CHAPTER II
The Telephone Call
Every hour of every twenty-four is filled with amazing occurrences andstartling episodes. Astonishing incidents and even more startlingcoincidences are happening every minute of every sixty minutes, butthe fact that those most interested are unaware of these deeds is whatmakes the great cases of mystery.
Only an omniscient eye that could see all the activities of the fewhours following the events just related could pierce the veil of doubtand uncertainty that overhung the ensuing tragedy.
The first human being to receive news of it was Miss Hester Jordan.
This capable and efficient young woman was the office nurse of DoctorDavenport, and her position was no sinecure.
Of a highly nervous temperament, she yet managed to preserve theproper calm and poise that nurses should always show, except when, atthe end of a long, hard day, she became mentally and physicallyexhausted.
Though supposed to be off duty at six o'clock, her relief wasfrequently late in arriving and in this instance had not yet put in anappearance, though it was half past the hour.
Wearily, Miss Jordan answered telephone calls, striving to keep hertired voice pleasant and amiable.
"No," she would answer the anxious speakers, "Doctor Davenport is notin." "Yes, I expect him soon." "Can you leave a message?" "Yes, I willtell him." "He will surely be in by seven." "No, he left no messagefor you." "No, I don't know exactly where he is." "Yes, I will let youknow."
Replies of this sort, over and over, strained her nerves to theirfurthest tension, and when at six-forty the telephone bell jangledagain she took the receiver from its hook with what was almost a jerk.
"Hello," she said, unable to keep utter exasperation out of her voice.
But instead of a summons from some impatient patient, she heard afaint voice say, "Come, Doctor--oh, come quick--I'm--I'm donefor--shot----"
There were more incoherent words, but Nurse Jordan couldn't catchthem.
"Who are you?" she cried, alert now. "Who is speaking?"
"Gleason," came back the faint voice. "Wash'--t'n Square--come--can'tyou come quick----"
She could get no more. The voice ceased, and only blank silence mether frantic queries.
She hung up her receiver, and a sudden realization of the situationcame to her. She seemed to see the scene--somebody shot--somebodytelephoning that he was shot--somebody's voice getting weaker andceasing to sound at all--the picture was too much for her tired brain,and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed hysterically fromsheer nervous excitement.
Only for a moment did she give way. Nurse Jordan's training andpersonality was not to be conquered by a sudden shock of any sort.
Pulling herself together, she set to work to find the doctor.
This meant telephoning to two or three places where she knew there wasa chance of locating him.
And at the third call she found him at Mrs Ballard's, and, thoughstill shaken and quivering, she controlled her voice and told himdistinctly of the tragic telephone call she had taken.
"Gleason!" cried the Doctor, "Washington Square? What number?"
But Nurse Jordan didn't know, and Doctor Davenport had to call upsomebody to inquire.
He tried Mrs Lindsay, who was Gleason's sister, but her wire was busyand after an impatient moment, Davenport called Pollard, at his hotel.
"Here," he cried, handing the receiver to a staring butler, "take thisand when the gentleman answers, ask him the address of Robert Gleason.Tell him Doctor Davenport's inquiring."
He then returned to the prescription he had been writing, and gave itto Mrs Ballard, who was indignant at having her interview with herdoctor intruded upon.
"I'll call to-morrow," he soothed her; "you'll be better in themorning. Let fish alone, and stick to simple diet for a few days. Getthat address, Jenkins?"
"Yes, sir," and the butler gave him a slip of paper.
"H'm--near Washington Square, not on it," he murmured, looking at thewritten number, and then he ran down the Ballard front steps, andjumping into his waiting car, gave his chauffeur Gleason's address.
"Wonder what's up?" he thought, as his car rolled down Fifth Avenue."Accident, I suppose. Jordan is always on edge this time of night.Have to take her excitement with a grain of salt."
But when he reached the house, and pushed the button that indicatedMcIlvaine's apartment, there was no response from the closed streetdoor.
He rang again, long and insistently, then, still getting noencouragement, he pushed another button.
The door gave a grudging grunt, and, unwillingly, as it seemed, movedslowly inward.
Doctor Davenport was half way up the first flight of stairs, when awoman's head appeared through a doorway.
