CHAPTER XII
Louis' Confession
Before Prescott could snatch at the paper picture to do so, Barry hadtorn the paper into bits and thrown them into the fire in theold-fashioned grate.
He laughed at the detective's chagrin, and said, "Nothing doing,Prescott. If the man I sketched is the criminal, you must find it outfor yourself. If not, I'd be mighty sorry to drag his name into it."
"I deduce, then, that his name is not already in it," Prescottreturned; "in that case, I can guess who it is."
"Guess away," Barry said, not believing the statement. "I'll only tellyou the man I drew on that paper bore no ill will toward Gleason, sofar as I know. And, moreover, the fact of his coming here, and runningupstairs, doesn't necessarily prove him a murderer."
"Tell me more of his appearance, Miss Adams," urged Prescott, hopingBarry's sketch had refreshed her memory.
For Philip Barry had a knack of characterization, and with a few linescould give an unmistakable likeness.
But the spinster could tell no more in words than she had already doneand Prescott was forced to be content with a vague idea of a young manwho ran lightly upstairs.
"Was it Louis Lindsay?" he asked, suddenly, but the non-committalsmile on Barry's face gave him an impression that this was a wrongassumption.
At Prescott's request, Barry accompanied him to Gleason's rooms.
The detective had a key and they went in. Except for some tidying up,nothing had been disturbed since the day of the crime. The rathercommonplace furnishings were in direct contrast to the personalbelongings which were still in evidence.
There were pictures and ornaments, books and smoking paraphernaliathat had been selected with taste and good judgment.
The desk, too, was a valuable piece of furniture, and fitted with thebest of writing appointments.
"Any more letters from you here?" Prescott said, as if casually, whilehe took a bundle of papers.
"Probably," Barry returned, shortly; "if one could be forged, morecould be."
"Look here, Mr Barry," the detective said, seriously, "just explain,will you, how that letter could have been forged? Experts haveconcluded that the signature is yours. They say it is impossible thatyour very distinctive autograph could have been written freehand, asit evidently is, by any one but yourself. If it were traced or copied,some deviation would appear. Now, granting that, there is still apossibility that some one, evilly disposed, might have written thetyped message above your signature. But how do you explain that? Didyou ever sign a blank sheet of paper? Club paper?"
"Never!" Barry declared. "Why should I do such a thing?"
"Why, indeed! Yet, if you didn't, the letter must be all yours. Whynot admit it? The admission, to my mind, would be less incriminatingthan the denial."
"But I didn't write it," Barry insisted. "I didn't type it, or signit."
"Then the murderer did," Prescott nodded his head, sagaciously. "Canyou make it out? I mean, can you suggest how it could be done? If youhad ever signed a blank sheet, it would be easy for him to write onit, you see----"
"Of course I never did! If I had done such an inexplicable thing Ishould remember it! No; I can't suggest how it was done. It is to mean insoluble problem, and I admit I'm curious. But I never saw thatletter until you showed it to me."
Barry's straightforward gaze went far toward convincing Prescott ofhis truthfulness, but he only said:
"If you're the criminal, you'd be smart enough to throw that verybluff. I don't believe you are--but--I don't know. You see, if you'dadmit the letter, you could more easily establish your innocence----"
"No; Prescott, I couldn't establish my innocence by telling a lie. Iam innocent, and I know nothing about that letter. Now, work fromthose facts and see where you come out."
"Just here," and Prescott faced him. "If those are facts, then themurderer forged that letter to hang the crime on you. Never mind now,how he forged it, merely assume he did so. Then, we must infer, themurderer is one who has access to the Club typewriter----"
"Well," Barry was thinking quickly, "here's a suggestion--if, as yousay, the impossible was accomplished, and that letter was forged bysome one with Club privileges, why not Gleason himself?"
Prescott stared. "Robert Gleason? Forge the letter?"
"As well as any one else. He hated me--suppose it was suicide----"
"Oh, bah! it wasn't suicide! That man had all there is of it to livefor! He had wealth, and he hoped to win Miss Lindsay for his bride.Don't tell me he thought of suicide! Absurd!"
"That's so," and Barry dismissed the idea, "But say he knew he wasdoomed and wrote the letter to get me in bad."
