“An ingenious theory,” acknowledged Black.
“But why should Mr. Brainard plan to commit suicide when his engagement to a beautiful and wealthy girl was about to be announced?”
“Mr. Brainard’s ill health may have unbalanced his mind.”
“Did Mr. Brainard show symptoms of insanity last night?” asked Black quietly.
“N-no.” Wyndham thought a minute, then glanced at the coroner. “The attack of vertigo”—he began and stopped as Coroner Black smiled and shook his head.
“Mr. Wyndham”—Black turned abruptly and produced the razor—“have you seen this before?”
Wyndham took it from him gingerly. “It resembles the one I saw lying on the bed close by Brainard’s left hand,” he said at last.
“It is the same one,” announced Black shortly. “Had you ever seen this razor before finding it on Brainard’s bed this morning?”
“No.” Wyndham examined it with care and then held up the razor so that all could see it. “It evidently belongs to a set, one to be used every day in the week—this particular razor is marked Monday—”
“And today is Tuesday,” commented the foreman of the jury. The juror nearest him nudged him to be quiet, and the coroner resumed his examination.
“To your knowledge, Mr. Wyndham, does anyone in this household own a set of razors such as you describe?” he demanded.
“No.” Wyndham’s monosyllable rang out emphatically and his eyes met the coroner’s squarely. “Personally, I use an ordinary razor. Can I send for it?”
“Certainly,” and the coroner turned to McPherson, who rose.
“You will find my razor in the top drawer of my bureau; Murray, the footman, will show you my room,” explained Wyndham. “At the same time Murray can get the razor belonging to my cousin, Craig Porter. The footman shaves him,” he supplemented, “using a Gillett safety razor.”
“The footman is waiting in the hall,” added Coroner Black, and, barely waiting for the closing of the library door behind McPherson, he asked: “Was Mr. Brainard left-handed?”
“I don’t think so.” Wyndham considered the question. “No, I am sure that he was not. Once or twice I have played billiards with him, and I would certainly have observed any such peculiarity.”
A sudden movement on the part of Beverly Thorne brought the coroner’s attention to him.
“Do you care to question the witness, doctor?” he inquired and, as Thorne nodded, he explained hurriedly to Wyndham, whose brow had darkened ominously: “Dr. Thorne is a justice of the peace and is here to assist in this investigation at my request,” with quiet emphasis on the last words, and Wyndham thought better of hot-tempered objections. Thorne rose and approached the center table before speaking.
“Mr. Wyndham,” he began, “did you telephone into town that Mr. Brainard was ill and would spend the night in this house?”
“No,” answered Wyndham, and his tone was of the curtest.
“To your knowledge did anyone else in this house telephone Brainard’s condition to friends in Washington?”
“I did not hear of it if they did.”
“Then no one, outside this household, knew that Brainard was spending the night here?”
Wyndham moved impatiently. “You forget Mrs. Porter had other dinner guests last night,” he said stiffly. “They knew of his illness and his presence here.”
“True,” broke in the coroner. “Mrs. Porter has already furnished me with their names, and—” But before he could add more Thorne interposed with a question.
“How about Brainard’s chauffeur?”
“He had none, but drove his own car,” responded Wyndham.
“Is that still here?”
“I believe so. Sims, Mrs. Porter’s chauffeur, reported it was in the garage this morning.”
At that moment the door opened to admit McPherson, who advanced somewhat short of breath from hurrying, and laid an ordinary razor and a Gillett “safety” on the center table.
“The first razor I found in Mr. Wyndham’s bureau,” he announced. “The second was handed to me by Miss Deane.” He stopped to resume his seat, then continued more slowly: “The nurse showed me where Mr. Porter’s shaving things are kept in the bathroom between his bedroom and that occupied by the nurses.”
“Thanks, McPherson.” Coroner Black replaced the blood-stained razor on the table beside the others. “You are excused, Mr. Wyndham.”
Wyndham bowed and stepped past Thorne; at the door he hesitated, but, catching Thorne’s eyes, he turned and left the room without speaking.
