Author: Carolyn Wells
Category: Humorous
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/carolyn-wells/page,5,7561-in_the_onyx_lobby.html
CHAPTER V
Who Were the Women?
The usual and necessary routine was followed out. The Medical Examinercame and did his part; the undertakers came and did theirs; and at lastBob Moore's nervous restlessness was calmed, somewhat, by a hope ofgetting all signs of the tragedy obliterated before the morning's stirbegan in the house.
"I'll wash up these blood stains, myself," Moore volunteered,--speakingto Corson, after the body had been taken away to a mortuaryestablishment and the Prall family had gone up to their rooms.
"Oh, I don't know," demurred Corson. "It's evidence, you know----"
"For whom? Can't you get all the deductions you want, and let me cleanup? We can't have the tenants coming down to a hall like this! Ifthere's any evidence in these blood spots, make a note of it. You knowyourself they can't be left here all day!"
This was reasonable talk, and Corson agreed. "All right," he said. "I'llmake pencil marks around where the spots are,--pencil won't wash off,you know,--and as I can't see any trace of footprints, I suppose thereisn't anything further to be learned from the condition of the floor."
"Thought you Tecs got a lot from looking at the scene of the crime,"Moore jeered. "You haven't deduced a thing but that the man wasstabbed,--and Dr. Pagett told you that."
Corson took the taunt seriously.
"That finding of tiny clues, such as shreds of clothing, part of abroken cuff-link, a dropped handkerchief, all those things, are juststory-book stuff,--they cut no ice in real cases."
"I'll bet Sherlock Holmes could find a lot of data just by going overthe floor with a lens."
"He could in a story book,--and do you know why? Because the clews andthings, in a story, are all put there for him by the property man. Likea salted mine. But in real life, there's nothing doing of that sort.Take a good squint at the floor, though, before you remove those stains.You don't see anything, do you?"
Elated at being thus appealed to by a real, live detective, Moore gotdown on hands and knees and scrutinized the floor all about where thebody of Sir Herbert had lain.
There was nothing indicative to be seen. The floor of the lobby wasalways kept in proper condition and beyond the slight trace of dust thatnaturally accumulated between the diurnal washings, the floor gave up noinformation.
So the gruesome red stains were washed away, and once again the onyxlobby took on its normal atmosphere.
"How you going to work on the case?" asked Moore, eagerly interested.
"I'm going to get the truth out of you!" declared Corson, so suddenlyand brusquely that Moore turned white.
"What!" he cried.
"Yes, just that. You know a lot about the matter that you haven'ttold,--so you can just out with it!"
"Me? I don't know anything."
"Now, now, the thing is too thin. How could Binney get in here, and thenhis murderer come in and have the whole shooting-match pulled off in theshort time it would take you to run Vail up to the tenth floor and dropyour car down again?"
"But--but, you see, I--I stood quite a while talking to Mr Vail after westopped at his floor."
"What'd you do that for?"
"Why, we were talking about the book I was reading----"
"You were both talking--or you were talking to him?"
"I guess that's it. I was so crazy about the book I'd talk to anybodywho'd listen, and Mr Vail was real good-natured, and I guess I letmyself go----"
"And babbled on, till he was bored to death and sent you away."
"Just about that," and Moore grinned, sheepishly. "I'm terribly fond ofdetective stories."
"Yes, so you've said. Well, your book is called, I believe, 'Murder WillOut,' so, as that's pretty true, you might as well own up first aslast."
"Own up to what?"
"That you killed Sir Binney! Where's the knife? What did you do it for?Don't you know you'll be arrested, tried, convicted and sentenced?Yes--sentenced!"
Corson's habit of flinging out rapid-fire questions took on new terrorfrom the fierce frown with which he accompanied his speech, and BobMoore's knees trembled beneath him.
"W--what are you talking about? I--I didn't k--kill him!"
"Yes, you did! You got all wrought up over those fool story books ofyours and you went bug, and killed him in a frenzy of imagination!"
"Oh, oh! I didn't--I,----"
"Then explain your movements! You came down from your talk with Vail,full of murder thoughts. You saw Binney come in, and, moved by theopportunity and obsessed with the murder game, you let drive and killedhim, in a sort of mania!"
"Oh, no! no!" and Moore fell limply into a seat and began to sob wildly.
