“What was that you said?” Whittaker asked.
“Oh, nothing of importance. Only a stray thought that came to me as I stood here listening to the tail end of an illuminating conversation. You want to send Marsh’s murderer to the chair, don’t you?”
Whittaker stuck his thumbs into the arm pits of his vest and nodded matter-of-factly. Carstairs came forward. He was in a long, gray and very loose-fitting overcoat His manner, it seemed to Harrington, was the height of insolence.
“Well,” he drawled, “I don’t need to explain the technical difficulties to you. It isn’t enough to apprehend the culprit. If you do that, and nothing more, the most you can hope for is a verdict of manslaughter. If you find the murderer and determine the circumstances of the crime, you might obtain a verdict of second degree murder. But to obtain a verdict in the first degree you will have to do more. You will have to find the motive. Am I right?”
Whittaker exchanged glances with Storm and nodded again.
“You haven’t found any motive, have you?” Carstairs asked.
“Not yet.”
“Well, I have.” Carstairs slapped his bulging overcoat pocket. “It’s here.”
Several pairs of eyes stared at him in astonishment.
“Yes, it’s here, in my pocket,” Carstairs repeated. He sat down and lighted a cigar. “Thought you might be interested. Let’s see—“ He ran his eyes over the little group. “All the suspects are here, with one or two minor exceptions.”
He chuckled. Harrington watched him intently, marveling at the man’s airy insouciance. One of the exceptions was, of course, Harry Stoddard. But who was the other? Luke Garbo? Tarkin?
“So it’s possible,” Carstairs went on, “that the murderer is in this room at present. Please don’t look so shocked. I didn’t come here to shock you, but to help you. Mr. Whittaker, if you will pardon the suggestion, you are not going deep enough into this matter. My private opinion is that the person who killed Marsh performed a public service. But the murder of Marsh wasn’t an isolated occurrence. It was coupled with another murder—the murder of David Mooreland.” Whittaker started so violently that his thumbs slipped out of his arm pits.
“Oh, yes, Mooreland was murdered,” Carstairs went on, “although all that’s generally known is that he disappeared. He was murdered, and I think the murderer is now in this room. Why was he murdered? I’ll tell you. He was murdered for the same reason that Marsh was murdered. One motive governed both cases—and the motive is in my pocket.”
The eyes of his listeners fixed on the bulge in his overcoat, but Carstairs appeared in no hurry to exhibit the contents of his pocket “As I have said,” he went on, “the person who killed Marsh performed a public service. But Mooreland—Ah, that’s different. There was a fine old man, gentle, lovable and kind. Now, I’m no moralist. I have little use for the conventions. I go my own way, and it isn’t always the straight and narrow way. Just the same, I’d give a great deal to see Mooreland’s murderer brought to justice.”
Harrington marveled at him. Just now there was a black look of vindictiveness on Carstairs’ white face. A man of bewildering contradictions, certainly.
“Did you kill Marsh?” asked Whittaker unexpectedly.
“Wish I had,” said Carstairs, and for an instant his face was almost wistful. “No, I can’t claim credit for that. Marsh was killed by the same person who killed Mooreland, and for the same reason. You will understand in a moment Now, just take a look at this.”
He waved his soft, white hand at the window, commanding a view of a rather dreary landscape, with a mountain top rising in the distance.
“Not a very idyllic landscape, is it? Oh, it’s pleasant enough today, but generally it’s raw and depressing. Years ago the locality sprang into sudden popularity. Nobody knows why such things happen. Clever manipulation by real estate operators, perhaps. Anyway, a number of people built country homes here. Mooreland was one of the first, and others followed. Then, owing to various circumstances, the neighborhood suffered a decline. Most of the residents sold out and moved away, but a few remained. Just let your minds form a map of the district, and you will see that these few remaining residences cluster around the late home of David Mooreland. Why is that, I wonder?”
He looked at the group as if he expected an answer, but none came. Again his dusky smile came to his lips.