“McPherson, will you take the stand?” directed Black, and the deputy coroner sat down in the chair reserved for the witnesses, after first having the oath administered to him. “You performed the autopsy on Mr. Brainard?” asked Black a few seconds later.
“I did.” McPherson displayed an anatomical chart, and used his pencil as an indicator while he continued: “I found an incipient tumor of the brain. Brainard’s attacks of vertigo were due to that.” The deputy coroner raised his voice as his pencil traveled down the chart and rested on the throat. “The wound was on the lower part of Brainard’s neck and the carotid artery was severed. He bled to death.”
“Was the wound self-inflicted, doctor?” questioned Thorne, taking the chart and examining it closely before passing it over to the juror nearest him.
McPherson shook his head at Thorne’s question. “I do not believe the wound was self-inflicted,” he said, “for the wound commences under the right ear and extends toward the left; whereas, in the case of suicide the cut would have been made just the reverse.”
McPherson’s words were listened to with deep attention, and in the silence that followed Thorne grew conscious of the loud ticking of the clock.
“Then in your opinion, McPherson,” commented Coroner Black, “Bruce Brainard was murdered?”
“Yes,” answered the deputy coroner. “The nature of the wound proves conclusively that it could not have been suicide.”
“Unless,” broke in Thorne, “unless Brainard was left-handed.”
“That point can be easily settled,” snapped the coroner. “That’s all, McPherson, thank you;” and as the doctor left the witness chair he added, “Kindly ask Detective Mitchell to step here.”
It was growing darker in the room and Thorne walked over to the windows and pushed back the long curtains and pulled up the Holland shades. The sunshine had almost totally disappeared, and the gray of late afternoon alone lighted the room. Thorne moved over to one of the lamps which were dotted about, and was busy lighting it when Detective Mitchell followed McPherson back into the room.
“Have you discovered which servants own razors in this house, Mitchell?” asked the coroner, after the new witness had answered other questions.
“Yes, sir.” Mitchell took two razors from his pocket. “I have them each ticketed; this one belongs to the footman, Murray, and this to the butler, Selby.”
The coroner accepted the two razors and compared them with the blood-stained one on the table, then he passed all three to the jurors.
“They are not in the least alike,” he said thoughtfully. “Did you examine Dr. Noyes’ bedroom, Mitchell?”
“I did,” answered the detective. “The bed had evidently been slept in, as the sheets and blankets were tumbled about, but all the doctor’s clothes were packed in his steamer trunk.”
“Was his trunk locked?”
“No, sir.” Mitchell paused. “I examined its contents, but I could not find any razor or strop.”
“Were his overcoat and hat in his closet?”
“No, nor downstairs in the coat closet,” was Mitchell’s prompt response. “I questioned all the servants and Mrs. Porter, and they say that Dr. Noyes owned a large grip with his initials—it is missing, and I conclude that he has taken it with him, for Murray declares that some underclothes and one suit of clothes are missing.”
“I see.” Coroner Black frowned, then glanced toward Thor
ne, and the latter addressed the detective.
“Have you found any trace of burglars breaking into the house last night, Mitchell?”
“No. And I examined the ground about this house very thoroughly, as well as every window catch and keyhole; none have been tampered with. The servants declare they were securely locked last night, and found in the same condition this morning.”
Thorne laid aside the pencil he had been twisting about in his fingers and pointed to the blood-stained razor.
“Did you find finger marks on this razor?”
“No, none.” Mitchell looked glum. “We tested every article in Mr. Brainard’s bedroom and could not find a trace of finger prints.”
Thorne turned back to Coroner Black. “I have no further questions to ask the witness,” and the coroner dismissed Mitchell.
“As you go out, Mitchell,” he added, “please send word to Miss Millicent Porter that I would like to see her here.”
By the time the hall door again opened every lamp the room boasted was lit, and Millicent Porter paused just within the library to accustom herself to the sudden glare. Thorne and the jurors noted the lines of care on her white face and the dark circles under her eyes, and as Thorne approached her he muttered under his breath, in subdued admiration, “What an exquisite child!” She seemed little more in her simple dark dress, and her beauty was of the ethereal type.