"What do you want?" she inquired, a little crisply.
"Mr McIlvaine's apartment."
"That's it, opposite," she returned, more affable as she caught sightof the good-looking man. "Mr Gleason's in there now."
"Yes, he's the man I want. Thank you, madame."
She still stood, watching, as he rang the doorbell of the designatedapartment.
There was no answer, nor any sound from inside. The doctor lookedapprehensively at the door.
"Your key wouldn't let me in, I suppose," he said, turning back to thenow frankly curious spectator.
"Oh, Lord, no! We don't have interchangeable keys! He's out, I expect.He's mostly out."
"But I want to get into his place----"
"You do! And he not there! You a friend of his?"
"Why--yes; I'm his doctor--and I'm afraid he's ill."
"Oh--that. But look here--if you're his doctor, why didn't you knowwhich was his place? You're pretty slick, mister, but it's a bitfishy--I think."
She half withdrew back into her own doorway, but curiosity stilldetained her, and, too, Doctor Davenport's demeanor impressed her asbeing quite all right.
"Nothing wrong--is there?" she whispered, coming across the smallhall, and peering into the doctor's face.
"Oh, no--I think not. But he may be helpless, and I must get in. I'venever been here before, but I've been called by him just now. I_must_ get in. Where's the janitor?"
"Where, indeed? If you can find him, I'll bless you forever. I'vewanted him all day."
"Isn't he on duty?"
"He doesn't know the meaning of duty. It's something he's never on."
She smiled at him, and noticing her for the first time, Davenport sawthat she was handsome, in a careless, rather blatant way.
Her ash-blonde hair was loosely pinned up, and her dress--negligee ortea-gown--was fussy with lace, and not quite immaculate.
Her wide, light blue eyes returned his scrutiny, and for an instanteach studied the other.
"There is something wrong," she nodded, at last, "What you going todo, Doctor?"
"I'm going to get in. I've wasted precious time already." He ran downthe stairs and opening the front door summoned his chauffeur.
"Come up here, Chris," he ordered, and the two returned together.
"Can we break in that door?" he said, ignoring the woman now.
"My husband'll help," she volunteered, but Chris was alreadydelivering effective blows.
However, the lock held, and turning to her, Doctor Davenport said, "Doask your husband to help us, please. I assure you it's an emergency.I'm Doctor Ely Davenport."
"Come here, Jim," she obeyed orders. "This is Doctor Davenport."
"I've heard of you," said a big, commonplace looking man, appearing."I'm Mansfield. What's up?"
"I have reason to think Mr Gleason is very ill. He just telephoned forme. I must get in. These old doors are strongly built, so I'd likeyour help."
Mansfield looked at him sharply, and seeming satisfied, put hisshoulder to the door.
United effort succeeded, and the three men entered, the woman hangingback in fear.
Gleason lay on the floor, in a crumpled heap, and the first glanceproclaimed him dead.
Stoop
ing quickly, Doctor Davenport felt for his heart, and shook hishead as he rose again to his feet.
"He's dead," he said, quietly. "Shot through the temple. Suicide,apparently, as the door was locked on the inside. Better take yourwife away, Mr Mansfield. She'll be getting hysterical."
"No, I won't," declared the lady referred to, but she was quiteevidently pulling herself together. "Let me come in."
"No," forbade Davenport. "You've no call in here. Go back home, bothof you. I shall send for the police and wait till they come."
But the doctor hesitated as he was about to touch the telephone.
The matter was mysterious. "Suicide, of course," he ruminated, as heremembered the message received by Nurse Jordan. "Shot himself, then,still living, cried to me for help. Wish I knew exactly what he saidto Jordan. But, anyway, I'm not going to disturb things--there may betrouble ahead. Guess I'll leave the telephone alone--and everythingelse."
"Sit right here, Chris," he said, "and don't move or stir. Look aroundall you like--note anything and everything that strikes you. I'll beback soon."
Closing the broken door behind him, he went to the Mansfield'sapartment and asked to use their telephone. On this, he called thepolice, while the two listened eagerly.
"Why did he do it?" broke out Mrs Mansfield, as the receiver was hungup. "Oh, Doctor, tell us something about it! I'm eaten alive withcuriosity."
