The Museum Murder

by MacIntyre, John T. ;

  “In spite of what I see you’re thinking,” said Lynch, “my outlook upon this case is without prejudice. Young Gregory is no more an object of attack than any of the others. But” and he smiled, “there is quite a good deal of feeling on your part. You are his friend, and see, in the common routine of police investigation, clear evidence of spleen. I assure you there is none.” Duddington did not reply to this. He pitched his cigarette away, got up, and began walking up and down the floor. To neglect working on Sheerness was blindness! Just nothing less than blindness. A swift persistence at this time might have an amazing result; a criminal might be detected, thrown, and tied, who’d startle the city! Who but Sheerness desired the picture? And he did desire it! In spite of all his appearance of friendliness, in spite of all his generosity, he did desire it. He coveted it as he coveted nothing else in the world. He’d lost it at Paris but had never given it up. He wanted it. And would a man who had trampled hundreds into the muck in his passage through the world stop at one man’s life? A man he hated as much as he did Custis?

  “He’d put a knife in him with pleasure, if everything else failed,” Duddington told himself. “He’d not hesitate an instant.”

  MacQuarrie came into the office. There was a shocked look upon his fat white face.

  “The Hals!” he said to Duddington. “Stolen! What possessed them? How can they profit by it?” He gestured helplessly. “When I think of a thing like this I have a feeling that a sacrilege has been done. The Temple of Art has been violated.” Then he approached Lynch at the desk. “Mr. Moore says you wish to speak with me, Inspector,” he said.

  “Yes, for a moment, if you don’t mind. Your line of business brings you in contact with a great many people, I suppose, Mr. MacQuarrie?” said Lynch.

  “Oh, yes; with people interested in producing, or buying, or selling art, that is.” The man nodded affably. “A great many, sir.”

  “It must be an interesting business,” said Lynch. “Collectors must bring a good deal of variety into it by their different needs, I suppose?”

  “Quite so. A great deal.”

  “Have you noticed,” said the inspector, “if the collecting habit ever runs in families? Would a man who is, let us say, a fancier of old ivory, be likely to have a son with the same sort of liking?”

  “Yes, Mr. Lynch, it happens that way frequently. Very frequently. One might say collecting is in the blood. Yes. It is handed down, like other traits, from father to son.”

  “Take a man like old Mr. Gregory, the founder of this institution—you knew him, I suppose?”

  “Oh, yes; very well.”

  “Take a man like him. It seems to me he was so powerfully given to collecting that there’d be quite a tendency in that direction among his descendants.”

  MacQuarrie nodded and smiled.

  “There is,” he said. “Quite well developed, too. And young Mr. Gregory, being the only descendant alive, seems to have it all concentrated in him. He has the talent and knowledge; if he had the means, he’d be a collector of note. Even as it is,” and MacQuarrie seemed both interested and amused, “he has a nice little lot of items; indeed, the word ‘nice’ is not sufficiently expressive, for his collection would not be disdained by many people much better known.”

  There was no doubt but Lynch was an excellent policeman! Duddington admitted that. The man seemed to have a splendid sense of direction; he visioned things a long way off—while they were still not more than possibilities. And he was honest. Nevertheless, Duddington felt a resentment. He disliked everything Lynch stood for. He hated the cold routine. The dull grinding of the machine, under the guidance of that steady hand, brought up in him a desire to protest; Lynch’s mind was always on Billy; he did not forget him for a moment. Duddington found he couldn’t watch and listen any longer; it was impossible; he must go out of the office. He’d had enough.

  “Curt, snappy voices; sharp eyes, and alert looks, and an insistence on going what is thought to be forward, are not sufficient,” the young man told himself. “They are not nearly sufficient. Curt, snappy voices have never yet commanded any deep-lying thing; merely sharp eyes have never yet seen any truth of real consequence. I must get my thoughts on something else.”

  He shut the door of the outer office behind him and looked down the corridor.

  XIV

  THE lights were all on; there was a little group near the stairway, and Duddington noticed a professional-looking man with a small leather case in his hand.