"Flubdub! Though, wait--if Mr Pollard's idea is correct, and themurderer should be some Western friend--or foe--and, just suppose,say, that he threatened Gleason's life so definitely that Gleason knewhe was doomed, and so----"
"And so he manufactured evidence that he hoped would incriminate me?"Barry spoke thoughtfully. "Ingenious, on your part, Prescott, but Ican't think it. The letter is too elaborate, too difficult ofachievement. In fact, I can't see how anybody did it!"
"Nor can I!" Prescott turned on him. "And nobody could do it, MrBarry, except yourself. You've overreached the mark in denying it. Theforgery of that letter is an impossibility! Therefore, you wrote it."
"Does that argue me the criminal?"
"Not positively. But your denial of the letter helps to do so! If youwrote it, and denied it at first, through fear, you are now, ofcourse, obliged to stick to your denial. But, criminal or not, thatletter was written and sent by yourself."
"You're wrong, Mr Prescott; but as I can't even imagine who did it orwho could have done it, there's small use in our arguing the subject."
And there was something in his tone of finality that helped toconvince Prescott of his entire innocence.
The poor detective was at his wits' end. Every way he looked, heseemed to be peering into a blind alley. Conferences with hiscolleagues or his superiors helped him not at all. Lack of evidencebrought all their theories to naught. Unless something more could bediscovered the case seemed likely to go unsolved. Or, and thistroubled Prescott, unless something was discovered soon, the impulsiveand impatient Mrs Lindsay would employ a private detective. And thatwould be small credit to the work of the force. So Prescott workedaway at his job. He went over the letters and papers in the desk, butthese gave him no further clew. There was no other communication fromBarry, though that, in itself, proved nothing. Yet had there beenanother it would have been edifying to compare the two.
"No clews," Prescott lamented, looking hopelessly about the room.
"No," Barry agreed. "This detective work is queer, isn't it?---- Now instory-books, the obliging criminals leave all sorts of interestingbits of evidence or indications of their presence."
"Yes, but real criminals are too canny for that. Not even afingerprint on the telephone or revolver, except Gleason's own. Andthat, though meant to indicate a suicide, proved only a diabolicallyclever criminal!"
"How do you explain the telephone call after the man was fatallyshot?"
Prescott grunted. "An impossibility like that can be explained only bythe discovery of facts not yet known. Maybe the doctors diagnosedwrong----"
"No, not Ely Davenport!" Barry declared.
"Well, then, maybe the man telephoned before he was shot, but waspositive the shot was coming."
"Telephoned in the presence of the murderer?"
"Oh, I don't know! Didn't I tell you nothing could explain that but todiscover some _new_ facts? I haven't got 'em yet!"
"Do you expect to?"
"Honest, Mr Barry, I don't know. A case like this--so full of queerand unexplainable conditions may suddenly become clear--or, it maynever do so!"
"Isn't that true of every case?"
"Well, I mean some unexpected clew may drop from the skies and clearit all up at once, or it may never be solved at all. Most cases can beworked out piece by piece, and require only pat
ience and perseverance;but when you strike the work of a super-criminal, as this certainlyis, then you have to wait for chance to help you. And that's mightyuncertain!"
"Well, I'll help you, Prescott, to this extent. I won't leave town andI'll always be where you can find me. If you believe me, you can calloff your shadowers--if you don't, let them keep on my trail. But as toany startling clew or evidence I can't promise to give you any."
"Even if you get it yourself?" said the detective, quickly.
"You have uncanny intuition!" exclaimed Barry. "I didn't say that."
"Be careful about compounding a felony, sir."
"Be careful about suspecting an innocent man," returned Barry, andwent away.
The artist went to the Lindsay home, but not finding Louis there,followed his trail to the Club.
Getting him into a secluded corner, Barry asked him abruptly: "Wereyou at Gleason's the afternoon of the murder?"
"No; why?" was the reply, but the nervous agitation the boy showedseemed not to corroborate his statement.
"Because I've been told you were. Come across, Louis. Take myadvice--there's nothing to be gained from falsification. Own up, now.You were there."
"Yes, Phil, I was. But don't let it be known--for I didn't do for oldGleason--truly I didn't! Any more than you did!"
"Of course, Louis--neither of us killed that man. But I tell you it'sbetter to tell the truth."
"But I won't be believed----" Louis whimpered like a child. "Don'ttell on me, Phil. Who said I was there?"
"You were seen to go in."
"By whom?"
"A tenant on another floor. Better come clean, boy. What were youthere for?"
