thoughtfully.
"Yes; I looked it up. There are some broken letters that don't printwell, and that makes it unmistakable. Now Davenport could get accessto the typewriter, of course, but I can't see old Doc sitting down andwriting that note and forging Barry's name! Can you?"
"No"; and Pollard smiled at the idea. "But Davenport and Barry hateeach other like poison."
"Yes, they've an old quarrel, something about a Picture Exhibitionwhere Doc is a director, and didn't fall down and worship Barry'spictures. But that's not enough to make a man kill."
"No. Yet it was a deep full-fledged quarrel--rather more than yourepresent it. However, I say, grant Barry wrote the note--which hemust have done, but don't hold it as proof positive of murder."
"What else could he have meant by it?" Millicent asked, her eager facedemanding reply.
"Well, as we are assuming he meant Miss Lindsay--and we've no realright to assume that," Pollard smiled at the girl, "we may say he onlymeant to cut Gleason out, and gaining the lady's hand himself, make itimpossible for Gleason to hope any more."
"That's an idea," Lane said, "but you'd hardly think if that was inBarry's mind he would have worded his note just as he did."
"Yes he would," put in Louis. "Barry's a temperamental chap, and he'dsay anything. I know him--I like him, but he does do and say queerthings."
"All artists do," Pollard observed.
Millicent and Lane went off to another room to discuss some businessmatters and Louis followed.
"I'm glad you didn't mention that money before Lane," Pollard said;"it's wiser not to."
"Why?" and Phyllis looked at him curiously. But her eyes fell beforehis gaze, and a faint blush rose to her cheek.
"Because--forgive me if I seem intrusive--because I think you want itfor a purpose you don't care to talk about. And if so, the least saidthe better."
"You're right, Mr Pollard," and Phyllis looked troubled, "I don't wantanything said about it. Also, I don't want it in a check--that Ishould have to endorse. Can't I have cash?"
"Why, yes--if necessary. But it is wiser to have a check for your ownsafety and security. Shall you get a receipt?"
"I--I suppose so--I never thought of that." The lovely face was soanxious and worried that Pollard's deepest sympathy was roused.
"Let me help you further," he said, impulsively. "Oh, Phyllis, confidethe whole story to me. I'm sure I can help--and you can trust me."
The frank glance that accompanied these words was also tender andappealing. Phyllis knew at once that here was a friend--even more thana friend--but at any rate, a man she could trust.
"I can't tell you," she said, hesitatingly, "for it isn't all my secret.I wish I could speak plainly--but----"
"That's all right; don't tell me anything you're in honor bound notto. But let me know what you can of the circumstances and let meadvise you. Can't I pay the money whenever it is due, and bring you areceipt--and so save you unnecessary embarrassment?"
"Oh, if you could do that!" Phyllis' eyes shone with gratitude andpleasure at the thought of thus having her burden shared.
But Lane's return to the room precluded further planning just then.
"Pollard," Lane said, "I'm beginning to think things look a bit darkfor Phil Barry."
"As how?"
"Not only that letter business, which is, to my mind very serious, butother things. Merely straws, perhaps, but they show the direction ofthe wind. Mrs Lindsay told me that Barry said he saw you, Pollard,to-day, down in the vicinity of the Gleason house. Then, Mrs Lindsaysaid, you came in here and said you had been at home all day."
"So I have," Pollard returned, staring at Lane.
"Well, here's the funny thing. Only yesterday, Barry told me that hehad seen you over in Brooklyn--"
"Brooklyn! I never go there!"
"Well, Barry said he saw you there. Now, it's quite evident to me,Barry is lying, and it must be in some endeavor to get you mixed up inthe Gleason matter."
"It looks a little like that--but, how absurd! Why should he say hesaw me in Brooklyn?"
"I don't know. You weren't there?"
"No; I almost never go to Brooklyn, and I certainly was not thereyesterday. I haven't been there for a year, at least!"