“We won’t keep you here very long, Miss Porter.” Coroner Black bustled forward and, snatching up a cushion from the sofa, placed it in the witness chair. “You will be more comfortable so.” She smiled her thanks, looking up at him timidly. “Now, if you will rise for a second Dr. McPherson will—there,” soothingly, observing her startled expression. “Just repeat the oath after McPherson and place your hand on the Bible—so. Now sit right here. Kindly tell the jurors your full name—”
“Millicent Porter.”
“And how long have you known Mr. Brainard, Miss Porter?”
“A little over a year.” She spoke with an effort and several of the jurors hitched their chairs nearer so as not to miss a word she said.
“And when did you become engaged to him?” inquired Coroner Black.
Millicent flushed scarlet. “I—I—” she stumbled badly. “We were—it was—” Then in an indignant rush, “My private affairs do not concern you; I decline to answer impertinent questions.”
Coroner Black bowed and adjusted his eyeglasses, and to the disappointment of a number of the jurors he did not press the point.
“Why did you and Mr. Brainard quarrel last night?” he asked.
“Quarrel?” Millicent stared at him, then laughed a bit unsteadily. “Mr. Brainard and I quarrel—what nonsense! Who put such an idea in your head, sir?”
“Your footman, Murray, has testified that he overheard you exclaim, ‘No! No!’ on the portico there,” pointing to the long windows. “And after you had dashed by him into the house Murray found Mr. Brainard lying overcome on the ground.”
Millicent never removed her eyes from the coroner; she seemed drinking in his words, half unable to believe them.
“Murray saw us?” she stammered, half to herself. “I had no idea others were about.” Abruptly she checked her hasty speech, and her determined chin set in obstinate lines. “Apparently you know everything that transpired last night. Then why question me?” she demanded.
“We do not know everything,” replied Coroner Black patiently. “For instance, we do not know who murdered Bruce Brainard.”
His words struck home. She reeled in her seat, and but for Thorne’s supporting arm would have fallen to the floor.
“Murdered!” she gasped. “Murdered? You must be mistaken.”
“Unfortunately, Miss Porter, the medical evidence proves conclusively that it was murder and not suicide. Now,” continued Black, eying her watchfully, “we want your aid in tracking the murderer—”
“I know nothing—nothing!” she burst in passionately. “I never saw Mr. Brainard again after he went upstairs; I slept soundly all last night, and heard nothing.”
“Even if you know nothing about the happenings last night, perhaps you can still tell us something which may prove a clue,” began Black, and his manner grew more earnest. “Did Mr. Brainard ever tell you that he had enemies?”
“No.”
“Did he ever mention that his life had been threatened?” persisted Black.
“No.” Millicent was white to the lips, and she held out her hands pleadingly. “Indeed, gentlemen, I cannot help you—why ask me questions that I cannot answer?”
The big, raw-boned foreman of the jury met her eyes and moved awkwardly, but before he could think what to say Coroner Black again addressed her.
“There are certain formalities to be gone through, Miss Porter.” As he spoke he walked over to the center table and picked up the blood-stained razor, holding it directly under the rays of the nearest lamp. “Kindly look at this razor and tell us if you know to whom it belongs.”
If the razor had been Medusa’s head it could have held no more deadly fascination for Millicent. She sat as if carved from stone. Coroner Black repeated his question once, and then again—still no response.
Beverly Thorne broke the tense stillness.
“Did Dr. Noyes bid you good-by before departing, Miss Porter?” he asked.
Galvanized into action, Millicent sprang from her seat, and, before anyone guessed her intention or any hand could stay her, she dashed from the library.
Coroner Black made a hasty step toward the door, but Thorne detained him.
“Suppose you sum up the case to the jury,” he suggested, and resumed his seat.