"The old reason. I wanted money." Louis spoke sullenly, and his darkeyes showed a smoldering fire. "I was in bad----"
"Oh, Louis, gambling again?"
"Quit that tone, Barry. You're not my father confessor!"
"You'd better have one. Don't you see you're ruining your life--andbreaking your sister's heart--not that you'd care! You are a selfishlittle beast, Louis! I've no use for you! But, listen, unless you tellthe truth when you're questioned, I warn you, it'll go hard with you.Promise me this; if you're asked, admit you were there. If you're notasked, do as you like about withholding the information."
"I'll do as I like, anyway," and young Lindsay's eyes showed an uglylight, though his glance at Barry was furtive rather than belligerent.
"Of course you will, pighead!" Barry was thoroughly angry. "Now, tellme this; were you at Gleason's at the time Ivy Hayes was there?"
"No! What do you mean?" the astonishment was real. "When was shethere?"
"Oh, she didn't kill Gleason. Don't worry about that. But it does seemas if a great many people chose that day to call on the Westernmillionaire."
"And all for the same purpose!" Louis shot out, with a sudden incisiveperception.
"Of course," Barry said, contemptuously; "I dare say I'm the onlysuspect who can't be accused of killing the old man for lucre."
"He wasn't so awful old--and, I say, Barry, who else is suspected_but_ you?"
"You!" Barry flashed back. "Or you will be! I meant to warn you inkindness, Louis, but you're so ungrateful, I'll let you alone. Betterbe careful, though."
Louis sulked, so Barry left him, and went away. He went to Fred Lane'soffice, and demanded an interview alone with the lawyer.
"What's up?" Lane asked him.
"Oh, nothing. That's the worst of it. I don't believe, Lane, thatthey'll ever get at the truth of the Gleason murder."
"Then they'll railroad you to the chair," said Lane, cheerfully.
"What about the letter, Lane? Can you see through it?"
"No, I can't. You wrote that signature, Phil; now think back and seehow or when you could have done it?"
"Don't be absurd! I couldn't have done it, except as a signature tothat very letter, and I didn't do that."
"But----"
"But, look here, Lane--just supposing somebody wanted to blacken myname--in this connection. What a roundabout way to take! Imagine someone writing that screed on the Club typewriter, and managing somehowto get my signature on it--could it be done with a transfer paper, orsomething of that sort?"
"Don't think so--it would be backward, then, wouldn't it?"
"Why, yes----"
"But did nobody ever persuade you to sign a sheet of blank paper?Wanted your autograph, or that sort of thing?"
"Never! I'm not a celebrity!"
"Well, here's an idea! Did anybody ever get you to sign a paperwritten in pencil? Then, he could rub out the pencil marks and type inthe letter?"
"No, smarty! Why, that has been suggested by some one. But the expertsaid that the pencil marks would show, even if carefully erased."
"You mean the erasure would leave its traces. That's right, it would.And if ever there was a genuine looking letter that's one."
"On the surface, yes. But if I were a detective, I would note at oncethat the letter itself is not in a phraseology that I would use----"
"And if I were a detective, I should note that, too, and set it downas a further proof of your cleverness!"
"Hello, Lane, are _you_ convinced of my guilt?"
"Not a bit of it, but I am frankly puzzled about that letter. It's sopositively Club paper, Club typewriter, your signature--what's theanswer?"
"I'll find out--I swear I will!"
"If you don't, old chap, it'll go hard with you, I fear."
"As a starter, I'm going to see that Hayes girl. No, I don't thinkshe's implicated, but I may be able to get something new."
"Go ahead. Sound her and you may, at least, find some new way to look.Louis Lindsay never did it----"
"Oh, no, I know that! He'd hardly have nerve to kill a fly!"
To the home of Ivy Hayes Barry went next.
The girl willingly saw him, and seemed glad to discuss the matter.
After some preliminary conversation and as Barry grew more definite inhis queries, she began to be a little frightened, and was less frankin her responses.
"You came to see me before, Mr Barry," she said, "and I told you thenall I knew about this thing. Now, I've no more to tell."
"I think you have. I remember the other time I was here, you had asudden recollection, or thought, and you gave a startled exclamation.What was that thought?"
"As if I could recall! I suppose I was nervous--I often jump likethat. It's--it's temperament, you know."
"It was more than that. You did think of something that gave you a newidea regarding Mr Gleason's murder or murderer. Now, don't say youdidn't, for I know it. Come across, Ivy, tell me what it was--or youmay get in deep yourself."
