英语小说网

Maitland’s request that Browne should not leave the room seemed to us all a veritable thunderbolt. It impressed me at the time as being a thinly veneered command, and I remember fearing lest the artist should be injudicious enough to disregard it. If he could have seen his own face for the next few moments, he would have had a lesson in expression which years of portrait work may fail to teach him. At length the rapidly changing kaleidoscope of his mind seemed to settle, to group its varied imaginings about a definite idea,—the idea that he had been all but openly accused, in the presence of Miss Darrow, of being instrumental in her father’s death. For a moment, as he faced Maitland, whom he instinctively felt to be a rival, he looked so dark and sinister that one could easily have believed him capable of almost any crime.

Gwen was no less surprised than the rest of us at Maitland’s interference, but she did not permit it to show in her voice as she said quietly: “Mr. Browne has consented to go for an officer.” As I felt sure she must have thought Maitland already knew this, as anyone else must have heard what had passed, I looked upon her remark as a polite way of saying:

“I am mistress here.”

Maitland apparently so regarded it, for he replied quickly: “I hope you will not think me officious, or unmindful of your right to dictate in a matter so peculiarly your own affair. My only desire is to help you. Mr. Browne’s departure would still further complicate a case already far to difficult of solution. My legal training has given me some little experience in these matters, and I only wish that you may have the benefit thereof. It is now nearly three-quarters of an hour since your father’s death, and, I assure you, time at this particular juncture may be of the utmost importance. Not a moment should be wasted in needless discussion. If you will consent to despatch a servant to the police station I will, in due time, explain to you why I have taken the liberty of being so insistent on this point.”

He had hardly ceased speaking before Gwen rang for a servant. She hurriedly told him what had transpired and sent him to the nearest police station. As this was but a few rods away and the messenger was fleet of foot, an officer was soon upon the scene. “We were able,” he said to us generally as he entered the room, “to catch Medical Examiner Ferris by ‘phone at his home in F— Street, and he will be here directly. In the meantime I have been sent along merely to see that the body is not moved before his examination and that everything in the room remains exactly as it was at the time of the old gentleman’s death. Did I not understand,” he said to Maitland in an undertone, “that there is a suspicion of foul play?”

“Yes,” replied George, “that is one explanation which certainly will have to be considered.”

“I thought I heard the Cap’n say ‘murder’ when he ‘phoned in town for some specials. They’re for detective work on this case, I reckon. Hello! That sounds like the Doctor’s rig.”

A moment later the bell rang and Dr. Ferris entered the room.

“Ah, Doctor,” he said extending his hand to me, “what have we here?”

Before I could answer he had noticed Maitland and advanced to shake hands with him.

“Is this indeed so serious as I have been told?” he asked, after his greeting.

“It seems to me likely,” replied Maitland slowly, “to develop into the darkest mystery I have ever known.”

“Hum!” replied the Examiner. “Has the body been moved or the disposition of its members altered?”

“Not since I arrived,” replied Officer Barker.

“And before?” queried Dr. Ferris, turning to Maitland.

“Everything is absolutely intact. I have made a few notes and measurements, but I have disturbed nothing,” replied Maitland.

“Good,” said the Examiner. “May I see those notes before I go? You were on that Parker case and you have, you know, something of a reputation for thoroughness. Perhaps you may have noted something that would escape me.”

“The notes, Doctor, are at your service,” George replied.

Dr. Ferris’ examination of the body was very thorough, yet, since it was made with the rapid precision which comes from extended practice, it was soon over. Short as it was, however, it was still an ordeal under which Gwen suffered keenly, to judge from her manner.

The Examiner then took Maitland aside, looked at his notes, and conversed earnestly with him in an undertone for several minutes. I do not know what passed between them. When he left, a few moments later, Officer Barker accompanied him.

As soon as the door closed behind them Gwen turned to Maitland.

“Did he give you his opinion?” she asked with a degree of interest which surprised me.

“He will report death as having resulted from causes at present unknown,” rejoined Maitland.

