“Why have you not told all this before?” asked Mrs. Porter, staring at Mrs. Hall with intense dislike discernible.
“I waited, hoping that Miss Deane would voluntarily explain her connection with the murder of Mr. Brainard.” Mrs. Hall moved uneasily; she was not pleased with the role Fate had cast for her, but a growing jealousy, fostered by envy, kept her to her determination to tell all she surmised against Vera Deane. “As Miss Deane has not done so, and is sheltering herself behind the arrest of an innocent man—”
“Stop!” commanded Mrs. Porter. “Your unsupported charges cannot involve Vera Deane in Bruce Brainard’s murder.”
“Ah, but they can, in view of what I already know,” broke in Mitchell triumphantly. “Police Headquarters in Pittsburgh reported to me on the long-distance telephone, Miss Deane, that they had found among the court records a certificate of the marriage of Bruce Brainard and your sister, Dorothy.”
Mrs. Porter collapsed in her chair in speechless astonishment and stared at Vera, whose set face was as white as her linen uniform.
“Is this true?” she gasped.
Yes,” replied Vera. “They were married just after Dorothy left boarding-school. She met Bruce while visiting the Arnolds in Chicago; it was a runaway match.”
Mitchell, who had listened closely to her statement, nodded his head. “So I learned, and my assistant, who has been investigating Brainard’s past career, also told me that Brainard deserted your sister two months after their elopement. He also refused to support her.”
“On the contrary, my sister declined to be supported by him when she found what manner of man she had married,” retorted Vera proudly. “She also refused to use his name, and never announced her marriage.”
“But you knew it, and you knew what she had suffered at Brainard’s hands,” broke in Mitchell roughly. “Do you deny this?”
“No.”
Mitchell’s smile was not pleasant. “Were you also aware that your, eh, brother-in-law’s engagement to Miss Millicent Porter was announced on Monday night?”
“Yes.” Vera’s gaze did not shift and her voice was steady. “Mr. Hugh Wyndham told me of the rumored engagement.”
“Hugh!” Mrs. Porter raised her hands to her temples in bewilderment. “Did Hugh know that Dorothy was the wife of Bruce Brainard?”
“Yes.” Vera’s cold hands closed convulsively over the chair back against which she was leaning. “Dorothy was honest with him, Mrs. Porter.”
“Poor Hugh!” exclaimed Mrs. Porter, her eyes filling with tears. “He loves her devotedly.”
Mitchell moved impatiently. “Miss Deane, I want your full attention,” he announced brusquely. “You have asserted that Bruce Brainard committed suicide. Where did he get the razor?”
Vera paused; should she speak of the razor which Millicent had dropped in her flight from the house the night before? After all, had Millicent dropped it? Was it fair to involve Millicent until she had first had an opportunity to explain?
Mitchell repeated his question with more emphasis: “Where did Brainard get the razor?”
“I don’t know.”
The detective moved closer. “Your theory is good, but it doesn’t hold water,” he declared. “You recognized Bruce Brainard as your sister’s husband; you knew of his despicable conduct to your sister; you had just heard that he considered himself engaged to Miss Millicent Porter, in spite of the fact that the law courts would hold him legally married to your sister.” Vera stirred uneasily. “You had Bruce Brainard here at your mercy—and Mrs. Hall saw you, nearly two hours before you admitted discovering the murder, removing bloodstains from your dress. Oh, come, you might as well confess—and claim the leniency of the court.”
“I will claim nothing but fair play,” cried Vera hotly. “I am innocent. I did not kill Bruce Brainard, much as I loathed and despised him.”
“Then who did kill him?”
Mrs. Hall, who had drawn back as Mitchell approached Vera, was roughly pushed aside as Hugh Wyndham, making no attempt to conceal his anger, stepped in front of the detective.
“What’s going on here? What foolery are you up to, Mitchell?” he demanded. “Vera, there’s no law which compels you to answer this man’s questions.”
A clamor in the hall, which grew louder as footsteps approached, drowned Vera’s answer, and Millicent Porter, clutching Murray’s coat sleeve, burst into the room with the footman.