"I'm not quite on to Barry's game, but there's two cases where hefalsified in the matter of seeing you. Now, why?"
"I say why, too. I can't see any reason for the Brooklyn yarn. Isuppose I can see a reason for his saying he saw me down in WashingtonSquare, if he means to try to fasten the crime on me. But, theBrooklyn story I see no sense in. What do you think, Lane?"
"I begin to think Barry's the guilty man, though up to now, I hadquite another suspicion."
"A definite one? A person?"
"Yes, decidedly so. And I've no reason to give up my suspicion--exceptthat Barry has loomed up more prominently than my suspect."
"Speak out--who's your man?"
"Yes, Mr Lane, tell us," Phyllis urged.
"No; not at present. It's some one whose name has not even beenbreathed in connection with the case, and if I suspect him wrongly itwould be a fearful thing to say so."
"All right, if that's the way of it, better keep it quiet." Pollardnodded his head. "Been all through Gleason's papers?"
"Yes; and I can't find any letters from any one out West or anywhereelse who would seem a likely suspect. No old time feuds, orpresent-day quarrels. If we except Barry."
"And me."
"You haven't a quarrel with him, Pollard--or had you?"
"I had not. I never saw him more than three times, I think. And when Isaid----"
"Yes, I know what you said, and why. Don't harp on that, Pol, but tryto help me out in this Barry business. Can you see Barry going downthere and shooting Gleason?"
Pollard was still for a minute; then he said:
"I suppose you mean, can I visualize Barry doing the thing. No, Ican't. To begin with, he hasn't the nerve."
"Oh, some
quiet, inoffensive men pick up nerve on occasion."
"Well, then, he hadn't sufficient motive."
"A lady in the case is frequently the motive."
"I daresay. Well, here's a final disclaimer. I was with Barry myselfuntil about six o'clock that night. I hold he wouldn't have had timeto go down to Gleason's after I left him, and get back and appear atMiss Lindsay's at dinner time, quite unruffled and correct in dressand demeanor."
"Are you sure he did do this?"
"Certainly; I was there myself."
"But he left you, say, at six. Dinner was at eight. Seems to me thatwas time for all."
"Yes, if he rushed matters. It would, of course, imply premeditation.He would have had to get down to Gleason's quickly--hold on, thetelephone message was received at Doctor Davenport's office at about aquarter to seven--I remember the detective harped on that."
"All right. Say he did commit the crime at about six-thirty, orquarter to seven, that would give him time to get home and to thedinner at eight. It all fits in, I think."
"I suppose it does," Pollard agreed, slowly. "But, that would meanthat when he left me that afternoon, or evening--about six o'clock,anyway, he had this thing all planned, and rushed it through. I submitthat if that were so, he would have been excited, or preoccupied, orsomething. On the contrary, Lane, he was as calm and casual as we arethis minute. I can't see it--as I said in the first place."
Then Phyllis spoke.
"It's this way, Mr Lane," she said; "I happen to know that Phil Barrytold two untruths--or else, Mr Pollard did. I mean, Phil said, he sawMr Pollard twice, in places where he himself says he was not. Nowshall I believe the one or the other?"
"Choose," said Pollard, smiling at her.
"But, Miss Lindsay," Lane said, "don't choose because of your faith inone man or the other. Choose by rational deduction fromcircumstances."
"That's just what I want to do," Phyllis replied. "And here's how itlooks to me. Phil Barry didn't tell the truth or else Mr Pollarddidn't. Now, Mr Pollard has no reason to prevaricate, and Phil, ifguilty, has. Therefore--and yet, I can't believe Phil shot MrGleason."