Gwen seemed greatly relieved by this answer, though I confess I was utterly at a loss to see why she should be.

Observing this change in her manner Maitland approached her, saying:

“Will you now permit me to explain my seeming rudeness in interfering with your plan to make Mr. Browne your messenger, and at the same time allow me to justify myself in the making of yet another request?”

Gwen bowed assent and he proceeded to state the following case as coolly and accurately as if it were a problem in geometry.

“Mr. Darrow,” he began, “has just died under peculiar circumstances. Three possible views of the case at once suggest themselves. First: his death may have been due to natural causes and his last expressions the result of an hallucination under which he was labouring. Second: he may have committed suicide, as the result, perhaps, of a mania which in that case would also serve to explain his last words and acts; or,—you will pardon me, Miss Darrow,—these last appearances may have been intentionally assumed with a view to deceiving us. The officers you have summoned will not be slow in looking for motives for such a deception, and several possible ones cannot fail at once to suggest themselves to them. Third: your father may have been murdered and his last expressions a more or less accurate description of the real facts of the case. It seems to me that these three theories exhaust the possibilities of the case. Can anyone suggest anything further?” And he paused for a reply.

“It is clear,” replied Mr. Herne with portly deliberation, “that all deaths must be either natural or unnatural; and equally clear that when unnatural the agent, if human, must be either the victim himself, or some person external to him.”

“Precisely so,” continued Maitland. “Now our friend, the Doctor, believes that Mr. Darrow’s death resulted from natural causes. The official authorities will at first, in all probability, agree with him, but it is impossible to tell what theory they will ultimately adopt. If sufficient motive for the act can be found, some are almost certain to adopt the suicide theory. Miss Darrow has expressed her conviction that we are dealing with a case of murder. Mr. Browne and Mr. Herne have expressed no opinion on the subject, so far as I am aware.”

At this point Gwen, with an eagerness she had not before displayed,—or possibly it was nervousness,—exclaimed: “And your own view of the case?” “I believe,” Maitland replied deliberately, “that your father’s death resulted from poison injected into the blood; but this is a matter so easily settled that I prefer not to theorise upon it. There are several poisons which might have produced the effects we have observed. If, however, I am able to prove this conjecture correct I have still only eliminated one of the three hypotheses and resolved the matter to a choice between the suicide and murder theories, yet that is something gained. It is because I believe it can be shown death did not result from natural causes that I have so strongly urged Mr. Browne not to leave the room.”

“Pardon me, sir!” ejaculated Browne, growing very dark and threatening. “You mean to insinuate—” “Nothing,” continued Maitland, finishing his sentence for him, and then quietly ignoring the interruption. “As I have already said, I am somewhat familiar with the usual methods of ferreting out crime. As a lawyer, and also as a chemical expert, I have listened to a great deal of evidence in criminal cases, and in this and other ways, learned the lines upon which detectives may confidently be expected to act, when once they have set up an hypothesis. The means by which they arrive at their hypotheses occasionally surpass all understanding, and we have, therefore, no assurance as to the view they will take of this case. The first thing they will do will be to make what they will call a ‘thorough examination’ of the premises; but a study of chemistry gives to the word ‘thorough’ a significance of which they have no conception. It is to shorten this examination as much as possible,—to prevent it from being more tiresome to you than is absolutely necessary,” he said to Gwen, “that I have taken the liberty of ascertaining and recording most of the data the officers will require.”

“Believe me,” Gwen said to him in an undertone not intended for the rest of us, though we heard it, “I am duly grateful for your consideration and shall find a fitting time to thank you.”

With no other reply than a deprecating gesture, Maitland continued:

“Now let us look at the matter from the standpoint of the officers. They must first determine in their own minds how Mr. Darrow met his death. This will constitute the basis of their first hypothesis. I say ‘first’ because they are liable to change it at any moment it seems to them untenable. If they conclude that death resulted from natural causes, I shall doubtless be able to induce them to waive that view of the case until I have been given time to prove it untenable—if I can—and to act for the present upon one of the other two possible theories. It appears, from our present knowledge of the case, that, whichever one of these they choose, the same difficulty will confront them.”

