The Classic Mystery Novel

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

  That staggered Greenleaf, the idea of this woman dead here in the front room of a bungalow on Manniston Road for eight or ten hours—and nobody knew anything about it! His agitation grew. He felt the need of doing something, starting something.

  “How about Miss Fulton?” he asked. “Can I get a statement from her?”

  “Not just yet. Give her a little more time to get herself together. Besides, she told me something about the—er—affair. Most remarkable statement—most remarkable.”

  “What was it?”

  “She says,” related Braley, “that she only discovered the dead body of her sister a few minutes before she was heard crying for help. Her sister, Mrs. Withers, went to a dance, one of the regular Monday night dances at the inn—Maplewood Inn. She went with Mr. Campbell, Douglas Campbell, the real estate man here. You know him. They left the house at nine o’clock last night. That was the last time Miss Fulton saw Mrs. Withers alive.

  “In the meantime, Miss Fulton herself, who is under my orders to stay in bed all the time, was up and dressed so that she might spend the evening with a friend of hers from Washington. His name is Henry Morley. He left this house a little after eleven o’clock, and he left Furmville on the midnight train for Washington.

  “Miss Fulton, thoroughly tired out, went to bed and was asleep by half-past eleven. As she has something which she uses when she wants a good sleep, she took some of it last night and did not wake up until after ten this morning. She didn’t even hear her sister come in last night.

  “When she awoke this morning, she called her sister. Amazed by receiving no answer, she got up to investigate. Mrs. Withers’ bed had not been occupied. She then came in here and found the body.”

  “You mean to say,” put in Bristow, “that this sick girl was here all night and heard nothing?”

  “That’s what she says,” confirmed the physician.

  “Did she give any idea who the murderer might be?” queried Greenleaf.

  “No; she’s not sufficiently clear in her mind to advance any theories yet—naturally.”

  “Let me look around,” suggested the captain.

  He did so, followed by Bristow and the doctor. Save for the overturned chair, between the sofa and the dining room door, the furniture, for the most part the mission stuff generally found in the furnished-for-rent cottages in Furmville, had not been knocked about in a struggle. That was evident. The two rugs on the floor had not been disturbed. None of the three men touched the overturned chair.

  All the windows of the living room and the dining room were closed but not locked, as there was on the outside of each the usual covering of mosquito wiring. The shades were down. The front door did not have the inside “catch” thrown on.

  Greenleaf examined the kitchen, the unoccupied bedroom, the bathroom, and the sleeping porch at the back of the house. This last, like the windows, was inclosed in stout wire screens, and nowhere, on either the windows or the sleeping porch, had this screening been broken. The kitchen door was locked. There was no sign of a struggle anywhere. These negative facts were gathered quickly.

  Mrs. Allen, summoned from the sister’s side, reported that there were no signs of an entrance having been made through any of the three windows in the bedroom in which Miss Fulton now lay quiet.

  They made their way back to the living room. In spite of the most painstaking examination of the floor, walls, and furniture of the entire bungalow, they were, so far, without a clue. The murderer had left not the slightest trace of his identity or his manner of entrance to the death chamber.

  “As I see it,” said the captain when they rejoined Jenkins, “nobody broke into this house last night. But two men had admission to it. They were Mr. Douglas Campbell, the real estate man, and Mr. Henry Morley, who was calling on Miss Fulton. It’s up to those two to tell what they know.”

  “But,” objected the doctor, “Miss Fulton says Morley left town last night.”

  “Humph! Maybe that makes it look all the worse for Morley.”

  “But,” suggested Bristow, “if we find that the front door was unlocked all night, the possibilities broaden.”

  “How will we find that out?”

  “Miss Fulton might remember about it.”

  “She did mention that,” put in Braley; “it was unlocked.”

  “All the same,” insisted Greenleaf, “Morley’s got to come back here. Wouldn’t you say so?” This question was addressed to Bristow.

  The telephone bell rang in the dining room. The chief went to answer it.

  “What’s that?” Those in the living room heard him. “You? I’m the chief of police. Where are you now? Oh, I see. Come up here, will you? There’s been a murder here. Mrs. Withers. Right away? All right; I’ll wait for you.”

  He came back to the living room.

  “That was Mr. Henry Morley,” he said, “Didn’t leave town last night. What do you think of that?”

  CHAPTER II

  “SOMETHING BIG IN IT”

  Before the question was answered the coroner arrived. While Chief Greenleaf told him the circumstances confronting them, Dr. Braley telephoned for a trained nurse for Miss Fulton. In the absence of anybody else to perform the unpleasant task, the doctor went back to take up with the bereaved girl the matter of telegraphing to her family and the details of preparing the murdered woman’s body for burial as soon as would be compatible with the plans of the coroner.

  “I wonder, Mr. Bristow,” suggested Greenleaf, “if I couldn’t walk up to your place with you and talk this thing over.”

  “Glad to have you,” agreed Bristow.

  The crowd on the porch and in the street began to disperse slowly after the chief had told them none of them could be admitted. In small groups, they made their way to porches or into houses where they lingered, speculating, wondering, advancing impossible theories.