Her big blue eyes shone with excitement, which her husband tried tosuppress.
"Now, be quiet, Dottie," he said, laying a hand on her shoulder.
"I won't be quiet," and she shook off the hand. "Here's a great bigmystery right in my own house--on my own floor--and you say, 'bequiet!' I've got a right to know all about it, and I'm going to! I'mgoing up now, to tell Mrs Conway!"
Her husband held her back forcibly, but Doctor Davenport said, "Ofcourse, it must become known, and if Mrs Mansfield enjoys spreadingthe news, I suppose she has a right to do so. No one may enter theGleason rooms, though--understand that."
"Go on, then, Dottie," Mansfield said; "maybe you'd better."
"She's very excitable," he sighed, as his wife ran up the stairs.
"She's better off, unburdening her news, than being thwarted," saidthe doctor, indifferently. "Let her do what she likes. What can youtell me, Mr Mansfield, of your neighbor, Gleason?"
"Not much, Doctor. He kept to himself, as far as the people in thishouse were concerned. We didn't know him socially--no one in the housedid--and though he said good-day, if we met in the halls, it was witha short and unsocial manner."
"Nobody actively disliked him?"
"Nobody knew him well enough for that--unless--well, no, I may saynone of us knew him."
"Yet you hesitated," the doctor looked at him keenly; "why did you?"
"A mere passing thought--better left unspoken."
"All right, Mr Mansfield--perhaps you are wise. But, if asked to,you'd better speak your thought to the police."
"Oh, sure. I'm a law-abiding citizen--I hope. Will they be here soon?"
"Nothing happens soon in matters like this. It's delay, linger andwait on the part of everybody. I'm bothered--I've important affairs onhand--but here I must stick, till the arm of the law gets ready tostrike."
Davenport returned to Gleason's apartment, where the stolid Chris keptguard.
"Well?" said the doctor, glancing at his man.
"Looks like a suicide to me, sir. Looks like he shot himself--there'sthe revolver--I haven't touched it. And then he fell over all in aheap."
"It seems he telephoned after he shot----"
"He did? How could he?"
"Look again at his position. Near the desk, on which the telephonesits. He might have shot, and then----"
"Not that shot in his temple!"
"No; but there may be another. I haven't looked carefully yet. Ah,yes--see, Chris, here's another bullet hole, in his left shoulder.Say, he fired that shot, then, getting cold feet, called off thesuicide idea and telephoned for me. Then, getting desperate again,fired a second shot through his temple, which, of course, did forhim--oh, a fanciful tale, I know--but, you see, the detective workisn't up to me. When the police come they'll look after that and I cango."
But the police, arriving, were very much interested in this theory ofDoctor Davenport's.
Prescott, an alert young detective, who came with the inspectorespecially interested the physician by his keen-witted and clearly putquestions.
"Did you know this man?" he asked among his first queries.
"Yes," returned Davenport, "but not well. I've never been herebefore. He's Robert Gleason, a very rich man, from Seattle. Stayinghere this winter, in this apartment which belongs to McIlvaine, afriend of Gleason's."
"Where's McIlvaine?"
"In California. Gleason took over the place, furnished and all, forthe winter months."
"Any relatives?"
"Yes"; Davenport hated to drag in the Lindsays, but it had to be done."His sister, Mrs Lindsay, lives in upper Park Avenue."
"Have you called her up?"
"No; I thought wiser to do nothing, until you people came. Also, I'm avery busy man, and outside my actual duty here, I can't afford tospend much time."
"I see. Then the sister is the only relative in New York?"
"I think so. There are two Lindsay children, but they're not hers. Shemarried a widower."
"I see. And the address?"
Doctor Davenport gave it, and then started to go.
"Wait a minute, please," urged Prescott. "Had the dead man anyfriends, that you know of?"
"Oh, yes. Many of them. He was put up at the Camberwell Club, byMcIlvaine himself. And he had many friends among the members."
"Names?"
Doctor Davenport thought quickly, and decided to give no names of thegroup that had been with Gleason that same afternoon.
He gave the names of three other Club members, and sending Chris downahead, again endeavored to depart himself.
Again Prescott detained him.