Gwen looked at him inquiringly and he continued, answering the question in her eyes:

“This is what I mean. Your father, whether he committed suicide or was murdered, in all probability met his death through that almost imperceptible wound under his chin. This wound, so far as I have yet been able to examine it without a glass, was made with a somewhat blunt instrument, able, apparently, to little more than puncture the skin and draw a drop or so of blood. Of course, on such a theory, death must have resulted from poisoning. The essential point is: Where is the instrument that inflicted the wound?”

“Might it not be buried in the flesh?” Gwen asked.

“Possibly, but as I have not been able to find it I cannot believe it very likely, though closer search may reveal it,” replied Maitland. “Your father’s right forefinger,” he continued, “is slightly stained with blood, but the wound is of a nature which could not have been caused by a finger nail previously poisoned. Since we know he pressed his hand to his throat this blood-stain makes no more strongly toward the truth of the suicide theory than it does toward that of the murder hypothesis. Suppose now, for we must look at all sides of the question, the officers begin to act upon the assumption that murder has been committed. What will they then do? They will satisfy themselves that the east window was opened six and three-quarters inches and securely fastened in that position; that the two south windows were closed and fastened and that the blinds thereof were also closed. They will ascertain the time when death occurred,—we can easily tell them,—and this will show them that neither of the blinds on the south side could have been opened without so increasing the light in the room as to be sure to attract our attention. They will learn also that the folding doors were locked, as they are now, on this side and that these two gentlemen [indicating Browne and Herne] sat against them. They will then turn to the hall door as the only possible means of entrance and I shall tell them that the Doctor and I sat directly in front of this door and between it and Mr. Darrow. I have taken the liberty to cut the carpet to mark the positions of our chairs. In view of all these facts what must they conclude? Simply this: no one entered the room, did the deed, and then left it, at least not without being observed.” “But surely,” I ventured to suggest, “you do not think they will presume to question the testimony of all of us that no one was observed.”

“That is all negative evidence,” he replied, “and does not conclusively prove that another might not have observed what we failed to detect. However, it is all so self-evident that they will not question it. I know so well their methods of reasoning that I am already prepared to refute their conclusions at every point, without, I regret to say, being myself able to solve the mystery, though I may say in passing that I purposely am refraining from formulating any theory whatever until I have ascertained everything which it is possible to learn in the matter. In this way I hope to avoid the error into which the detective is so prone to fall. Once you set up an hypothesis you unconsciously, and in spite of yourself, accentuate unduly the importance of all data making toward that hypothesis, while, on the other hand you either utterly neglect, misconstrue, or fail to fully appreciate, the evidence oppugnant to your theory. In chemical research I gather the material for an entire series of experiments before performing any, so that the first few shall not, either by satisfying or discouraging me, cause me to leave the bush half beaten.

“Let us see how, from the officers’ standpoint, the murder hypothesis now stands. No assassin, it will be clear to them, could have entered or left this room unobserved. If, therefore, a man did enter the room and kill our friend, we, all of us, must be his accomplices.” This remark drew some sort of exclamatory protest from every other person in the room save Browne.

“Ah, that is probably the true solution,” said the artist with ill-concealed disgust.

This remark and the tone in which it was uttered would have been discourteous under any circumstances; at this particular time and in the painful situation in which we all found ourselves it was boorish almost beyond endurance.