“The answer is here,” he said, touching his coat pocket. “We lingered in this God-forsaken region—Marsh and Carmody and myself and one or two others—because Mooreland had something we wanted. We had our hearts set upon possessing it. Mooreland died—was murdered—but the rest of us hung around, hoping to attain our hearts’ desire. The object in question was hidden somewhere, or so we supposed. We searched everywhere—clandestinely, of course. We grew jealous and suspicious of one another. And then, just the other day, Marsh found it. I don’t know how or where. And a few hours later he was murdered.”
His gaze, not unfriendly, fixed on Harrington. Then it moved to Carmody, sitting tense and erect, with his shock of gray hair falling down over his temple. At length it rested on Theresa. Her face was strikingly white, and her eyes were fixed on the bulge over Carstairs’ pocket as if a matter of life or death were centered there.
“And this morning,” said Carstairs, “after a long and patient search, I found the object that has brought about two murders.”
Harrington saw Theresa start from her chair. Now her expression was one of overwhelming astonishment. She stared for a moment at Carmody, who seemed utterly stupefied. Harrington’s gaze wandered back to Carstairs’ bulging side pocket. The man seemed to take a grim delight in prolonging the suspense.
“Mr. Whittaker,” he said, “are you good at reading faces?”
“No,” said Whittaker, a humorous flicker In his dreary eyes, “but Storm is.”
“Well, watch carefully,” Carstairs added. “Somebody is going to feel very guilty when I reveal what is in my pocket. That means that he is going to try to look very innocent—and the harder he tries the guiltier he will look. Isn’t that good psychology, Storm?”
“Well, try and see,” said Storm curtly.
In an exasperatingly slow manner Carstairs moved his hand to his overcoat pocket.
“Wait a minute,” said Whittaker. “If Marsh was murdered on account of that thing you have in your pocket, how come that it isn’t in the murderer’s possession?”
Carstairs turned to him with his vague, shadowy smile.
“How do you know it isn’t? How do you know I’m not the murderer? But, all joking aside, perhaps the object slipped away from the murderer. Anyway, here it is.”
The tension in the room seemed to reach the bursting point as a parcel came out of his pocket, and it continued while Carstairs slowly removed the wrapping. At length, while a tomblike silence prevailed, he revealed an article of rectangular shape, about the size of a small cigar box. It shone and sparkled with jewels and trimmings of gold.
“Here you are, gentlemen. Rather,” with a glance at Theresa, “lady and gentlemen.”
The silence was like a suffocating thing.
“What is it?” asked Whittaker at length.
“Pharaoh’s coffin,” said Carstairs.
Harrington stared at the object. It was a coffin in miniature, decked out with all the gorgeousness of which the old Pharaohs were fond. A gurgling sound made him raise his eyes. He saw a terrible strain over Carmody’s face. The old gentleman had sat gazing at the little coffin with a fixed, stupefied expression. Of a sudden something had seemed to burst in his eyes. He clutched at his heart His gray head wagged from side to side and slumped to his breast.
CHAPTER XVIII — The Look of Guilt
A physician had been hastily summoned, and Martin Carmody had been removed to one of the spare bedrooms in the house. It was not a serious seizure, the doctor had declared, merely a light heart attack. He added, however, that his patient must have absolute rest for several hours and that he could no
t be removed to his home until evening.
Harrington paced the library floor, casting an occasional glance at the coffin on the table. He had observed the tender solicitude with which Theresa had hovered about the stricken man, and he had seen Carmody’s looks of mute affection. Yet Carstairs had hinted that Carmody lied when he said Theresa was his daughter. He had even suggested that her life might be in danger. There was certainly a contradiction somewhere.
For several minutes not a word had been spoken in the library. Carstairs, with his brooding smile on his white face, occupied a negligent position in an armchair. Whittaker, a long, rangy, untidy figure except for his white vest, stood at the window smoking a cigar. Storm was consulting his notebook.
“Well,” said Whittaker, turning from the window and fixing his dour eyes on his assistant, “who was the guilty-looking one?”
Storm closed his notebook and methodically put it in his pocket.
“Mr. Carmody certainly looked guilty,” Storm declared, craftily emphasizing the last word but one.