"Stop that!" Corson ordered. "I've got to find out about this. I believeyou did it,--I believe I've struck the truth, for the simple reason thatthere's no other suspect. This man Binney had no enemies. Why, he's apeaceable Englishman, in trade,--and a big trade. I know all about him.He wanted to place his Bun business over here. He'd confabbed withseveral Bakery men in this city, and was about to make a deal. He was ongood terms with his people here,--sort of relatives, they are,--and hewas a gay old boy in his social tastes. Now, who's going to stick up aman like that? There was no robbery,--his watch and kale were all rightthere. So there's no way to look, but toward you! _You!_" A pointedforefinger emphasized Corson's words and Moore broke into fresh sobs.
"I tell you I didn't! Why, it's too absurd--too----"
"Not absurd at all. I know something of psychology, and I know how thosemurder yarns, read late at nights,--when you're here alone, get intoyour blood, and--well, it's a wonder you didn't stick Vail! But Isuppose his indulgent listening to your ravings helped along your murderinstinct, and you----"
"Oh, hush! If you keep on you'll make me think I did do it!"
"Of course,--you can't think anything else. Now, here's another thing.You say you went up for Dr Pagett at twenty past two."
"Or a few minutes later."
"Well, Pagett said,--I asked him privately,--that it was at leastquarter to three! What were you doing all that time?"
"It wasn't--I didn't--oh, Mr Corson, I told you the truth. I waited tocatch the last words of----"
"Yes, of your own victim! And then, frightened, you hung around twentyminutes or so before calling the doctor."
"I did not! But," and Moore pulled himself together, "I'm not going tosay another word! You've doped out this cock-and-bull story because youdon't know which way to look for the real murderer. And you think youcan work a third degree on me--and railroad me to the chair, do you?Well, you can't do it!"
Moore's eyes were glittering, his cheeks were flushed and his voice roseto a shrill shriek as he glared wildly at his tormentor.
"Shut up on that!" Corson flung at him. "Calm yourself down, now. Ifyou're innocent, it's all right. But I'll keep my eye on you, my boy.Now, tell me any theory you have or can invent that will fit the factsof the case."
Corson asked this in the honest hope that Moore could give him a hint.The detective was a good plodding sleuth when it came to tracking down aclew, but he was not fertile of imagination and had little or noinitiative. He really believed it might have been Moore's work, but hethought so, principally, because he could think of no other way to look.
"The facts are not so very strange," began Moore, looking at thedetective uncertainly. He didn't want to give any unnecessary help, forhe had a half-formed theory that he wanted to think out for himself, andhe had no intention of sharing it with an avowed enemy. But he saw, too,that a few words of suggestion of any sort might lead Corson'ssuspicions away from himself and might make for leniency.
"Wait a minute," he said, on a sudden thought. "The writing the dyingman managed to scribble said that women did the murder."
"That's my best bet!" cried Corson; "I've been waiting for you tomention that! You wrote that paper! That's what occupied you all thattime. Of course women didn't do a deed like that. You conceived thefiendishly clever idea of writing such a message to mislead the police!"<
br />
"You--you----" but words failed Bob Moore. He reverted to his plan ofsilence and sat, moodily staring in front of him, as the dawn broke andthe time drew near for the day shift of workers to come on.
"Don't you think so?" and Corson now spoke almost ingratiatingly. "Imean don't you think it pretty impossible for women to put over such acrime?"
"No, I don't," Bob blurted out. "Nor you wouldn't either, if you knewBinney! Why, his life just one--h'm--one woman after another! And theywere all after him!"
"What do you mean?"
"Why he was a regular feller, you know. He took the chorus girls,--orsome of their sort,--out to dinners and all that, and, here in thehouse, he jollied the elevator girls and the telephone and news-standJanes,--and yet he detested girls' service. Many a time he'd blow out tothe manager about how he'd ought to fire all the girls and put back menor boys,--like we had before the war."
"Your story doesn't hang together. Binney seemed to adore and hate thegirls, both."
"That's just it, he did. He'd storm and rail at Daisy,--she's on hiselevator, and then he'd turn around and chuck her under the chin, andlike as not bring her home a big box of chocolates."
"Oh, well, I've heard of men like that before."
"But not so much so. I don't believe anybody ever went for the girlsrough-shod as bad as he did. He called them down for the leastthing,--and then, sometimes he'd make it up to them and sometimes hewouldn't."
"And the chorus ladies? But I suppose you don't know much about them."
"Don't I? Well, I guess I do! Why, Mr Binney--Sir Binney, I mean,--heused to tell me the tallest yarns I ever heard, about his littlesuppers,--as he called 'em. He'd come 'long about two G. M. prettymellow, and in an expansive mood, and he'd pour out his heart to oldBob,--meaning me. Yes, sir, I know a thing or two about Binney's ladyfriends, and there's a few of them that wouldn't mind knifing him abit,--if they were sure they wouldn't be found out. And,--if you ask me,that's just what happened."