There was nothing in Maitland’s manner to indicate that he had heard Browne’s remark, as he quietly continued:

“You see this cold-blooded view, the mere statement of which causes you all to shudder,—the more so because one of our number is the daughter of the dead man,—is not to be entertained a moment and is only mentioned to show the logical chain which will force the officers into the certain conviction that no assassin did enter or leave this room. What, then, remains of their theory? Two possibilities. First, the murderer may have done the deed without entering. If so, it is clear that he must have made use of the partly-opened window. This seems so likely that they will seize upon it with avidity. At first they will suggest that the assassin reached in at the window and struck his victim as he sat by it. This, they will urge, accounts for our not finding the weapon, and they will be so sure that this is the correct solution of the problem that I shall probably have to point out to them its patent absurdity. This illustrates the danger of forming an hypothesis from imperfect data. Remind them that Mr. Darrow did not sit by the window, but eight feet three and one-half inches from it, in almost the exact centre of the room, and their theory falls to the ground, only to be hastily replaced, as a drowning man catches at a straw, by a slightly varied theory. If the victim sat that distance from the window, they will inform us, it is clear the murderous implement must have been thrown or shot at him by the assassin.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Herne, “though I had not thought of that theory it seems to me so plausible, now that you mention it, that I think the officers will show rare acumen if they adopt it. Very properly may they hold that some projectile might have been shot through the partly opened window and none of us have detected the act.”

“Ah, yes,” rejoined Maitland; “but when I ask them where this implement is under this assumption, and remind them of what I shall already have told them, viz., that Mr. Darrow sat back to the window as well as over eight feet from it, and sat in a chair, the solid back of which extended, like a protecting shield, fully six inches above the top of his head, they will find it difficult to show how, unless projectiles travel in sharp curves or angles, a man in this position could thus receive a wound directly beneath his chin, a wound so slight as not to penetrate the thyroid cartilage immediately under it.

“The abandonment of this hypothesis will force them to relinquish the idea that the murder was committed from without. What then remains? Only the second alternative. They must either give up altogether the idea of murder, or have recourse to what is known as the theory of exclusive opportunity.”

“Theory of exclusive opportunity,” repeated Gwen, as a puzzled look overspread her countenance. “I—I fear I do not quite understand what you mean.”

“Pardon me, Miss Darrow, for not making my meaning clearer to you,” said Maitland with a deferential inclination of the head. “The theory of exclusive opportunity, to state it plainly in this case, means simply this: if Mr. Darrow were murdered, some one of us five, we being the only ones having an opportunity to do the deed, must be the assassin. Whether this view be taken, or that of suicide, it becomes of paramount importance to find the weapon. Do you not now see why I objected to having anyone leave the room? If, as appears likely from my search, the weapon is not to be found, and if, as I feel reasonably certain, either the suicide or the murder theory be substantiated, then, anyone who left the room before official search was made would be held to have taken the weapon with him and disposed of it, because his would have been the exclusive opportunity of so doing. Someone must have disposed of it, and no one else had a chance to do so; that would be the way it would be stated. But, since no one of us has left the room, a thorough search both of it and of our persons, must convince the officers that we, at least, are not responsible for the fact that the weapon is not forthcoming.”

Maitland paused and looked at Browne as if he expected him to speak, but that gentleman only shut his square jaws the more firmly together and held his peace,—at least in so far as words were concerned. If looks, like actions, “speak louder than words,” this black visage with its two points of fire made eloquent discourse. I charged all this display of malice to jealousy. It is not altogether pleasant to be placed at a disadvantage before the one being whose good opinion one prizes above all things else,—that is to say, I have read that such is the case. I do not consider my own views upon such matters expert testimony. In all affairs of the heart my opinions cease to have weight at exactly the point where that organ ceases to be a pump.

Even Gwen, I think, noticed Browne’s determined silence, for she said to Maitland:

“I am very grateful that your forethought prevented me from causing Mr. Browne even temporary annoyance by making him my messenger.”

She paused a moment and then continued:

“You were speaking of the officers’ theories. When they have convinced themselves that no one of us has removed the weapon, what then?”

“In my opinion,” said Maitland, “they will ultimately fall back upon the suicide theory, but they must find the weapon here before they can substantiate it; for if it be not here someone must have taken it away and that someone could have only been the one who used it—the assassin, in short—but here are the officers. Let each one of us insist upon being searched. They can send to the station for a woman to search you,” he said in an undertone to Gwen and then added: “I trust you will pardon my suggesting a course which, in your case, seems so utterly unnecessary, but, believe me, there are urgent reasons for it which I can explain later. If we would hope to solve this mystery, everything depends upon absolute thoroughness at this juncture.”