“There, there, miss, don’t take on so,” pleaded Murray, hardly noticing the others in the library in his endeavor to calm Millicent. “I told you he wasn’t dead.”
But Millicent was past calming and, her dressing-gown fluttering with the haste of her movements, she flung herself into her mother’s arms.
“Mother!” she moaned. “Alan has tried to kill himself. Oh, you must tell the police that the razor belonged to Craig.”
A startled exclamation broke from Mitchell and Mrs. Porter winced.
“How would that clear Alan Noyes?” she asked bitterly. “I presented the set to Alan on Monday morning.”
“But you know he never took them, mother,” pleaded Millicent, her eyes dark with terror. “I found the set in your boudoir on Tuesday morning.”
“But one razor was missing—” The comment escaped Mrs. Porter unwittingly in the agitation of the moment.
“Hush! Mother, how could you?” Millicent clapped her hand on Mrs. Porter’s mouth and glanced fearfully around, to encounter Mitchell’s eager gaze, and shuddering she looked away.
Wyndham, who had listened to Millicent with tense eagerness, turned with such suddenness that he collided against the large leather bag which Murray was holding, having, in his excitement, forgotten to put it down. The bag, insecurely fastened, burst open and out rolled splints and bandages and a miscellaneous array of surgical instruments and a razor. Wyndham reached for it, but Mitchell jostled him to one side and picked it up.
“The razor is one of the set!” he cried. “Where did you get that bag, Murray?” clutching the footman and giving him a shake. “Answer!”
“From Dr. Thorne’s office, sir,” stammered Murray. “The doctor sent me back to say that Dr. Noyes had shot himself and for the nurses to prepare his room; he also told me to stop at Thornedale to get surgical dressings. The old butler didn’t answer the bell, so I climbed through a window and found this bag sitting in his office. I looked in it and seeing bandages and splints brought it along just as it was.”
Vera looked quickly at Mitchell and his expression gave her the key to his thoughts—good heavens! Would he try to fix the crime upon Beverly Thorne? Could it be that Thorne, like the others, had believed her guilty of Brainard’s murder and had taken the razor from her so that it would not be found in her possession and further incriminate her? If so, he had jeopardized himself to protect her. Her face flamed at the thought.
“I can explain Dr. Thorne’s possession of the razor,” she said clearly. “He got it from me.”
“He did!” Mitchell wheeled on her. “So you admit at last that you had the razors.”
“I admit that I picked up the razor after Millicent dropped it last night,” retorted Vera.
“Millicent!” gasped Mrs. Porter.
“I thought I hid all six in the cannon,” faltered Millicent, raising miserable, hunted eyes to Mitchell. “I admit I had the set—because—because—Murray, where did Dr. Noyes shoot himself?” turning desperately to the footman.
“At that lean-to near the top of Elm Ridge.” Murray’s eyes lighted on Mrs. Hall, who was edging her way to the door unobtrusively. “I went upstairs to find you, Mrs. Hall, to tell you they were bringing Dr. Noyes home, but I ran into Miss Millicent and she seen I was a little excited,” with an apologetic glance at Mrs. Porter, who was paying scant attention to him as she strove to quiet Millicent. “She made me tell her about Dr. Noyes.”
Nurse Hall, finding attention centered upon her, colored.
“I will go up and arrange the room now, that is, if I
am not required here.”
“You can go,” directed Mitchell. “But remember, I must see you later.”
“Yes, sir.” And Mrs. Hall slipped away, only to return a moment later. “They are bringing Dr. Noyes in the front door, now,” she announced. “And there’s a gentleman asking for you, Mr. Mitchell.”
Before Mitchell reached the hall door Sam Anthony, the Secret Service agent, appeared at the threshold. “Bring Dr. Noyes in here,” he called over his shoulder. Then addressing Mitchell: “He’s regained consciousness.”
There was a surging toward the door of Mitchell, Wyndham and Murray, but they halted as two Secret Service operatives came in supporting Alan Noyes, who walked between them, Beverly Thorne’s arm steadying him from behind.
Noyes stopped at sight of Mitchell, and leaned wearily against Thorne.