"I can," Millicent exclaimed. "I see it all now. Phil's madly in lovewith you, Phyllis--as who isn't? I don't know what it is, child, butyou seem to set all men wild, and you so demure and sweet! Well, it'scommon knowledge that Phil adores you. And we all know my brother did.Now the theory or hypothesis or whatever you call it, that Phil wasjealous of Robert and killed him--after sending him that warningletter--is, to my mind the only tenable theory and one that proves inevery detail. For, granting Phil Barry is the criminal, the letter isexplainable, the stories he told about Mr Pollard are explainable, andthe whole thing becomes clear."
"Millicent," Phyllis said, looking at her seriously, "you are only tooready to assume the guilt of any one you suspect at the moment. Iadmit your theory, but--I can't believe Phil did it!"
"No," cried Millicent, "because you are in love with Phil! That's thereason you won't look facts in the face! I declare, Phyllis, you havemore interest in your foolish love affairs than in discovering themurderer of my brother! But I am determined to find the villain whoshot Robert Gleason! I shall find him--I promise you that! I am notmercenary, I shall devote every last cent of my money--or my brother'smoney to tracking down the murderer."
"Do you know," said Pollard, quietly, "it seems to me that we all lookat this thing too close by. I mean, too much from a personalviewpoint. You, Mrs Lindsay, want to find your brother's murderer, butyou, Phyllis, and you, Louis, are more interested in whether friendsof yours are implicated or not. Isn't that so, Lane?"
"Yes," agreed Fred Lane. "But, see here, Pollard, I'm laying asidethis personal interest you speak of, and I'm trying to go merely andsolely by evidence. Now, I think that the evidence against Phil Barryis pretty positive."
"Well, I don't,'" Pollard disagreed with him. "It is, in a way--but,good Lord, man, lots of people may write to a person without intendingto kill him."
"Not a letter like Barry's."
"Yes, just that. Oh, for Heaven's sake, use a little intelligence! IfBarry had meant to kill Gleason, do you suppose he would have writtenthat letter? Never!"
"Yes, I think he would." Lane spoke slowly and thoughtfully. "You see,Pol, you're tarred with the same brush--I mean the artistictemperament, and you ought to see that a man's mind worksspasmodically. Barry had the impulse to kill, I hold, and he wrotethat warning letter as--well, as a salve to his conscience, and thereit is."
Meantime, Detective Prescott was on the job. He had taken Barry downto the Washington Square house, but not to Robert Gleason's apartment.
It was Miss Adams' doorbell he rang, and to her home he escortedPhilip Barry.
Barry's anger had subsided from belligerent altercation to a subduedsullenness.
"You'll be sorry for this," he told Prescott, but as that worthy hadoften been similarly warned, he paid little attention.
"Now, Miss Adams," said Prescott, when they were in the presence ofthe spinster. "I want you to tell me whether this is the man whom yousaw go into Mr Gleason's apartment that afternoon."
Miss Adams scanned Barry carefully.
They were all standing, and as the lady looked him over, Barry turnedslowly round, as if to give her every opportunity for correctjudgment.
"Thank you," she said, quite alive to his sarcastic intent. "No, MrPrescott, this is not the man."
"Are you sure?" Prescott was disappointed, not because he wanted toprove Barry guilty of the crime, but because Miss Adams' negative madeit imperative for him to hunt up another man. For the caller of thatafternoon must be found.
"Why, I'm pretty sure. Though, of course, clothes might make adifference."
"You said the man who came wore a soft hat."
"Yes; but it was a different color from Mr Barry's. It was a dullgreen--olive, I think."
"It was after dark when he came, wasn't it?"
"Yes; but the hall was lighted and I saw him clearly. But a man mayhave two hats, I suppose."
"I haven't," said Barry, shortly. "That is, I haven't two hats that Iwear in the afternoon. This is the only soft felt I possess."
The hat he wore was of a medium shade of gray, an inconspicuous softhat of the latest, but in no way, extreme fashion.
"That's nothing," Prescott said. "A man can buy and give away a lot ofhats in a week. Size him up carefully, Miss Adams; your opinion maymean a lot. Never mind the hat. How does Mr Barry's size and shapecompare with the man you saw?"