“I should evince but poor appreciation,” Gwen replied, “of the ability you have already shown should I fail to follow your slightest suggestion. It is all I can offer you by way of thanks for the kind interest you have taken.”

The return of Officer Barker, accompanied by three other men, now changed the tide of conversation. Maitland advanced and shook hands with one whom he introduced as Mr. Osborne, and this gentleman in turn introduced his brother officer, a Mr. Allen, and M. Godin, a special detective.

Osborne impressed me as a man of only mediocre ability, thoroughly imbued with the idea that he is exceptionally clever. He spoke loudly and, I thought, a bit ostentatiously, yet withal in a manner so frank and hearty that I could not help liking the fellow.

M. Godin, on the contrary, seemed retiring almost to the point of self-abnegation. He said but little, apparently preferring to keep in the background, where he could record his own observations in his note-book without too frequent interruption. His manner was polished in the extreme, and so frank withal that he seemed to me like a man of glass through whom every thought shone unhindered. I wondered how one who seemed powerless to conceal his own emotions should possess a detective’s ability to thread his way through the dark and hidden duplicity of crime. When he spoke it was in a low, velvety, and soothing voice, that fell upon the ear with an irresistible charm. When Osborne would make some thoughtless remark fraught with bitterness for Gwen, such an expression of pain would flit across M. Godin’s fine face as one occasionally sees in those highly organised and sympathetic natures,—-usually found among women if a doctor’s experience may be trusted,—which catch the throb of another’s hurt, even as adjacent strings strive to sing each other’s songs.

M. Godin seemed to me more priest than detective. His clean-shaven face, its beautifully chiselled features suffused with that peculiar pallor which borrows the transparency of marble; the large, limpid brown eyes and the delicate, kindly mouth—all these, combined with a faultless manner and a carriage suggestive of power in reserve, so fascinated me that I found myself watching him continually. I remember saying to myself: “What a rival he would make in a woman’s affections!”

At just that time he was looking at Gwen with tender, solicitous sympathy written in every feature, and that doubtless suggested my thought.

Mr. Allen was even more ordinary than Mr. Osborne in manner and appearance. I do not presume to judge his real merits, for I did not notice him sufficiently to properly portray him to you, even if I had the gift of description, which I think you will admit I have not. He lives in my memory only as a something tall, spare, coarse of texture, red, hairy, and redolent of poor tobacco.

How different men are! (Of course women are all alike!) While Osborne, like a good-natured bumble-bee, was buzzing noisily about, as though all the world were his clover-blossom; and Allen, so far as I know, was doing nothing; M. Godin, alert and keen despite his gentleness and a modesty which kept him for the most part unobtrusively in the shadow of his chosen corner, was writing rapidly in a note-book and speaking no word. It seemed as if nothing escaped him. Clearly he was there to enlighten himself rather than others. At length, pausing to make a measurement, he noticed my gaze and said to me in an undertone, as he glanced solicitously at Gwen lest she should hear:

“Pardon me, but did any of you observe anything, at or about the time of Mr. Darrow’s death, which impressed you as singular,—any noise, any shadow, any draught or change of temperature, say a rushing or I might say swishing sound,—anything, in fact, that would seem to you as at all unusual?”

“Nothing whatever,” I replied. “Everything seemed perfectly normal and commonplace.”

“Hum! Strange!” he said, and returned to his notes.

I felt sure M. Godin had had a theory and that my testimony had not strengthened it, but he did not volunteer any information, neither did he take part in the conversation of his companions, and so my curiosity remained ungratified. It was clear that M. Godin’s methods were very different from those of Osborne and Allen.

