Part 12 (1/2)
”What a woman! A mania for wickedness--evil from head to foot, thoroughly. _She_ wouldn't stick at murder--if she thought it safe.
She'd do anything, say anything. Every word she uttered this morning had been rehea.r.s.ed in her mind--with gestures, even. When I beat her, I beat this puzzle; that's sure.”
That he had to do with a puzzle, he had no manner of doubt. The very circ.u.mstances surrounding the discovery of the girl's body--Arthur Sloane flas.h.i.+ng on the light in his room at a time when his being awake was so unusual that it frightened his daughter; Judge Wilton stumbling over the dead woman; young Webster doing the same thing in the same instant; the light reaching out to them at the moment when they bent down to touch the thing which their feet had encountered--all that shouted mystery to his experienced mind.
He thought of Webster's p.r.o.nouncement: ”The thug, acting on the spur of the moment, with a blow in the dark and a getaway through the night----” Here was reproduction of that in real life. Would people say that Webster had given himself away in advance? They might.
And the weapon, what about that? It could have been manufactured in ten minutes. Crown had said over the wire that Russell's nail file was missing. What if Webster's, too, were missing? He would see--although he expected to uncover no such thing.
He came, then, to Lucille's astounding idea, that her father must be ”protected,” because he was nervous and, being nervous, might incur the enmity of the authorities. He could not take that seriously. And yet the most fruitful imagination in the world could fabricate no motive for Arthur Sloane's killing a young woman he had never seen.
Only Webster and Russell could be saddled with motives: Webster's, desperation, the savage determination to rid himself of the woman's pursuit; Russell's, unreasoning jealousy.
So far as facts went, the crime lay between those two--and he could not shake off the impression that Mrs. Brace, shrilly a.s.serting Russell's innocence, had known that she spoke the absolute truth.
VII
THE HOSTILITY OF MR. SLOANE
Delayed by a punctured tire, Hastings reached Sloanehurst when the inquest was well under way. He went into the house by a side door and found Lucille Sloane waiting for him.
”Won't you go to father at once?” she urged him.
”What's the matter?” He saw that her anxiety had grown during his absence.
”He's in one of his awfully nervous states. I hope you'll be very patient with him--make allowances. He doesn't seem to grasp the importance of your connection with the case; wants to ask questions.
Won't you let me take you to him, now?”
”Why, yes, if I can be of any help. What do you want me to say to him?”
As a matter of fact, he was glad of the opportunity for the interview.
He had long since discovered the futility of inquests in the uncovering of important evidence, and he had not intended to sit through this one.
He wanted particularly to talk to Berne Webster, but Sloane also had to be questioned.
”I thought you might explain,” she continued hurriedly, preceding him down the hall toward her father's room, ”that you will do exactly what I asked you to do--see that the mysterious part of this terrible affair, if there is any mystery in it--see that it's cleared up promptly. Please tell him you'll act for us in dealing with newspaper reporters; that you'll help us, not annoy us, not annoy him.”
She had stopped at Sloane's door.
”And you?” Hastings delayed her knock. ”If they want you to testify, if Dr. Garnet calls for you, I think you'd better testify very frankly, tell them about the footsteps you heard.”
”I've already done that.” She seemed embarra.s.sed. ”Father asked me to 'phone Mr. Southard, Mr. Jeremy Southard, his lawyer, about it. I know I told you I wanted your advice about everything. I would have waited to ask you. But you were late. I had to take Mr. Southard's advice.”
”That's perfectly all right,” he rea.s.sured her. ”Mr. Southard advised you wisely.--Now, I'm going to ask your help. The guest-rooms upstairs--have the servants straightened them up this morning?”
They had not, she told him. Excitement had quite destroyed their efficiency for the time being; they were at the parlour windows, listening, or waiting to be examined by the coroner.
”That's what I hoped,” he said. ”Won't you see that those rooms are left exactly as they are until I can have a look at them?” She nodded a.s.sent.
”And say nothing about my speaking of it--absolutely nothing to anybody?