"Mr Barry is a heavier man," the lady said, decidedly; "also I feelsure, an older man. The man I saw was slighter and younger."
"Did you see his face?"
"No."
"Yet you're sure he was younger?"
"Yes, I am. He was of slighter build, and a little taller, and hewalked with a jauntier step, almost a run, as he came up the stairs."
"You are very observant, Miss Adams."
"Not so very. I took him in at a glance, and he impressed me as I havestated. I have a retentive memory, that's all. I can see him now--ashe bounded up the stairs."
"In a merry mood?"
"I don't know as to that. But the impression he gave me was more thatof a man in haste. He tapped impatiently at the door of Mr Gleason'sapartment, and when it was not opened instantly, he rapped again."
"And then Mr Gleason opened it?"
"Then somebody opened it. I couldn't see who. The man went in quicklyand the door was closed. That's all I know about it."
Miss Adams sat down then, and folded her hands in her lap. She wasquite serene, and apparently not much interested in the matter.
A fleeting thought went through the detective's mind that possiblyBarry had interviewed her before and had persuaded or bribed her tosay all this. But it seemed improbable.
Barry, too, was serene. He seemed satisfied at the turn events hadtaken, and appeared to think that Miss Adams' decision had cleared himfrom suspicion.
Not so the detective.
/>
"Well, Mr Barry," he said, "we've got to find another man to fit thatolive green hat, it appears. But that doesn't preclude the possibilityof your having been here that day, too. You didn't hang over thebalusters all the afternoon, I suppose, Miss Adams."
Offended at his mode of expression, the lady drew herself uphaughtily, and said, "I did not."
"But you saw no one come in who might have been Mr Barry?"
"No."
"Could he have come and you not have known it?"
Miss Adams was about to make a short reply, and then thought better ofit.
"I want to help you all I can," she said, "and I am answering yourquestions carefully. I suppose any one could have gone into MrGleason's apartment that day without my knowing it, but it is notlikely. For I was listening for the arrival of my niece, who, however,did not come. I kept watch, therefore, until about six o'clock, or alittle after, then as I gave up all hope of my niece's coming, I alsoceased to watch or listen. Anybody may have come after that. I don'tknow, I'm sure."
Prescott ruminated. Whoever killed Robert Gleason may well havearrived after six o'clock. For the telephone call didn't reach thedoctor until about quarter of seven, and if it were Barry, it must beremembered he didn't part company with Pollard until six or after.
It would seem then, that Miss Adams' testimony amounted to little,after all. However, the man with the green hat ought to be found.
"Tell us again of the young man," Prescott said. "See if you candescribe him so we can recognize some one we know."
Miss Adams thought a moment, and then said: "No, I can't. He justseemed to me like a young chap, an impulsive sort, who ran in to see afriend. He came upstairs hastily, yet not in any merriment--of thatI'm sure. Rather, he gave me the effect of a man anxious for theinterview--whatever it might be about."
"Didn't he ring the lower bell? Why wasn't Mr Gleason at his own doorwhen the chap came up?"
"I don't know. I think he must have rung Mr Gleason's bell downstairs, for the front door opened to admit him. But Mr Gleason didn'topen his own door until the visitor had rapped twice. Of that I'mcertain."
"Do you think the girl who came before the young man did was still inMr Gleason's apartment?"
"Why, I don't know." Miss Adams seemed suddenly more interested."Maybe she was. Maybe she didn't want to be seen there. Maybe----"
She paused, and sat silent. Prescott gave her a minute or two, tocollect herself, for he felt sure there would be some furtherdisclosure.
Meantime Barry had taken an envelope from his pocket, and was rapidlysketching on it. A very few lines gave a distinct picture of a youngman.
"Does that look like the man you saw?" he asked, holding it so thatMiss Adams could see it, but Prescott could not.
"That's the man himself!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide withastonishment.