Chapter V
Dorothy Deane, “Society Editor”
Good Afternoon, Mr. Williams.” The managing editor of the Washington Tribune twisted about in his revolving-chair, and his frown changed into a smile of welcome at sight of his society editor standing in the doorway, a roll of soiled copy clutched in one hand, while a much blue-penciled daily newspaper dangled from the other.
“Come in, Miss Deane,” he said, pointing toward a chair by his desk. “How are you feeling today after last night’s gayety at the White House?”
“Rather wintry, thank you.” A twinkle in Dorothy Deane’s eyes belied her serious expression. “Your compositors spoiled my beauty sleep.”
“What’s their latest offense?”
“This—” She spread the morning newspaper before him, and pointed to a paragraph in the middle of the second column, beneath the sub-heading: “Beauty at the White House.” The sentence read: “Mrs. Anson Smith, wife of Senator-elect Smith, wore a handsome string of pearls.”
“Beauty unadorned,” quoted the managing editor dryly. “Your description would fit nine out of ten women of the ultra-smart set of today.”
“But it is not my description,” retorted Dorothy hotly. “Here’s my copy, perfectly legible,” displaying it. “The compositors simply did not set up the remainder of the sentence. If you could have heard Mr. Smith’s language to me on the telephone this morning—”
“The irate husband, eh!” Williams laughed unsympathetically. “Mrs. Smith must have had a gown made especially for the occasion—”
“She did, and sent me a full description of it yesterday—”
“And it did not get published—ah, take it from me, Miss Deane, that’s where the shoe pinched.”
“Possibly; but that doesn’t excuse the blunder in the composing-room or the stupidity of the men on the copy desk,” declared Dorothy. “I have to stand for their mistakes.”
Williams frowned, then smiled. “They will read your copy more carefully in the future, I promise you,” he said. “I never saw you angry before, Miss Deane; now you look like the picture I have of you.”
“Picture?” Dorothy’s blue eyes opened to their widest extent. “You have a picture of me?”
“Your emphasis is not very flattering,” responded Williams, chuckling. “Our staff photographer snapped
you and your sister one day last autumn, and I found the boys were going to run the picture in a Sunday supplement to surprise you. I didn’t think you’d like it, so took it away from them.” As he spoke he opened a drawer of his desk and, tumbling its contents about, finally pulled out a photograph. “I meant to have given it to you before.”
“Thanks,” and Dorothy glanced at the photograph with interest as she took it.
“What were you two squabbling about?” demanded Williams, staring at the photograph. “Your sister looks a veritable Lady Macbeth.”
“Oh, she doesn’t approve of my spendthrift ways,” answered Dorothy lightly. “Vera says I never will learn by experience,” and an involuntary sigh escaped her.
“It’s a shame she lectured you in public,” grumbled Williams, whose friendly interest in Dorothy’s career had already smoothed many rough places.
“Oh, I don’t know—couldn’t find a more convenient place than the steps of the Emergency Hospital to receive the coup de grâce,’ laughed Dorothy. “And Vera doesn’t mean half she says.”
“By the way, didn’t you once tell me that your sister was nursing Craig Porter at their country place in Virginia?”
“Yes, she is.”
Williams gazed at her with quickened interest. “Seen the afternoon papers?” he asked.
“No, I haven’t had time.” The imperative ring of the telephone interrupted her, and Williams, waving an impatient hand in farewell, jerked the desk telephone toward him.
Still holding her photograph, but leaving her copy and the morning paper behind on the desk, Dorothy closed the door of the private office, made her way through the city room, borrowed an afternoon newspaper from several lying on the city editor’s desk, and disappeared into the small room set aside for her exclusive use. She was some minutes placing her hat, coat, and handbag on their accustomed peg, then ensconcing herself before her desk she sorted her mail; that done, she picked up the photograph given her by the managing editor and studied it more closely.
The photograph was, like many an un-posed snapshot, a good likeness; too good, she thought, noting her sister’s determined expression and her own rebellious countenance. For all her jesting with the managing editor, the conversation she and Vera had had that autumn afternoon lingered in her memory with a bitter flavor; remarks had been made which neither could forget.
The Moving Finger Page 4