“I asked for you,” he began. “To give myself up for the murder of Bruce Brainard.”
Chapter XXII
“The Moving Finger Writes—”
A heartrending scream broke from Millicent, and running to Noyes she flung herself at his feet.
“Alan, you never did it!” she protested vehemently. “You know you never did it”
“Don’t,” he pleaded, grasping her hand weakly as the men helped him to the leather lounge. Once seated, he turned to Mitchell. “Take down what I say,” he commenced. “Miss Porter and I quarreled Monday evening, just before dinner, and I threatened to kill Brainard—”
“Why?” asked Mitchell as he paused.
Noyes avoided looking at anyone in particular. “Blind fury,” he admitted faintly. “I’ve been like that from a boy, whenever I couldn’t have my own way. I had just heard that Brainard was to marry the girl I loved—”His voice shook and he broke off abruptly.
Mrs. Porter rose; she had aged perceptibly. “I tried my best to shield you, Alan—I can never forget all you have done for my son; my gratitude—” She could not control her voice and paused, then resumed, more slowly: “Millicent would not trust me, would not confide in me. Fearing her diary, in which she had been foolish enough to betray her growing affection for you, Alan, and in which she mentioned you had threatened to kill Bruce, would establish a motive for the crime if the detectives found the diary, I burned it.” She shuddered. “Remember, Alan, you had run away—”
Noyes eyed her hopelessly. “There was nothing left for me to do but to go. As soon as my bag was packed I telephoned to my cousin, Mason Galbraith, who owns an estate across the river, and he met me at the wharf with his motor boat. I spent two days with him, but I had to come back to see—” He sighed and looked significantly at Mitchell. The pain of his wound and his conflicting emotions were wearing down his strength, and he felt that he could endure no more. “That is all, I think.”
“Just a moment.” Anthony stepped forward briskly. “Kindly answer a few questions. Why did you try to kill yourself in the cabin and where did you get your revolver?”
“I was despondent, discouraged when I left the court house, and went into a shop in Alexandria and purchased a revolver while Wyndham stayed in court to engage a lawyer.”
“Had you been to the cabin before?” shooting a swift glance at him. “Were you familiar with its contents?”
“I have passed the cabin on several of my rambles through the woods, but never had been inside it. As I went by the cabin I saw the door was insecurely fastened and went in.”
“Did you find Dr. Thorne in the cabin?”
“No.” Beverly Thorne, who had been scrutinizing each person in the room, his gaze resting longest on Vera, who avoided looking at him, could not repress a smile as he saw Anthony’s chagrin. “No one was in the cabin but myself,” continued Noyes. “The stillness of the place got on my nerves, and I drew out my revolver—” He stopped and tried to withdraw his hand from Millicent’s detaining clasp. “I heard someone approaching the cabin and darted behind the screen, not caring to meet anyone—then a shot startled me, and my revolver went off almost simultaneously, and my aim was poor—” His attempt at a smile was ghastly.
His companions were drinking in his words as they stood in a semicircle about the lounge on which Millicent had sunk beside Noyes. Mitchell, who was across from Thorne, saw him watching Vera, and turned his attention to her, but Anthony’s next words riveted his thoughts again on Noyes.
“You say you heard a shot, Dr. Noyes?” questioned Anthony. “From which direction did the shot come?”
“From outside the cabin,” promptly. “It was somewhat muffled.”
“You are sure it was not fired in the cabin?”
“I am.”
Anthony turned bluntly to Thorne. “I guess that lets you out of one charge—you didn’t shoot Dr. Noyes, but—we still have to establish the identity of ‘Gentleman Charlie,’ the counterfeiter.”
Thorne eyed the Secret Service agent in surprise mixed with amusement, but before he could reply Mitchell addressed him briskly.
“Suppose you tell me, Dr. Thorne, why Bruce Brainard stopped to see you on Monday evening before coming here, and why you never spoke of his visit.”
“Brainard had an attack of vertigo on the way here, and, meeting Cato, asked to be directed to the nearest physician,” replied Thorne. “So Cato brought him to me.”
