CHAPTER III
The Lindsays
"You're sure no one in this building knew Mr Gleason any better thanyou two did?" Prescott asked of the Mansfields, as he put them througha course of questioning.
"Oh, no," Mrs Mansfield informed him, volubly, "and we didn't know himmuch, but being on the same floor--there are only two apartments oneach floor, we saw him once in a while, going in or out, and he wouldbow distantly, and mumble 'good-morning,' but that's all."
"You heard no noise from his apartment, during the last hour?"
"No; but I wasn't noticing. It's across the hall, you know, and thewalls are thick in these old houses."
"Was he going out, do you think?" asked Jim Mansfield, thoughtfully."He always went out to dinner."
"Probably he was, then. It's evident he was dressing--he was in hisshirtsleeves--his day shirt--and his evening clothes were laid out onthe bed."
"When did it happen?"
"As nearly as I can make out, he telephoned for the doctor aboutquarter before seven. He must have expired shortly after. As I figureit--oh, well, the medical examiner is in there now, and I don't wantto discuss the details until he gets through his examination. It's aninteresting case, but I'm only out for side evidence. What aboutGleason's visitors? Did he have many?"
"No," offered Mrs Mansfield, "but he had some. I've heard--well,people go in there, and he was mighty glad to see them, judging by thegay laughter and chatter."
"Oh--lady friends?"
Mrs Mansfield smiled, but her husband said quickly, "Shut up, Dottie!You talk too much! You'll get us involved in this case, and make a lotof trouble. He had callers occasionally, Mr Prescott, but we neverknew who they were and we've no call to remark on them."
"Well, I give you the call. Don't you see, man, your information maybe vitally necessary----"
Here Prescott was recalled to the Gleason apartment.
The medical examiner had concluded his task. He agreed with DoctorDavenport that the shots could have been fired by Gleason himself,though, but for the locked door, he should have thought them the actsof another person. The presence of powder stains proved that the shotswere fired at close range, but not necessarily by the dead manhimself.
Still, the door being locked on the inside, it looked like suicide.
"No," Prescott disagreed, "that doesn't cut any ice. You see, it's aspring catch. It fastens itself when closed. If an intruder was hereand went out again, closing that door behind him, it would have lockeditself."
"That's right," assented Gale. "So, it may be suicide or murder. Butwe'll find out which. We've hardly begun to investigate yet. Now, wemust let his sister know."
"It's pretty awful to spring it on her over the telephone," demurredPrescott, as Gale started for the desk.
"Got to be done," Inspector Gale declared, "I mean we've got to tellsomebody who knew him. How about those men at the Club?"
"That's better," consented Prescott. "Just call the Camberwell Club,and get any one of those Davenport mentioned. But, I say, Gale, usethe Mansfields' telephone. I'm saving up this one for fingerprintwork."
"Oh, you and your fingerprint work!" Gale grumbled. "You attach toomuch importance to that, Prescott."
"All right, but you let the telephone alone. And the revolver, too.Why, I wouldn't have those touched for anything! I'll get themphotographed to-morrow. Shall I call the Club?"
"Yes," grunted Gale, and Prescott went back to the opposite apartment.
"Sorry to trouble you people," he said, with his winning smile, "butif you object, say so, and I'll run out to a drug store."
"None around here," vouchsafed Mansfield, looking a little annoyed atthe intrusion, however. "Isn't there a telephone in the Gleasonrooms?"
"Yes; but I don't want to use that." Prescott had already taken up theMansfield receiver. "Please let me have this one," and a bright smileat Dottie Mansfield made her his ally.
Getting the Club, Prescott asked for the names Davenport had supplied.Only one man was available, and Mr Harper was finally connected.
"What is it?" he asked, curtly.
"Mr Robert Gleason has been found dead in his home," Prescott stated;"and as you're said to be a friend of his, I'm asking you to informhis sister, or----"
"Indeed I won't! Why should I be asked to do such an unpleasanterrand? I've merely a nodding acquaintance with Mr Gleason. Dead, yousay? Apoplexy?"
"No; shot."
"Good God! Murdered?"
"We don't know. Murder or suicide. I'm Detective Prescott. I want youto tell his sister, or advise me how best to break the news to her.She's Mrs Lindsay----"
"Yes, yes--I know. Well, now, let me see. Dead! Why, the man was herethis afternoon."
"Yes; apparently he returned home safely, and while dressing fordinner, either shot himself or was shot by some one else."
"Never shot himself in the world! Robert Gleason? No, never shothimself. Well, let me see--let me see. Suppose you call up some closerfriend of his. Really, I knew him but slightly."
"All right. Who was his nearest friend?"