"Tell me this, Mr Barry," and the girl spoke quietly and earnestly;"is there any danger of my being suspected? For, if so, I'll tellsomething. It's awful mean to tell it--but I've got myself to look outfor--oh, no--no! I don't know anything! Not anything!"
"You do. You've already proved it. Now, Ivy, I won't exaggerate yourdanger, but I'll tell you that I think the only real suspects theyhave, as yet, are you and me. As I'm not the criminal, and as I shalldo my very best to prove that, suspicion may come back on you. I don'tsay this to frighten you. I merely state the fact. So, don't you thinkyourself that you'd better tell me what you know, and I assure youthat I will use the knowledge with discretion."
"Oh, I can't tell," and the girl burst into tears. "I can't tellanybody, and you least of all!"
Barry stared. What could such a speech mean?
"Please go away," Ivy moaned. "Go away now, and come tomorrow. ThenI'll decide what to do."
"No," Barry said sternly; "you know something, and you must tell me.If you refuse I'll go away, but I'll send Mr Prescott here--and I'msure you'd rather tell me--wouldn't you, Ivy?"
Barry's tone was ingratiating, and too, his words carried conviction.Ivy wiped her eyes and looked at him dolefully.
"I don't know what to do. You see, for me to tell what I know would bemean--oh, worse than mean--it
would be too low down for words! Andyet--I don't want to be arrested!"
"Then tell--tell me, my girl--you'll feel better to tell it."
Barry sensed the psychological moment, and knew he must get the storyout of Ivy, while she was frightened. If she really knew how littleshe was suspected, she might never tell. And Barry felt it imperativethat her knowledge be revealed.
Persuaded by his urgency, Ivy began.
"Well, you see, I went there about half past five----"
"How do you know the time so well--most people don't."
"Oh, I don't know how I know it, but I just happen to. I was due homeat six, so I went there at five-thirty, or within a few minutes ofthat time. Does it matter?"
"No; go on."
"Well, I rang the bell, you know, and the door clicked open and I wentup and Mr Gleason let me in."
"Yes."
"Well, I hadn't been there hardly any time at all--not ten minutes,anyhow, when Mr Gleason's bell rang again. And I said, 'Who is it?'"
"What made you think he would know who it was?"
"Don't know as I did. Guess I just said it--but, anyway--hesaid--'It's Miss Lindsay--I expect her--she mustn't see you here!'"
"What did you do?"
"Why, he pushed me through into the dining-room----"
"He never used the dining-room----"
"Oh, he did sometimes. Well, anyway, the room was there--and he pushedme in, and told me to go through the pantry and down the back stairsand out that way."
"Why did he push you? Weren't you willing to go?"
"Yes, but I was rattled--bewildered. And, I've never seen MissLindsay, and I was curious to see her. I didn't mind being found in MrGleason's rooms, but he minded very much. And so he hurried me off,and that's when he told me he'd give me the bracelet, if I'd sneak offwithout making a sound."
"And did you?"
"Yes; but I waited a minute to try to see Miss Lindsay."
"Did you see her?"
"No; the door opened the wrong way. I peaked through the crack, but Icouldn't see her. I heard her, though."
"You did?" Barry's nerves were pounding, his heart beat fast, as helistened for, yet dreaded her further speech.
"Yes, and I couldn't make out a word she said, her voice was so low.But they were quarreling--or at least discussing something on whichthey didn't agree."
"What was it?" Barry controlled himself.
"I don't know. Mr Gleason walked up and down the room as he talked--heoften did that--but it kept me from pushing the door a speck wideropen. In fact, he pushed it tight shut as he passed it."
"Did he suspect you were there listening?"
"Oh, I don't think so. He just closed it on general principles. Maybehe thought I was there. But after that I couldn't hear a word, so Iwent through the pantry and down the back way."
"Anybody see you?"
"I don't think so."
"You're sure it was Miss Lindsay who was there?"
"Yes. I heard Mr Gleason say 'my sister is your stepmother, I know,'and again he said, 'Yes, you're Lindsay--you're both Lindsays--butI've made my will----' that's all I heard."
"What time did you leave there?"
"It must have been about quarter to six, for I was home at six."
"And Miss Lindsay was there when you left."
"Oh, yes, she was there when I left."
And then, Philip Barry's secret fear was confirmed.