Whittaker nodded approvingly in Harrington’s direction.
“Storm is deep. He says Mr. Carmody looked guilty. He doesn’t say he is actually guilty. Tell us what you mean, Storm.”
“Well, I was watching the whole room. Mr. Carmody looked guilty enough, but somebody else looked all-fired innocent. Too innocent,” Storm added sagaciously.
“See?” said Whittaker solemnly. “That’s Storm. He has eyes and a brain, and he uses both. Couldn’t get along without him.”
Harrington smiled. Whittaker was exhibiting his assistant’s talents with the air of one exhibiting a blue-ribboned bulldog.
“Well, Storm,” he now added, “who was the one that looked too innocent?”
“Oh, we won’t mention names just now. Anyhow, it wasn’t a fair test. Mr. Carstairs prepared them for what was coming.”
“Even so,” came Carstairs’ voice from the depths of the armchair, “the result seemed fairly conclusive.”
He chuckled agreeably. “Oh, come now, Storm. There were only six of us in the room, counting yourself and Mr. Whittaker. You two, by virtue of your official positions, are safely outside the range of suspicion. So the person you say looked too innocent must be either Miss Lanyard, Mr. Harrington or myself. Which one was it?”
Storm shook his head stubbornly and, walking up to the table, picked up the miniature coffin.
“Storm never says a thing unless he is absolutely sure,” Whittaker explained. “That’s a characteristic of a great mind.”
Harrington looked at him. There was a sly little twinkle in his dour eyes.
“You didn’t tell us anything new, Mr. Carstairs,” the prosecuting attorney went on. “Storm has suspected for some time that Mooreland was murdered. There was a rumpus between him and Carmody toward the last. Wasn’t there, Storm?”
“Yes, a bad one. Oh, I guess Carmody killed the old man. There are several things make me think so. Can’t prove it, though, so what’s the use talking? Anyhow, I don’t agree with you, Mr. Carstairs. I don’t think the same goof did for Mooreland and Marsh. That is to say, I think Carmody murdered Mooreland, but I don’t think he had anything to do with the Marsh murder.”
Carstairs shrugged as if Storm’s opinions were of no great importance. The detective was inspecting the little coffin.
“It’s locked,” he remarked. “Good, strong lock, too.”
“Yes,” said Carstairs, “and the key is still missing. I suppose, Mr. Whittaker, you will turn it over intact to the executor of the Mooreland estate? It’s just possible that he has the key.”
“I’ll look into it So Mooreland left an estate, did he? I never heard of it.”
“Few people have, but it’s so. He left a considerable estate. That coffin, by the way, contains a million dollars’ worth of precious stones.”
The box dropped with a loud crash from Storm’s fingers.
“It might be advisable,” Carstairs added casually, “to keep the box under lock and key until you can get in touch with the executor. Well, gentlemen, I trust I have given you a few valuable hints. Now, if I can’t assist you further, I shall take a little walk. Good morning.”
Storm’s astounded gaze was still riveted on the little coffin. Whittaker looked a trifle uncertain, but he said nothing. With a swagger that might have been unconscious, Carstairs left the room, and Harrington stared after him, brows puckering.
“Gosh!” Storm muttered thickly. “A million dollars!”
Whittaker stood at the window and watched Carstairs climb into his car and drive off.
“He said he was going to take a walk,” he remarked. “He didn’t walk far. Well, I suppose some men get their exercise at the wheel. What about you, Storm? Don’t you feel you need a bit of exercise, too?”
Storm lifted his heavy eyes from the little coffin.
“Exercise? Not me! I get enough of it.”
“But a little spin might do you good. My car is outside, you know. It isn’t much on looks, but I’ll bet it’s as fast as the one Carstairs drives.”
Storm gaped at him for a moment, and then a shrewd look came into his eyes.
“Right,” he said, grinning. “I need a little air.”
He walked out with his heavy tread, and in a few moments Harrington saw him drive off at a rather frantic speed. His eyes narrowed. He had been aware of a furtive interplay of glances between Storm and his superior.