"Sorry, Doc," he said, pleasantly, "but you're here now, and somethingtells me it'll be hard to get hold of you again, once I lose you.Inspector Gale, here, is putting through the necessary red tape andall that, and he'll see to notifying relatives and friends, and he'lltake charge of the premises--but--well, I've a hunch, this isn't asuicide."
"What, murder?" cried the doctor, his quick acceptance of thesuggestion proving the thought had been in his own mind.
"Well, you never can tell. And I want to get all the sidelight on thecase I can. Was Mr Gleason happy--and all that?"
"Yes; so far as I know. I tell you I was not an intimate--scarcelyenough to be called a friend--merely an acquaintance."
"I see. Had the man any enemies?"
The direct glance that accompanied these words discomfited Davenport alittle.
"Why do you ask me that?" he said, shortly. "How should I know?"
"Oh, it's a thing anybody might know--even a mere acquaintance. Andyour desperate hurry to get away makes me think you don't take kindlyto this catechism."
"Rubbish! I'm a busy man--a doctor sometimes is. I've numerous andimportant engagements for the evening. Now, if that's incriminating,make the most of it!"
"Fie, fie, don't get peeved! Now, tell me once again, what the injuredman said to your nurse and I'll let you go."
"I don't know the exact words. I've not seen her. But he called myoffice, said he was shot, and for me to come right here and quickly.That's all I know of the message. Now as to my report--it's that theman received two shots--whether by his own hand or another's. One, inhis left shoulder--and another--the fatal one--through his temple,producing instant death. You can get me at any time--if necessary. ButI don't want to be hauled over here, or summoned to headquarters torepeat these facts. I'll send a typed report, and I'll do anything inreason--but I know how you detectives mull over things, and how yourslow processes eat up time--which though it seems of little account toyou, is mighty valuable to me."
r /> "Yes, sir--yes, sir. Now if you'll speak to Inspector Gale a minute,you can go."
Grunting an assent, Davenport waited for the Inspector to finishwriting a bit of memorandum on which he was busily engaged.
The doctor was sitting in a big easy chair, and as he squirmedimpatiently, he felt something soft beneath his heavy frame.
Feeling about the chair cushions, he found it was fur, and a fleetingthought that he had sat on a cat passed through his mind.
A second later he knew it was a fur strip, probably a neck piece,doubtless belonging to some woman.
Now, the doctor had a very soft place in his heart for the feminine sexin general, and his mind leaped to the idea of this fur, left there bysome indiscreet girl visitor, and the possibility of its getting thedoubtless innocent young lady into a moil of trouble.
Also, he had a dim, indistinct notion that he recognized the fur, atwhich he had stolen a furtive look.
At any rate, unseen by the Inspector or either of his two colleaguespresent, Davenport adroitly slipped the small fur collar into hiscapacious overcoat pocket, and sat, looking as innocent of duplicityas a canary-fed cat.
"Now, Doctor," and Inspector Gale frowned importantly, "this may be asimple case of suicide, and again it may not. So, I want your opinionas to whether it is possible that both those shots were fired by MrGleason himself."
"Quite possible, Inspector, and, it seems to me, decidedly probable,as I cannot see how the victim could have telephoned, with a murdererin the room."
"That's apparently true, but we have to think of even the remotestpossibilities. If the murderer--granting there was one--had beenmerely intending to frighten his victim, maybe a robber, he might havebeen--and if after that call for help, the intruder finished off hisvictim--oh, well, all these ideas must be looked into, you know. Thecase is not entirely clear to me."
"Nor to me," returned Davenport, "but I cannot feel that I can helpyou in your deductions. Answering your questions, I say it would havebeen quite possible for Mr Gleason to have fired those two shotshimself. You see the first one hit his left shoulder, leaving hisright arm available to fire the second shot."
"Why did he merely maim himself first?"
"Heavens, man! I don't know. Missed aim, perhaps--or, just shootingfor practice! Such questions make me mad! If you want any more medicalstatements, say so--if not, for goodness' sake, let me go!"
"For goodness' sake, let him go," repeated Prescott, and Dr Davenportwent.
"Some mess," Prescott said, after the doctor's angry footsteps trampeddown the stairs.