  “The medical examiner,” said the young man, “I suppose they are about to remove the body.”

  He walked down the corridor and turned into the exhibition room to the left, the door of which stood open. There was a small alcove off this, and there Duddington found Alma Rogers and Billy Gregory beside Mona, who sat, pale and frightened looking, supported by some cushions.

  “How are you?” said Duddington to the girl. She smiled wanly and murmured something. “I think,” said Duddington, “everything’ll be all right in a little while. The police are quite alert; and, as they suggest, the further they go the more likely they are to come at the truth.” He looked at Billy and Alma, “You’ve heard about the picture, I suppose?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Billy. “Sergeant Brace spoke of it. Of course, I’m sorry to hear that so fine and so valuable a thing has been lost; but at the same time it changes the aspect of the case and relieves me of the suspicion Lynch piled up around me.”

  “Why, yes, of course,” said Duddington blinking his eyes. “It should do that, surely.” He talked with them for a time and then managed to draw Billy and Alma into a far corner of the room. “Now, listen,” he said. “What you say, Bill, about suspicion being lifted from you should be so. And it would be if we had anyone but policemen to deal with.”

  Alma put her hand upon Duddington’s arm; she said in a frightened voice:

  “Do you mean, Duddy, they still believe Billy killed Mr. Custis?”

  “Well, now, we’ll not go quite as far as that,” said Duddington, soothingly. “No, we’ll not say that. As a matter of fact, they have not made up their minds as to who did the thing. But, still we must not forget that you,” and he tapped the young artist on the chest with his big forefinger, “are being carried about in their minds. You are among the suspects, Billy; they’ve got you halfway into the mire, and we’ll all have to pull together to get you out.”

  “But what can we do?” said Alma, pale and trembling. “If the police are against us, we are helpless.”

  Billy put his arms about her.

  “Now, don’t be frightened! You’ve got to bear up so you can see to Mona. And keep any idea of the police harming me out of your mind. They can’t do it. After all, they don’t amount to much; they only begin a thing; tomorrow, or next day, it’ll be taken out of their hands. And then I’ll be dealing with men who have a much less professional view.”

  “Now, wait,” said Duddington. “Now, wait.” He puffed out his cheeks and regarded the two seriously. “Of course the police are not the last court of appeal; you are right there. And they have a narrow, professional way of looking at things: though I will say this man Lynch is a good deal better than the run of them. But I ask you to forget all about this notion of tomorrow. That’s no kind of a hope for a man in your position to hold. Waiting for tomorrow or next day is no frame of mind for a person under suspicion of having done a murder. What you need to center on, Bill, is tonight. Do you understand that? Tonight! For if this thing goes beyond twelve o’clock with you still in it, you’ll be put under arrest. You’ll be held; the newspapers’ll have your name six inches high on the front page. They’ll have your picture.”

  “Oh, no!” said Alma. “They’ll not arrest him!” She clung to the young man. “Surely, they’d not arrest you, dear.”

  “Hush-sh-sh-!” he tried to quiet her. “It’s all right, Alma. Don’t be alarmed. I see what Chalmers is driving at. He means I must not sit quiet and allow them to fasten this thing on me
. And he’s right.” He held out a hand to Duddington, and the fat young man gripped it tightly. “If they pin an arrest on me it’s going to do me harm. I may lose my commission for the mural; the thing might injure me in many ways.”

  “The man or woman who’s been arrested on suspicion of having done a murder,” said Duddington, “seldom gets really clear of it. The police, the district attorney’s office, the newspapers may say he’s absolved of all blame; but there’ll always be someone to point a finger and say what was once thought of him.”

  “Billy,” said Alma, “you must not have that happen to you! It would be dreadful! Through your whole life. It would embitter you; it might spoil all you’ve ever hoped for.”