"Humph--I don't know. He wasn't long on intimate friends!"
"Little liked?"
"I wouldn't say that--but close friends, now--let me see; he wastalking this afternoon with a bunch--Doctor Davenport, Phil Barry,Dean Monroe, Manning Pollard--oh, yes, Fred Lane. And maybe others.But I know I saw him in the group I've just mentioned. Call upDavenport."
"Tell me the next best one to call."
"Barry--but wait--they had a quarrel recently. Try Lane or Pollard."
"Addresses?"
These were given and as soon as he could get connection, Prescottcalled Pollard.
But he was out, and Philip Barry was also.
"Can't expect to get anybody at the dinner hour," Prescott said, andlooked at his watch. "After eight, already. One more throw, and then Imake straight for the sister."
Fred Lane proved available.
"No!" he exclaimed at the news Prescott told. "You don't mean it! WhyI was talking with him yesterday. And only to-night I heard--Oh, Isay," he pulled himself together. "Tell me the details. Can I doanything?"
"You sure can. Break it to Mrs Lindsay, Gleason's sister."
"Oh, not that! Don't ask me to. I'm--I'm no good at that sort ofthing. I say--let me off it. Get somebody else----"
"I've been trying to, and I can't. If you won't do it, I'll have tocall up the lady and tell her myself--or go there."
"That's it. Go there. And, I say, get her son--her stepson, youknow--young Lindsay. He's not related to Gleason--and so----"
"That's it! Fine idea. I'll see the young man. What's his name?"
"Louis Lindsay. There's a girl, too. Miss Phyllis. She's more of a manthan her brother--oh, not a masculine type at all--I don't mean that,but she's a whole lot stronger character than the chappie. It might bebetter to tell her. But do as you like."
"Thank you for the information, Mr Lane. Good-by."
"Oh, wait a minute. Do you think Gleason killed himself?"
"Dunno yet. Lots of things to be looked into. I don't think it will bea difficult case to handle, yet it has its queer points. Did you sayyou heard something----"
"Oh, no--no."
"Out with it, man. Better tell anything you know."
"Don't know anything. You going to the Lindsays' now?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Well, there's a dinner party on there. A big one--followed by a dance.I mean it was to have been followed by a dance. Your news will changetheir plans!"
"You're rather unconcerned yourself! Didn't you like Gleason?"
"Not overly. Yet he was a big man in many ways. But, come now, wasn'the bumped off?"
"By whom?"
"I'm not saying. But while you're at the Lindsays', look out DeanMonroe--and ask him what he knows about it!"
"Dean Monroe! The artist?"
"Yes. Oh, he isn't the criminal--if there _is_ a criminal. Butmaybe he can give you a tip. I'm mighty inte
rested. How can I hear theresult of your investigations?"
"Guess it'll be in the morning papers. Anyway, I may want to see you."
"All right; call me up or call on me whenever you like. I'minterested--a whole lot!"
"Guess I'd better go right to the Lindsay house," Prescott said, goingback to the Gleason apartment. "There's a big party on there, and itought to be stopped. It's an awkward situation. You see, Mrs Lindsay,Gleason's sister, has two step-children--they're having the party, asI make it out. But they've got to be told."
"Yes," agreed Gale; "go along, Prescott. And you'd better havesomebody with you."
"Not at first. Let me handle it alone, and I can call Briggs if I wanthim."
"Go on, then. The sooner we start something the better. I incline moreand more to the murder theory, but if the sister thinks there was anyreason for suicide--well, run along, Prescott."
Prescott ran along, and reached the Lindsay home, on upper ParkAvenue, shortly after nine o'clock.
He was admitted by a smiling maid, and he asked for Mr Lindsay.
"He's still at dinner," she returned, doubtfully, glancing atPrescott's informal dress. "Can you come some other time?"
"No; the matter is urgent. You must ask him to leave the table andcome to me here."
His manner was imperative, and the maid went on her errand.
In a moment Louis Lindsay came to Prescott, where the detectivewaited, in the reception hall.
"What is it, my man?" said Lindsay, looking superciliously at hisvisitor. "I can't see you now."
"Just a moment, Mr Lindsay. Listen, please."
Noting the grave face and serious voice of the speaker, young Lindsayseemed to become panic-stricken.
"What is it?" he said, in a gasping whisper. "Oh, what _is_ it?"
"Why do you look like that?" Prescott said quickly. "What do you_think_ it is?"
"I don't know--I'm sure! Tell me!"
The boy, for he was little more than a boy, was ghastly white, hishands trembled and his lips quivered. He took hold of a chair back tosteady himself, and Prescott, remembering what he had been told ofMiss Lindsay, was tempted to ask for her. But he somehow felt he mustgo on with this scene.