  Why had death singled her out? Who would ever have suspected that there had been in her life any foothold for tragedy? The secrecy with which she had been struck down, the ease of the murderer’s coming and going safely, roused their resentment. They sympathized with themselves as well as with the dead woman.

  Confusedly, but at the same time with striking unanimity, they felt that this was not merely a mystery, but a mystery made ugly and shocking by base motives and despicable agents. In common with all mankind, they resented mystery. It emphasized their own dependence on chance. They began to guess at the best method for capturing the guilty.

  The chief of police and the lame man had reached the porch of No. 9. There Bristow picked up from a table a scrapbook and a bundle of newspaper clippings. Following him into the living room, Greenleaf brought a paste pot and a pair of shears which the other evidently had been using in placing the clippings in the big book. He put them down on a table in one corner near Bristow’s typewriter.

  “Still figuring ’em out, I see,” he said grimly.

  He referred to Bristow’s habit of reading murder mysteries in the newspapers and working them out to satisfactory solutions. That was Bristow’s way of amusing himself while set down in Furmville for the long struggle to overcome the tuberculosis with which he was afflicted. In fact, as a result of this recreation, he had become known to Greenleaf, who had visited him several times.

  He had rendered the captain considerable assistance in a minor case shortly after his arrival in the town, and Greenleaf was really amazed by the correctness of the lame man’s solutions of most of the murder cases chronicled. He knew that Bristow had been right on an average of nine times out of ten, often clearing up the affairs on paper many days or even weeks ahead of the authorities in various parts of the country.

  Bristow had his records in his scrapbooks to prove his contentions. Under each clipping descriptive of a baffling murder he had written a brief outline of his solving of the case and dated it, following this with the date of
the correct or incorrect solutions by the authorities.

  “But now,” the chief added, as they sat down before the open fire, which earlier had fought against the chill of the cool May morning, “you can work one out right on the ground. And I’ll be mighty glad to have your help—if you will help.”

  “Of course,” said Bristow. “I’ll be more than glad to make any suggestions I can.”

  The chief went out on the porch and called across the yard of No. 7 to one of his men on guard at No. 5:

  “Simpson, when a young man—name’s Morley—gets there and asks for me, tell him to come up here to Number Nine.”

  He came back and referred to Bristow’s offer of help:

  “For instance?”

  “Well,” Bristow answered, “as we see it now, there are three possibilities: Campbell, or Morley, or some unknown man or woman, coloured or white, bent on robbery.”

  “So far, though, we haven’t found any signs of robbery.”

  “I have.”

  “What were they?”

  “The middle, third and little fingers of Mrs. Withers’ left hand were scratched, badly scratched, as if rings had been pulled from them by force. And there was a deep line on the back of her neck. It looked black just now, but it was red when it was inflicted. It was too thin to have been made by a finger, but it might have been caused by somebody’s having tugged at a chain about her neck until it broke.”

  “The thunder you say! I didn’t notice any of that.”

  “I’ll show you the marks when we go back there.”

  “But,” objected Greenleaf, “I know Mr. Campbell. He’s not the sort to steal. And I don’t suppose Morley is.”

  “They say the same thing about bank presidents,” Bristow replied with a slight smile, “but some of them get caught at it, nevertheless.”

  “Yes; but this is different—unless the murdered woman had extremely valuable jewelry.”

  “That’s true. Besides, if the front door was unlocked all night, or, even if somebody knocked at the door and Mrs. Withers answered it, there is your third possibility, any ordinary robbery and murder.”

  “I believe that’s what will come out,” Greenleaf said, his troubled face showing his worried consciousness of inability to handle the situation; “but how will we—how will I prove it?”

  “Morley and Campbell can make their own statements.”

  Bristow, going to the dining room door, called toward the kitchen:

  “Mattie!”

  Replying to his summons, a middle-aged coloured woman appeared.

  “Mattie, didn’t I hear Perry tell you yesterday that he was to go to work this morning for Mrs. Withers, ‘making’ her garden?”

  “Yas, suh,” answered Mattie, still breathing heavily from her hurried return from No. 5.

  “Has he been around this morning?”

  “Naw, suh.”

  “Do you know where Mrs. Withers’ servant lives?”

  “Yas, suh.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Lucy Thomas, suh.”

  “Well, I want you to go there right away and find out what’s the matter with her, why she didn’t show up for work this morning. Take your time. Dinner can wait.”

  When Mattie had gone, Bristow explained:

  “This Perry—Perry Carpenter—is a young negro who does odd jobs in this section. He’s about twenty-five, I guess. Each of these bungalows has a garden back of it, you know. There are no houses behind us. I don’t like Perry’s looks. He did some gardening for me Saturday and yesterday.”

  “You think he—?”

  “He’s got a bad face. If neither Campbell nor Morley killed Mrs. Withers, why shouldn’t we find out where Perry and the servant woman of Number Five are now, and where they were all last night?”

  “I reckon that’s right,” chimed in Greenleaf. “It looks something like a common darky job at that.”

  “And this,” added Bristow, taking something from his vest pocket and handing it to the chief of police, “looks more like it, doesn’t it?”