  “Duddy’s right,” said Billy. “He usually is. There must be no waiting for tomorrow or next day. What’s to be done must be done now.” He paused and looked about. The room was empty, save for themselves; from the corridor came a single voice, a sharp, professional voice, speaking strange words. The body was being examined, and the doctor was dictating his findings. Then Billy drew a long breath; a dismayed look came into his eyes. “But where am I to take hold?” he said. “How am I to help myself?”

  “Billy,” said the girl, tears suddenly in her eyes, “don’t give up, please!”

  His arms tightened about her.

  “I’m not giving up. You shall see that, Alma. But just then it came to me all at once how helpless I am. If it was a thing that depended upon my strength or my speed or my endurance, I’d be eager to match myself against it. But,” and he looked at Duddington, “I’m in a kind of a pit, with glassy, high walls. Smooth! Impossible! I feel trapped.”

  “Take it easy,” said Duddington. “Take it easy, and let’s talk. The thing that’s wrong with you, Bill, is inexperience. You are suddenly pitched into a matter that’s entirely new to you. Yes, it’s like a pit, and the walls are smooth and high. But wait a bit, and let’s look; there are crevices, there must be. There are places where your fingers can grip. No case was ever so tight but that a resolute man could do something for himself, even if only a little.

  “Lynch likes the idea of your having done this,” said Duddington. “Not that he’s got anything against you, personally; but in his eyes your possibilities are nearest the actual fact. You threatened Custis, dagger in hand. You followed him into the office with it still in your hand. The weapon he was killed with! And then this business Slade tells about: of your stopping on the stairs as you came down, of the whispering, and then your immediate appearance. In a policeman’s eyes those are enough to put you in the very shadow of the chair. From the moment those things were learned you were, as far as the inspector is concerned, fixed in the center of the whole matter, and all his efforts have been spent trying to arrange everything else around you.”

  “We’ll find something that will change that,” said Alma hopefully. “We are sure to, for Billy is innocent, and there must be something, somewhere, to prove it.”

  Duddington blinked sympathetically; of course it was right that she should feel so, but he had little hope in the mere chance of such a thing coming to pass.

  “Lynch’s whole attitude,” he said, “shows what prejudice will do to even a reasonable man. When the picture was shown to have been stolen I felt sure, Billy, the pressure around you would grow slack. But did it? Not in the least. To divert him from you I pointed to Sheerness as being the only person mentioned in the matter who was interested in the painting. Lynch barely listened. It was his idea that a collector had done the murder and robbery. I at once mentioned Sheerness as a collector. But no. He said when he’d run everything else out, he’d turn to Sheerness. And his first act, after setting his men hunting through the museum for the painting, was to call MacQuarrie and draw from him the information that you also were a collector.”

  “It’s incredible,” said young Gregory, wiping his face. “It sends a chill through me.”

  “You were unfortunate enough to attract their attention at the beginning,” said Duddington, “and this is the result. Tenacity is the outstanding virtue of any organization; and the police, right or wrong, hang on. Our job, as I see it, is to shake them loose.”

  “But how?” said Billy.

  “I don’t know,” said Duddington.

  Just then Moore appeared in the doorway and spoke to young Gregory.

  “The inspector would like you to step into the office at once,” he said.

  XV

  INSPECTOR LYNCH arose as Billy Gregory entered the office, followed by Duddington. He smiled and seemed quite good-natured.

  “Thanks for your promptness. I thought it might be of value to have a talk with you at this point. If you don’t mind, I’d also like to have you go with me and indicate all the places in your statement. I want to fix your movements in the corridor when you spoke with Custis; your talk with him in the outer office, your going upstairs and coming down again.”

  “Very well,” said Billy quietly. “Anything you like.”

  “Thank you.” Lynch moved toward the door, the young man beside him; Duddington was following, but Lynch paused and said to him: “If you don’t mind, Mr. Chalmers, may I suggest that this, being a particularly important phase of the inquiry, be carried out by the police alone? Very often these things require a delicate balance; and you, being so earnest a friend of Mr. Gregory’s, might disturb it.”

  “Quite so,” said Duddington. “Whatever you say, Inspector.”