"H'm; you mean they followed him home, and slipped in after him----"
"Yep."
"But how did they know they'd find the coast clear,--that you'd so veryconveniently be up in the elevator, and would stay up there such anunusually long time? You'd better shut up, Moore. Everything you saygets you deeper in the net. If your chorus girl theory is the rightdope, you were in on it, too. Otherwise it couldn't have been worked!"
"All right, Mr Corson, I'll shut up. You'll see the time when you'll bemighty glad to turn to me for help. Till then, work on your own; but youneedn't aim this way, it won't get you anywhere."
Meantime there was consternation among the nearest of kin to the deadman.
In the Prall apartment, Miss Letitia was conducting conversation ablyaided and abetted by Eliza Gurney, while young Bates sat listening andjoining in when there was opportunity.
"Worst of all is the disgrace," Miss Prall was saying. "There's no usemy pretending I'm over-come with grief,--personal grief, I mean, for Inever cared two straws for the man, and I'm not going to make believe Idid. But the publicity and newspaper talk is terrible. Once it blowsover and is forgotten we'll be able to hold up our heads again, but justnow, we're in the public eye,--and it's an awful place to be!"
"But who did it, Aunt Letitia," said Bates. "We've got to get themurderer----"
"I don't mind so much about that," his aunt returned, with a sharpsniff. "All I want is to get the thing hushed up. Of course, you're theheir now, Ricky, so you must put on suitable mourning and all that, butthose things can be attended to in due course."
"Where you going to have the funeral and when?" asked Eliza. "I don'tthink I'll go."
"You needn't, if you don't want to," Miss Prall agreed. "I don't blameyou,--I don't want to attend it myself, but I suppose I ought to. Itwill be in the undertaker's chapel, and it will soon be over. Let's haveit just as quickly as possible, Rick. To-morrow, say."
"Oh, Aunt Letitia! Do observe the rules of common decency! We can'thurry the poor man into his grave like that. And I shouldn't wonder ifthere'll be a lot of red tape and inquiry before we can bury him atall."
"Maybe the body'll have to be sent back to England," suggested Eliza,and Richard was just about to say he supposed it would, when thedoorbell of the apartment rang.
As Miss Prall's maids did not sleep in the house, Bates opened the doorand found Corson there, with a bland but determined look on his face.
"Sorry to trouble you people," he said, stepping inside without beingasked, "but I've some talking to do, and the sooner the quicker."
He smiled, importantly, and, selecting a comfortable chair, seatedhimself deliberately and looked in silence from one to another.
"Well," said Miss Prall, stiffly, "what do you want to know?"
The angular, spare figure of the spinster, upright in a straight-backedchair, was not of a demeanor to put a man at ease, but Corson showed nouneasiness, and almost lolled in his seat as he cast a slow glance ather.
"Naturally," he began, "what I want to know is, and what I propose tofind out is, who killed Sir Herbert Binney. And what I want to know hereis, anything any of you can tell me that will throw any light, sidelight, or full glare, on the question."
"We don't know anything that is illuminating in any way," Miss Prallinformed him.
"I will be the judge of the powers of illumination if you will tell mewhat you know," was the suave retort. "Will you make a statement orshall I ask questions?"
"Neither," and Letitia Prall rose. "You may bid us good-night, sir. Thisis no time to intrude upon the ladies of a family,--especially a familyin deep and sudden mourning."
"You weren't mourning very deeply as I entered." Corson made no move toget up, although Bates rose as his aunt did. "I think, Miss Prall, you'dbetter sit down again, and you, too, Mr Bates. This may be a lengthyconfab."
"I think you'd better listen to this man, Letitia," advised Eliza. "He'sgot a right to be heard, and I, for one, want to know how mattersstand."
Whereupon Letitia sat down and Bates came and stood behind her chair.
"First, Mr Corson," Richard said, "let me understand just how far yourauthority goes----"
"All the way," returned Corson, promptly. "I'm the police detective onthis case. I shall have a helper,--a colleague, undoubtedly, but for themoment I'm working alone. However, I've all the authority in the world.I represent law and justice, I represent the government, I represent theUnited States!"
"The United States is honored, I'm sure," said Miss Prall withunconcealed sarcasm.
Such things never ruffled Corson, and he went calmly on.
"This man's relation to you?" he said, interrogatively, looking atLetitia.
