Ashton-Kirk, Investigator Part 19

"Yes; the revolver shot, and then the dreadful cry that followed it."

Ashton-Kirk unclasped his hands from about his knee, placed them upon the arms of his chair and leaned forward.

"But between the two--after the shot, and before the cry, you heard a door close," he said.

She gave a little gasp of surprise.

"I did," she said. "I remember it distinctly now that you mention it.

It closed sharply, but not very loudly."

The investigator leaned back and began drumming upon the arm of his chair with his long supple fingers.

"Experience never quite takes away that comfortable feeling of satisfaction that the proving of a theory gives one," said he. "I suppose it is a sort of reward that Nature reserves for effort."

And he smiled at his beautiful visitor's puzzled look, and went on:

"The cab driver says that the cry resembled that of a parrot or c.o.c.katoo. What do you think?"

"It was not unlike their scream," said Miss Vale. "But I was too much startled to think of comparing it to anything at the time!"

"What happened after you heard this cry?"

"I waited for some little time, part way up the stairs. Then the light which I had seen glancing over the walls and across the ceiling, seemed to halt and die down. After this there was a pause, a stoppage of everything, and fear took possession of me. Suppose Allan had really intended visiting the place--suppose he had preceded me--suppose something dreadful had just happened--something in which he had had a part!

"Filled with thoughts like these, I ascended the remaining stairs.

There was a light s.h.i.+ning through the lettered gla.s.s of the door at the front; but the hall was deserted; the far end was thick with shadows. I tried the door where the light was, but it was fast; the door nearest the stairs was open; I entered by that, and pa.s.sed into the front room through a communicating doorway. Then I saw the--the body, turned out the light, ran stumbling through the rooms and down the stairs."

"Why did you turn out the light?" asked the investigator.

"I don't know. Partly, I suppose, to shut the awful thing upon the floor from my sight--and partly--"

She stopped, but Ashton-Kirk completed the sentence for her.

"And partly with the confused idea that you might hide the deed from public gaze and in that way save Allan Morris from the consequences of his crime," said he.

At this she sprang up, her hands outstretched appealingly; the fear now plain in her face.

"No, no!" she cried. "He is not guilty! He did not do it!"

"My dear young lady," said Ashton-Kirk, soothingly, "control yourself. Don't forget that before this thing is ended you will probably need all the self-command you can summon." Then as she resumed her seat, he added: "I did not say that he was guilty. I was merely telling you of the formless thought that you had in mind when you turned out the light."

She sat staring at him, the horror of it all still in her eyes. Then she nodded her head slowly, and said in a husky voice.

"Yes; that is what I thought, and that is why I called you on the telephone. I thought you would pity me and show me some way of covering it all up. But after I had your promise to come, I was seized with the fear that you might--that you might betray him. That is, I suppose, the real reason why I tried to deceive you. In my terror I myself thought Allan guilty. But, of course, now that I have had time to calmly think it over, I know he was not--that he _couldn't_ be! No one who knows him will believe he did it."

"What reason had you for thinking that he might be guilty?"

"His manner during the afternoon before the murder. He seemed so fiercely resolved, so different from his usual self."

"I understand. And what makes you think now that he is innocent?"

"I believe it because I understand his nature," said Miss Vale, earnestly. "He might be finally aroused--under provocation he might even be violent. But he could never do a thing like this--it is too utterly horrible."

"You have judged that it was probably he who was seen to go into Hume's before the murder?"

"Yes."

"Hume was alive when Berg closed up his shop; he was dead when you entered his showroom a half hour or so later. Therefore he must have met his death while the cab driver Sams sat on his box across the street. Now, while Morris was seen to go in, it is not at all positive that he was the man who came out. We are not _sure_ that he was not present when the crime was committed."

Miss Vale reared her head proudly.

"Is it possible," she said, "that you are trying to fix this deed upon Allan Morris?"

"I am trying to find the real truth," answered Ashton-Kirk, gravely.

"The police," said Miss Vale, "according to the newspapers, thought that the criminal gained admission by way of the roof. This may or may not be so; but I think it is pretty evident that he made his way out in that manner. I was on the stairs while he was in the hall. He fled, but as he did not pa.s.s me, he must have gone upwards. If Allan Morris had done this murder he would not have thought of this; not knowing the section, he would have been ignorant as to where the roof would lead. But if Spatola were the man who remained, it would have been different. Do the papers not say that he lives in a garret, or loft, in the same block? How easy it would have been for him to pa.s.s out upon the roof of 478 after the crime and then over the housetops of the block until he came to a scuttle which perhaps led into his very attic?"

"That," said Ashton-Kirk, "is very well conceived. But it has one weakness. You are not sure that the murderer _did_ ascend to the roof after the crime. He may have been lurking in the shadows which you say were lying so thickly at the end of the hall. He may have been watching you as you discovered the body, while you ran down the hall once more and down the stairs. To be sure, you slammed the door behind you; and so locked it. But like all spring or latch locks, it could be readily opened from the inside. No one else came out while the cab driver waited; but that was only for another fifteen minutes, according to his own statement. The murderer could easily have waited until he had gone and then slipped out, also locking the door after him."

Miss Vale sat staring at the speaker dumbly for a s.p.a.ce; then she asked in a dry, expressionless way:

"And do you really think this is what happened?"

Ashton-Kirk shook his head.

"No," said he. "I merely mentioned it to show you that it is difficult to be sure of anything in a matter like this until," with a smile, "you _are_ sure. It is one of the things that may have happened; but it is also open to question. A criminal whose crime has been discovered does not ordinarily linger upon the scene. You had just fled with the terror of the thing fresh upon you. How did he know but that you might scream it out to everyone you met."

Again she looked at him mutely. Then she said:

"What, then, is your theory of the crime?"

"I have a number of possibilities at this moment," he said. "Of course, there is one to which I give the preference; but until a thing is proven beyond question, it is my rule never to outline my theories."

Before Miss Vale left she had implored him to do all he could to clear the matter up, for her sake and for Morris's. "Of course," she said in conclusion, "I now understand that the entire matter will get into the papers. It is too late to prevent that. But it is not too late for you to fix the guilt where it belongs. And I have every confidence that you will do it. If I had not," and her voice quavered pitifully, "I don't know what I should do."

"I will do what I can. Success sometimes comes easily--sometimes one is forced to fight hard for it. But rest a.s.sured that I will do what I can."

She was going; he held the library door open for her while the grave-faced Stumph waited in the hall.

"It will, perhaps, be necessary for me to see Mr. Morris sometime during the course of the day," said Ashton-Kirk, as an afterthought.

"Would it be convenient for you to let him know that I can be seen at six?"

The fear that his soothing words had driven from her eyes, swept back into them; he saw her tremble and steady herself against the door-frame.

"I cannot let him know," she said. "I have not seen him since--since the time I have mentioned. I have waited, telephoned, sent messages, even gone in person. But I could not find him. No one seems to know anything of his whereabouts."