"It's about your uncle--or rather your step-uncle--Mr Gleason."
Lindsay slumped into a chair, and raised his wild, staring black eyesto Prescott's face.
"Go on," he muttered; "what about him?"
"Didn't you expect him here to-night?"
"Yes--yes--and he didn't come--what is it? Has anything happened? Whathas happened? Who did it?"
"Who did what?" Prescott flung the words at him, in a fierce low tone."What do you know? Out with it!"
His menacing air quite finished the young man, and he buried his facein his hands, sobbing convulsively.
A slight rustle was heard, and a lovely vision appeared in thedoorway.
"What is going on?" said a clear young voice. "Louis, what is thematter?"
Phyllis Lindsay faced the stranger as she put her query.
The sight nearly dazzled Prescott, for Miss Lindsay was at her bestthat night.
She was a little thing, with soft dark hair, bundled about her ears,soft, dark eyes, that were now challenging Prescott sternly, and aslim, dainty little figure, robed in sequin-dripping gauze, from whichher soft neck and shoulders rose like a flower from its sheath.
"Who are you?" she asked, not rudely, but with her eyes wide indismay. "What are you doing to my brother?"
"Miss Lindsay?" and Prescott bowed politely. "I bring distressingnews. Your uncle--that is, Mr Robert Gleason, is--has--well, perhapsfrankness is best--he is dead."
"Robert Gleason!" Phyllis turned as pale as her brother, but preservedher calm. "Tell me--tell me all about it."
She, too, placed her little hand on a chair, as if the grip ofsomething solid helped, and turned her anxious eyes to Prescott.
"I thought better to tell you young people," he began, "and let youtell your mother--Mr Gleason's sister."
"Yes; I will tell her," said Phyllis, with dignity. "Go on, Mr----"
"Prescott," he supplied. "The facts in brief are these. Mr Gleasoncalled up Doctor Davenport on the telephone, and asked the doctor tocome to him, as he was--well, hurt. When the doctor reached there, MrGleason was dead."
"What killed him?" Phyllis spoke very quietly, and looked Prescottstraight in the face. Yet the alert eyes of the detective saw herfingers clench more tightly on the chair, and noticed her red lipslose a little color as they set themselves in a firm line.
He thought her even more beautiful thus, than when she had firstarrived, smiling.
"The Medical Examiner is not quite sure, Miss Lindsay. It may be thathe took his own life--or it may be----"
"That he was--murdered," she said, her gaze never wavering fromPrescott's face.
It was a bit disconcerting, and the detective oddly felt himself at adisadvantage. Yet he went on, inexorably.
"Yes; either deduction is possible."
"How--how was he killed?"
At last her calm gave way a little. The tremor of her voice as sheasked this question proved her not so self-controlled as she hadseemed.
"He was shot." Prescott watched both brother and sister as he spoke.But Louis still kept his face hidden in his hands, and Phyllis wasonce more perfectly calm.
"What with?" she went on.
"His own revolver. It was found close beside the body, and so as Isaid, it might have been----"
"Yes, I know what you said." Phyllis interrupted him impatiently, asif deeming repetition of the theories unnecessary. "How shall we tellMillicent?"
"Mrs Lindsay?" asked Prescott respectfully.
"Yes; we have never called her mother, of course." She looked atLouis. "Go to your rooms, if you wish, Buddy," she said, kindly, andPrescott marveled at this slight, dainty young thing taking thesituation into her own hands.
"No, I'll stand by," Louis muttered, as he rose slowly. "What shall wedo? Call her out here?"
"That would do," said Prescott, "or take her to some other room. Theguests must be told--and the party----"
"The party broken up and the guests sent home----" Phyllis declared."But first, let's tell Millicent. She'll be terribly upset."
At Phyllis' dictation, Prescott and young Lindsay went into the littlelibrary. Like the other rooms this was beflowered for the party andscant of furniture, for dancing purposes. The Lindsay apartment was afine one, yet not over large, and sounds of conversation and lightlaughter came from the dining room. Phyllis quickly brought MrsLindsay from the dinner table, and they joined the men.
As the girl had predicted, her stepmother was greatly shocked and hernerves utterly upset by Prescott's story.
The detective said little after outlining the facts, but listenedclosely while these members of the family talked. Though there on theungracious errand of breaking the sad news, he was also eagerlyanxious to learn any hints as to the solution of the mystery.
"Oh, of course, he never killed himself!" declared the deadman's sister. "Why should he? He had everything life can offer tolive for. He was rich, talented, and engaged to Phyllis, whom headored--worshipped! How can any one think he would kill himself?"