“Where is Storm going?” he asked.
Whittaker pursed his lips mysteriously.
“You can never tell about Storm. He is deep. Now, it’s just possible that he’s decided to keep an eye on Carstairs.”
Harrington’s lips twitched. Unless he had been mistaken, the suggestion to keep an eye on Carstairs had come from Whittaker himself. In fact, Storm had been rather slow to grasp it.
“I see. It was Carstairs who looked too innocent.”
“Maybe so. You can never tell what Storm thinks. But I’m afraid he’s off on a wild goose chase this time. However, the fresh air will do him good.”
“What did you think of Carstairs’ surprise? Was the test conclusive?”
“H’m? Well, as far as it went, I suppose it was. Too bad that one or two other people weren’t present, though.”
“Luke Garbo, Stoddard, and Samuel Tarkin?”
Whittaker looked down at the coffin and did not answer directly.
“There was one queer thing I noticed,” he remarked. “Mr. Carstairs looked as if he wasn’t satisfied with the test. He seemed disappointed.”
Harrington nodded. He had conceived the same impression, though in a very vague form.
“But it all comes back to this,” said Whittaker gloomily. “No matter how innocent or guilty some people may look, there’s only one person who could have committed the crime, and that’s you, Mr. Harrington.”
Harrington started, though the idea was by no means a novel one, but in a moment a smile came to his lips.
“Want to place me under arrest, Mr. Whittaker?”
“We’ll wait for the inquest this afternoon. By the way, seen Luke Garbo lately?”
“Not since you patronized his cigar counter the other night.”
Whittaker lifted the box gingerly from the table.
“Too bad Carstairs didn’t tell us where he found it. I suppose he had his reasons. Speaking of Garbo, there’s a man playing in hard luck. Saw him this morning. He says business is so rotten that he hardly bothers to open his place any more.”
Harrington waited for more, but evidently Whittaker had finished.
“But all you had against Garbo was those queer tracks, and they have been explained.”
“Yes, so it seems. I must ask Storm what he thinks about that. Anyhow, as I said before, there’s only one man could have done that job, and that’s—“ He mumbled the rest, and his dour eyes slanted down to the articles on the table, the ice pick, Marsh’s hat, and the little coffin. “One thing is missing—the glove button,�
� he said with a somber grin.
“Oh, yes, the button.” Harrington’s thoughts suddenly took a different trend, but they were interrupted by footsteps outside the door, which had been left open a few inches. They paused, and the person approaching seemed to hesitate. Harrington looked around him and was surprised to discover that Whittaker was nowhere in sight.
The door was pushed wide, and in the opening stood Tarkin with his slippery gaze and his unwholesome grin that revealed a wealth of golden teeth.
“What do you want?” Harrington curtly inquired.
The blackmailer came forward with his mincing step.
“You haven’t forgotten that you owe me two grand?”
“Correct,” said Harrington frigidly, recalling the circumstances of the bargain. At that time a million, if he had had a million to pay, would not have seemed too high a price for Tarkin’s assistance. Well, he had promised, and a promise was a promise even when made to a disgusting creature like Tarkin. He viewed the man with curiosity, however. “What became of you after you cut me loose?”
“I beat it,” said Tarkin. “That place is none too healthy for me. Carstairs might have caught me, and that wouldn’t have been so good.”
Harrington regarded him steadily, a number of curious circumstances flashing through his mind.
“What would Carstairs have done to you if he had found you?”
“What wouldn’t he have done? He’d have given me the jujitsu treatment for one thing, and that’s not so good.”
Harrington knew from experience that it was not. “And he might have killed me besides,” Tarkin added, showing his golden molars in a crooked grin. “Well, do I get the two grand?”
“One moment.” Still wondering what might have become of Whittaker, Harrington picked up the ice pick from the table. “Ever see this before, Tarkin?” The blackmailer regarded the instrument attentively. His rheumy eyes narrowed.
“Couldn’t say. It might be the one, and again it might not.”
“Which one?”
The Back-seat Murder Page 13