Millicent, who had listened to Noyes’ statements in dumb agony, looked up at Thorne. “Bruce told me that he had stopped to see you, and Tuesday morning when I discovered Bruce lying in bed with his throat cut and recognized the razor, I—I—rushed to the telephone to ask you to come over, but Vera came and frightened me away before I got you.”
Noyes struggled to sit up. Millicent’s statement had caught him off guard.
“You discovered Brainard’s murder on Tuesday morning?” he asked incredulously. “You went back to his bedroom again?”
Mitchell was the first to grasp the significance of Noyes’ remark.
“What’s this?” he demanded. “What do you mean to insinuate—that Miss Porter was in Bruce Brainard’s bedroom on Monday night?”
“She was,” responded a voice from the doorway, and Wyndham, spinning around, saw Dorothy Deane advancing into the room. She looked desperately ill and staggered rather than walked. “Millicent was seen in Bruce’s bedroom by her brother Craig,” Dorothy added.
Her listeners eyed her in astonishment too deep for expression. Wyndham was the first to recover himself. “Come with me, dear,” he said soothingly. “You are ill, delirious.”
Dorothy shook off Wyndham’s detaining hand and walked over to Millicent. “Your brother saw you enter Bruce Brainard’s bedroom at two o’clock on Tuesday morning, and you carried a razor.”
“You lie!” Noyes’ voice rang out bravely, but his agonized expression contradicted his words. “Craig Porter is a hopeless paralytic. He can neither leave his bed nor speak.”
Dorothy did not shrink before his furious glare.
“True, Craig cannot speak and he cannot get out of bed,” she admitted. “But he has regained the use of his first finger, and with that he signaled to me, using the Continental wireless code, that from his position in bed he can see what transpires in the next bedroom.”
“How?” demanded Mitchell.
“You remember that there is a huge old-fashioned mirror facing Craig; a similar mirror hangs directly opposite in the next bedroom and through the open transom over Craig’s bed whatever transpires in the next bedroom is reflected by one mirror from the angle at which it is hung into the other.”
“Well, by—!” Mitchell stared dazedly at Dorothy. “And the bed Craig Porter occupies and the one Brainard occupied are backed against the wall which separates the two bedrooms, and both the mirrors face the beds.”
Mrs. Porter, her face ashy, looked appealingly at Dorothy. “What did Craig see on Tuesday morning?” she mumbled rather than asked.
Vera, waiting breathlessly, was dimly conscious of Wyndham’s heavy breathing.
“Craig caught a glimpse of Millicent appro
aching the bed, a razor clasped tightly in her raised hand, then she disappeared out of his line of vision.” Dorothy’s hands were opening and closing spasmodically; she dared not glance at Wyndham for fear of breaking down. Alan Noyes’ agony was pitiful to witness as he sat forward striving to shield Millicent who crouched by his side, his one arm about her. Dorothy’s statement held her spellbound.
“Craig said a little time elapsed,” went on Dorothy, and her voice sounded strained and harsh in the tense stillness. “Then the night light in Brainard’s bedroom was augmented by a powerful flashlight standing on the bed-table, and Craig saw the bed and Bruce lying in it with distinctness; he also saw a figure crouching by the bed, one hand groping for the razor which lay near Brainard. The next instant there was a sharp struggle and the murderer, straightening up, turned as if to listen, and faced the mirror—“Don’t try to escape, Murray.”
The footman, edging toward the door, before which stood the Secret Service operative, swallowed hard and sat down.
“The game’s up,” he acknowledged insolently. “Well, which is going to claim the honor of arresting ‘Gentleman Charlie’—the Secret Service or Detective Headquarters? Don’t all speak at once, gentlemen,” and his jeering laugh awoke the others from their stupor.
Chapter XXIII
Out of the Maze
With a bound Detective Mitchell was by the footman’s side; a click, and handcuffs dangled from his wrists. It seemed a useless precaution, as Murray evinced no desire to be troublesome but sat and regarded them with a sardonic grin.
“What’s the charge?” he demanded, ignoring Anthony’s presence at his other elbow.
“The murder of Bruce Brainard on Tuesday morning,” responded the detective. “I warn you that anything you say will be used against you.”
The Moving Finger Page 20