"He was no kin of mine," she snapped; "he was the uncle of my nephew, MrBates, and Mr Bates is the sole heir."
"Indeed; he is to be congratulated. Now, this man,--Sir Binney----"
"Don't call him that!" put in Eliza. "It does annoy me so! Say SirHerbert Binney or Sir Herbert. Have you never known a knight?"
"No, ma'am, I never have. Well, Sir Herbert, then,--did he live here?"
"In this building,--not in this apartment," Richard answered, as the twohaughty ladies seemed disinclined to accommodate their inquisitor.
And then, by dint of slow and persistent questioning, Detective Corsondrew out the vital statistics of the deceased gentleman and of themembers of the Prall household.
"Now as to the 'women,'" Corson went on. "You know Sir Herbert left apaper stating that women killed him. This is a most peculiar message fora dying man to leave."
"Why so, if it is true?" and Letitia Prall's eyes gave him a curiouslook.
"Yes,--that's just it,--if it is true."
"It's got to be true," burst out Bates, impulsively. "No man is going towrite a thing like that with his last ounce of dying strength unlessit's true!"
"I agree to that," and Corson nodded, "if he did write it."
"What?" Miss Prall started up in amazement. "Who says he didn't writeit?
"
"Nobody says so, I only say it might be so. Suppose the murderer himselfwrote it to turn suspicion toward some one else,--some woman."
"I never thought of that!" and Miss Prall fell into a brown study, as ifthe new thought moved her profoundly.
"Nor I," said Bates, looking intently at the detective. "But, I say,that writing looked to me amazingly like my uncle's."
"And the porter,--Bob Moore, you know," broke in Eliza,--"he said, thepencil dropped from Sir Herbert's fingers just as he fell back dead----"
"Oh, no, he didn't say that! That's the way stories get repeated.There's no such thing as direct, undistorted evidence! Moore didn't seethe pencil in Sir Herbert's fingers at all. He saw it lying on the floorbeside the dead man's hand,--or, he says he did."
"Good Heavens! You don't suspect Moore!" cried Richard. "Why, he's thebest chap going!"
"I don't say he isn't, and I don't say I suspect him, but I want youpeople to understand that he _might_ have done it all,--might havecommitted the murder and might have written the scribbled paper to turnsuspicion away from himself. As for the handwriting, that trembling,shaky scrawl can't be identified with anybody's ordinary writing."
"Oh, I can't think it," Richard objected. "Why, Bob Moore couldn't dosuch a thing, and, besides, what would be his motive?"
"We haven't come to motive yet. We're finding out who had opportunity."
"Any passer-by had that," Miss Prall said, positively; "while Moore wasup in the elevator, what was to prevent any pedestrian going by fromstepping in and killing Sir Herbert?"
"Nothing; but there are few pedestrians at two o'clock in the morning,and fewer still who have a reason for a murder."
"Oh, it must have been prearranged," said Bates, thoughtfully. "There'snot the slightest doubt," he went on hurriedly, "that whoever killedhim,--man, woman or child!--came in from the street to do the deed."
"Why, of course," agreed Miss Prall; "where else could they have comefrom? Nobody in the house would do it!"
"No; I suppose not," admitted Corson. "Well, then, ma'am, we have theassassin coming in from the street, while Moore is upstairs. And,according to the victim's own statement, the assassin was feminine andthere were two, at least, of them. For I've studied that paper, and itsays, clearly, 'women did this.' Want to see it?" his hand went towardhis breast pocket.
"No,--oh, no," and Miss Prall shuddered.
"Well, supposing a couple of women came in, having, we'll say, watchedtheir chance, what more likely than that it was two chickens,--begpardon, ma'am, that means gay young ladies,--with whom Sir Herbert hadbeen dining? Why, like as not they came in with him. They didn't hanground outside waiting for him. You see, they'd been with him, and he hadin some way offended them, let us say, and they wanted to kill him----"
"Seems to me you're drawing a long bow," and Bates almost smiled at themental picture of two gay chorus girls committing the gruesome deed.
Corson spoke seriously. "No, Mr Bates, I'm not. If we take this writtenpaper at its face value, and I don't know why we shouldn't, it meansthat women killed that man. And _if_ women, who more likely than thechorus girls? Unless you people up here can suggest some otherwomen,--some, any women in the man's private life who wished to do himharm or who wished him out of the way. That's why I'm here, to learnanything and all things you may know that might aid me in a search forthe right women--the women who really killed him. Chorus girls arewholly supposititious. But the real women, the women who _are_ thecriminals, must and shall be found!"