I need not weary you by further narrating what occurred at this official examination. Suffice it to say that, with one or two minor exceptions, Osborne and Allen followed the precise course of reasoning prophesied by Maitland, and, as for M. Godin, he courteously, but firmly, held his peace. The two officers did not, however, lean as strongly to the theory that death resulted from natural causes as Maitland had anticipated, and, I think, this surprised him. He had already told them that he expected to be able to show death to have resulted from poison hypodermically applied, and, as I overheard a remark made by Osborne to Allen, I readily understood their speedy abandonment of their natural-death theory. They were engaged in verifying Maitland’s measurement of the east side of the room when Osborne said softly to his companion: “He has figured in several of my cases as a chemical expert, and when he expresses an opinion on a matter it’s about the same as proved. He’s not the kind that jumps in the dark. He’s a lawyer as well as chemist and knows what’s evidence, so I reckon we’d better see if we can make anything out of the suicide and murder theories.”

Maitland had asked them to send to the station for a woman to search Gwen and she had just arrived. We all requested that a most thorough examination should now be made to assure the officers that no one of us possessed the missing weapon. This done, the officers and departed for the night, assuring Gwen that there was nothing further to be done till morning, and Osborne, doubtless with a view to consoling her, said: “It may be a relief to you, miss, to know that there is scarcely a doubt that your father took his own life.” This had an effect upon Gwen very different from that which had been intended. Her face contracted, and it was plain to see she was beginning to think everyone was determined to force a falsehood upon her. Herne and Browne also prepared to take their leave. A glance from Maitland told me he wished me to remain with him a moment after the others had departed, and I accordingly did so.

When we were alone with Gwen he said to her: “I think I understand your feeling with regard to Mr. Osborne’s remark, as well as your conviction that it does not represent the truth. I foresaw they would come to this conclusion, and know very well the pains they will take to prove their hypothesis.” “Can nothing be done?” she asked beseechingly. “It is that of which I wish to speak,” he replied. “If you have sufficient confidence in me to place the case in my hands, I will do everything in my power to establish the truth,—on one condition,” and he glanced at her face, now pale and rigid from her long-continued effort of self-control. “And that condition is?” she said quickly. “That you follow my directions and permit me to order your movements in all things, so long as the case remains in my hands; if at any time I seek to abuse your faith, you are as free to discharge me as if I were a paid detective.” Gwen looked searchingly at him; then, extending her hand to him, she said impulsively: “You are very kind; I accept the condition. What shall I do?”

I tried to catch Maitland’s eye to tell him what he should counsel her, but a man with his ability to observe conditions and grasp situations can very well do without prompting. “First,” he said, “you must return home with the Doctor and spend the rest of the night with his sister; I shall stay here until morning; and second, I desire that you use your utmost endeavour to keep the incidents of this evening out of your mind. You cannot, of course, forget your loss, unless you sleep,”—and he gave me a look which said: “I depend on you to see to that,”—“but you must not continually re-enact the scene in imagination, In the morning the Doctor will come here to bring me my camera, microscope, and a few things I shall require “—and he passed me a list he had written. “If you have slept well you can be of considerable service, and may accompany him—if not, you must remain quietly at his house.” With this he turned to me, and said: “She is making a condenser of herself, Doctor, and will soon break through the insulation. Sparks will be dangerous—you must secure the brush effect.” He spoke quickly, and used electrical terms, that she might not understand him, but either he failed of his purpose, or the observation she immediately made was a strange coincidence. I believe she understood, for, while young women educated by their mothers are usually ignorant upon all the more masculine subjects, those who have long been their father’s companions are ever prone to startle one with the most unexpected flashes of intelligence. “I am in rather a high state of tension now,” she said, turning calmly to Maitland; “but when alone the expression which has been denied me here will afford relief.” Maitland glanced at her quickly, and then at me, and I knew he was wondering if she had understood. Then he said: “It is getting late. I shall expect you to sleep well and to come in the morning. Please say to the servants as you go that I shall stay here all night, and that no one must enter without permission. Good-night.” She held out her hand to him, but made no reply; then she fervently kissed her father’s lips, and together we left the chamber of death.