  Greenleaf examined the object the other had put into his hand. It was a metal button of the kind ordinarily worn on overall jumpers, and clinging to it were a few fragments of the dark blue stuff of which overalls are commonly made. On the back of the button were stamped in white the words: “National Overalls Company.”

  “Where did you get this?” asked the chief.

  “I picked it up in the room where the dead girl was; and I’d forgotten it until this minute. It was on the floor a few yards from the body. You saw me when I picked it up. You were at the telephone.”

  “That’s right. I remember now. By cracky! That came off of some darky’s working clothes. That’s sure!”

  “The only trouble is,” puzzled Bristow, “your negro doesn’t wear overalls at night after he has finished work. He dresses up and loafs down town.”

  “That’s true on Saturday nights. Other nights they don’t take the trouble to change. And last night was Monday night. No, sir! That’s our first clue, that button; the first sign we’ve had of the murderer.”

  “Keep it,” Bristow told him. “I’m not as confident as you are, but you might have a look at the blouse of Perry’s suit of overalls. We can’t over-look anything now.”

  Deep in thought he gazed at the fire. Greenleaf got up and walked to the window, which gave a magnificent view of the great Carolina mountains in the distance. He was not admiring the mountains, however. He was wondering why Mr. Morley had not arrived.

  “By the way,” he said, “can’t I get a drink of water?”

  He was in the dining room on his way to the kitchen before Bristow roused himself from his reverie.

  “Wait!” he called to the chief. “Let me get it for you.”

  Greenleaf, however, had gone into the kitchen. Bristow followed him and took a tumbler from a rack on the wall.

  The chief drew the tumbler full twice from the faucet and gulped down the water. His hand shook. He was very nervous.

  As they turned to leave the kitchen, he uttered an exclamation and, stooping down swiftly, pulled something from under the stove. When he straightened up, he had in his hand another metal button. He turned it about in his fingers, studying it.

  “It looks like the one you found in Number Five,” he said.

  They compared the two. They were identical. The two men stared at each other.

  “What do you make of that?” asked Greenleaf.

  “I was wondering,” Bristow replied, thinking quickly, “when—how that got there.” He paused and added: “Mattie doesn’t wear overalls.”

  They returned to the living room.

  “But,” he continued, “Perry was working for me yesterday. He was in the kitchen talking to Mattie. I wonder—Well, there’s one thing; if Perry’s blouse has two buttons missing, he’ll be confronted with the job of establishing an alibi for all of last night.”

  “By cracky!” The captain slapped his hands together in evident relief. “I believe we’ve got him! I’m going to send a man after him.”

  He went out to the porch and signalled another of his men.

  “Drake,” he said, “I want you to find a young negro—name’s Perry Carpenter—about twenty-five years old. He does odd jobs around here. Any of these other blacks can tell you where he lives. When you find him, take him to headquarters. Keep him there until I come. Get him. Don’t lose him!”

  When he stepped back into the house, Bristow was regarding him with a smile.

  “I hope you’re right,” he told the chief, “but I’ve a hunch you’re wrong. I believe this murder is more than an ordinary robbery by a darky. Somehow, I have the impression that there’s something big mixed up in it.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t say exactly. Perhaps it’s bec
ause I’ve been thinking of the beauty of the victim. Or it may be that I was impressed by what the women said about her when we were waiting for you on the porch.”

  He thought a while, and decided that he had no explanation of why he had made the remark. He had not meant to say it. It had come from him spontaneously, like an endorsement of what all Manniston Road was saying at that very moment: the “the something big in it” loomed up, intangible but demanding notice.

  Greenleaf himself, for all his apparent certainty about the guilt of the negro Perry, sensed vaguely the possibility, the hint, that this crime was even worse than it appeared to be. But he would not admit it. He preferred to keep before his mind the easier answer to the puzzle.

  “No,” he contradicted Bristow; “I believe Perry’s the fellow we want. Here we are dealing with facts, not story-book romances.”

  Just then a young man sprang up the steps of No. 9 and knocked on the door. It was Henry Morley, come to give weight to Bristow’s “hunch.”

  CHAPTER III

  THE RUBY RING

  Although it was Chief Greenleaf who opened the door, it was to Bristow that Morley turned, as if he instinctively recognized the superiority of the lame man’s personality. Greenleaf, of average height and weight, had nothing of command or domination about him. With his red, weatherbeaten face and mild, expressionless blue eyes, he looked like a well-to-do farmer. He was suggestive of no acquaintance with Tarde, Lombroso or any other authorities on crime and criminals.

  “Won’t you sit down?” invited Bristow.

  The new-comer was tall and slender. In spite of a straight, high-bridged nose and thin lips, his face indicated weakness. His dark-gray eyes had in them either a great deal of worry or undisguised fear. As he took the chair pointed out to him, he was being catalogued by Bristow as showing too much uncertainty, even a womanish timidity. Bristow noticed also that his thick, soft blond hair was carefully parted and brushed, and that his fingers were much manicured.

  He breathed in short, quick gasps.

  “What is it? How—how did it happen?” he asked, his gaze still on Bristow.

  Greenleaf took a seat so that Morley sat between him and Bristow.