"But the evidence is uncertain," Prescott began; "you see----"
"Of course the evidence is uncertain," Phyllis broke in. "It always isuncertain! You detectives don't know evidence when you see it! Or youread it wrongly and make false deductions!"
"Why, Phyllis," remonstrated her brother, "don't talk like that! Youmay----" he hesitated a long time, "you may make trouble," heconcluded, lamely.
"Trouble, how?" Prescott caught him up.
"Don't you say another word, Louis," Phyllis ordered him. "You keepstill. Millicent, you go to your room, and let Martha look after you.Louis, you either go to your room--or, if you stay here, don't babble.Mind, now! Mr Prescott, we must tell the guests. Come with me and wewill tell those at the table. They will go home, and those who comelater can be
told at the door and sent away."
"Very well, Miss Lindsay," Prescott replied, feeling that here was astrength of character he had never seen equaled in such a mere slip ofa girl!
They went to the dining room, and without preamble, Phyllis said:
"Listen, people. I've very bad news. Mr Gleason--Robert Gleason--hasjust been found dead in his home. He was shot----" Her voice, steadytill this moment, suddenly broke down, and as her eyes filled withtears, Philip Barry, who had already risen, hastened to her side.
There was a general commotion, the ladies rising now, and with scaredfaces, whispering to one another.
"Wait a moment," Prescott spoke, as some seemed about to leave; "Imust ask you all if you know anything of importance concerning themovements of Mr Gleason this afternoon or evening. I am a detective,the case is a little mysterious, and it may be necessary to questionsome of you. Will any one volunteer information?"
Nobody did so, and Prescott, steeling himself against the entreatiesof Phyllis that all be allowed to depart, asked several of theirknowledge of the man.
Most of these declared they were unacquainted with Mr Gleason'swhereabouts on that day, and some denied knowing the man at all. Thesewere allowed to go, and at last, Prescott found himself surrounded bythe men who knew Gleason and who had seen him that very day.
These included Barry, Pollard and Monroe, of the group that had talkedtogether at the Club in the afternoon, and one or two others who hadseen Gleason during the day.
Each was questioned as to the probability, in his opinion, of RobertGleason having shot himself.
"I can't make a decision," Philip Barry said; "to my mind, Gleasonwould be quite capable of doing any crazy or impulsive thing. He mayhave had a fit of depression, he sometimes did, and feeling extrablue, may have wanted to end it all. But, also it's quite on the cardsthat somebody did for him."
"Why do you say that, Mr Barry?" asked the detective.
"Because you asked me for my opinion," was the retort. "That's it. Iwould believe anything of Gleason. I'm not knocking him--but he was afreak--eccentric, you know----"
"Oh, not quite that," Dean Monroe spoke very seriously. "Mr Gleasonwas a Westerner, and had different ideas from some of ours, but he wasa good sort----"
"Good sort!" scoffed Barry. "I'd like to know what you call a badsort, then!"
"Hush, Phil," Phyllis said, quietly. "Don't talk like that of a manwho is dead."
"Forgive me, Phyllis, I forgot myself. Well, Mr Prescott, I can onlysay you'll have to solve your mystery on the evidence you find; for Iassure you Mr Gleason would fit into almost any theory."
Prescott questioned Dean Monroe next, remembering what Lane had toldhim over the telephone.
But, though interested, Monroe told nothing definitely suggestive, andat last Prescott said, directly, "Do you know anything, Mr Monroe,that makes you suspect that Mr Gleason might have been killed by anintruder?"
"Why--why, no," stammered the young artist, quite palpablyprevaricating.
"I think you do, and I must remind you that I have a right to demandthe truth."
"Well, then," Monroe looked positively frightened, "then--I say,Manning, maybe it'll be better for me to speak out--I heard somebodysay to-day, that he meant to--to kill Gleason."
"Indeed," and Prescott, accustomed as he was to surprises, staredwonderingly at the speaker. "And who said that?"
But Monroe obstinately shook his head and spoke no word.
Philip Barry raised his head with a jerk and looked straight atManning Pollard.
Pollard's face was white, and his voice not quite steady, but hestated, "I said it."
"Why?" asked Prescott, simply.
"Oh--oh, because--I--I don't--didn't like Gleason."
"And so you killed him?"
"I haven't said so."
"I'm asking you."
"And I'm not obliged to incriminate myself, am I?" Pollard looked athim coldly.
"Where were you between six and seven this evening?"
"I refuse to tell," Pollard answered, with a belligerent look, andPrescott nodded his head, with a satisfied smile.