  Lynch and Billy went into the corridor. Duddington could hear the murmur of their voices as questions were asked and answers were made; he heard their feet upon the stone floor. Then they returned to the outer office. The questions continued. Duddington, in the inner office, sat in a swivel chair, his knees crossed, his eyes closed. The talk was a blur. The sharp insistence of the police inspector was invariably followed by the quiet patience of Billy. What was said? When was it said? Why was it said? Dull, tireless, plodding on and on! Never ending! Then the two went into the corridor once more, and the fat young man heard them ascending the stairs. Each step was sharply outlined; each fell separately upon the ear; as Duddington sat relaxed and listening each seemed to speak a terrible word. A gloomy chamber. Cold. Still. The deep silence of very early morning. The ghastly chair with its metal plates and death-bringing wires. He got up, shuddering.

  “Now, there’ll be none of that!” he said. “None of that, at all. I’ll have to keep my nerve if I’m going to do any good.” He took a turn up and down the floor. “I’m hungry,” he said regretfully. “If I’d only had that little grill, and the mushrooms, and the ale, I’d be fortified to stand these things.”

  He heard a step in the outer office; it was Alma Rogers, and she came in, quiet but anxious.

  “Where is Billy?” she said.

  “He’s gone upstairs,” said Duddington.

  “Mona said she’d get along without me for a little while. I felt nervous and wanted to know why they’d sent for him.”

  “It’s all right,” said Duddington. “Quite all right. Only another set of questions.”

  “Questions!” She suddenly went weak and Duddington hastily supported her. “Oh, how afraid I am of them! One upon another: and they are meant to entangle and trap a person, Duddy. And Billy is resentful and headstrong. He’ll say something that’ll put him right in their hands.”

  “No, he’ll not,” said Duddington. “Not now. You needn’t be afraid of that. He’s up to their dodges now and will be careful.”

  “But how terribly things fell together when they questioned him the first time! It was just as though Mr. Lynch was proving him guilty!”

  Duddington nodded.

  “They put it together very cleverly. There’s no doubt of that. But don’t be afraid, Alma; what one man puts together another can take apart. A few of the items they keep insisting upon do lead toward Bill; however, mainly because they’re neglecting some others that decidedly lead away from him. The inspector insists upon keeping one eye shut; he’ll loo
k only at certain things, and that’s a weakness we ought to be able somehow to take advantage of.”

  “Duddy, I confess I feel just as Billy felt awhile ago,” said the girl despondently. “I encouraged him then, but there wasn’t much hope in my heart, for all that. He was right. We are quite helpless, Duddy. We can do nothing.”

  Duddington Pell Chalmers gesticulated; his eyes were angry, and when he spoke his voice was sharp.

  “Alma,” he said, “if we are to have a chance of accomplishing anything tonight you must get that out of your mind. No one ever won a fight while cherishing defeat or acknowledging weakness. You say we can do nothing. That’s not so. We can do anything we resolve to do! Do you see what I mean? If we keep our minds fixed in that direction nothing can stop us. The truth is somewhere, and we are going to poke around until we find it.” He put his hands deep in his coat pockets, his fat cheeks distended and his head shaking. “We are going to start differently from Lynch,” he said. “His principal trouble is that he’s allowed a single fact to dominate him. He was called in to investigate a murder. Custis had been killed, and immediately that fact took possession of the inspector’s mind; it crowded everything else out. Even when he was shown the painting had been stolen it didn’t swerve him much. He went through the motions of having a fresh glimmer or two, but he hadn’t really. He began to ask questions pointed in a new direction, but not because he thought they’d lead to any new thing. What he was really trying to do was to defend his original idea.”

  “Couldn’t you speak to him?” suggested Alma.

  “No one can speak to a policeman in full cry,” said Duddington. “The thing’s impossible. A policeman at work has the self-confidence of kings. So, as I see no hope of Lynch coming at the truth, we’ll have toy as I’ve said, see what we can do ourselves. And, Alma, we are going to start right.” He gestured; his chest bulged hugely. “At the real beginning. And that beginning is the Hals painting.”