The Moving Finger

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  “Fiddle-de-dee! I don’t place any reliance on that deputy coroner’s testimony.” Mrs. Porter indulged in a most undignified sniff. “Was Dr. Beverly Thorne present at the autopsy?”

  “No.” Mitchell moved nearer the center table. Mrs. Porter’s altered manner at the mention of Beverly Thorne’s name had not escaped the detective’s attention. Apparently Mrs. Porter was far from loving her neighbor like herself. The family feud, whatever it was about originally, would not be permitted to die out in her day and generation. Mitchell dropped his voice to a confidential pitch: “Come, Mrs. Porter, if you will tell me what you have in mind—” Mrs. Porter’s frigid smile stopped him.

  “I can hardly do that and remain impersonal—and polite,” she remarked, and Dorothy, watching them both, smothered a keen desire to laugh. “It is my unalterable opinion that Bruce Brainard, in a fit of temporary insanity, killed himself,” added Mrs. Porter.

  “Ah, indeed! And where did he procure the razor?”

  “That is for you to find out.” Mrs. Porter rose. “Do that and you will—”

  “Identify the murderer,” substituted Mitchell, with a provoking smile; in the heat of argument she might let slip whatever she hoped to conceal.

  “No, prove my theory correct,” Mrs. Porter retorted, rising and walking toward the door. She desired the interview closed. “Have you the key to Mr. Brainard’s bedroom?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Porter.”

  “Then kindly return it to me.” And she extended her hand. “The room must be cleaned and put in order.”

  “Not yet,” retorted Mitchell. “It was to prevent anything being touched in the room that I locked the door. After the mystery is solved, Mrs. Porter, I shall be most happy to return the key.”

  Mrs. Porter elevated her eyebrows as she looked at Dorothy and murmured in an audible aside, “Clothed in a little brief authority;” then, addressing Mitchell, who was following them to the door, “Mr. Mitchell, in the absence of my nephew, Mr. Wyndham, I must remind you that I cannot permit you or your assistants to intrude upon the privacy of my family.”

  “Except in the line of duty, madam.” Mitchell’s tone matched hers. “This case must be thoroughly investigated, no matter who is involved. Miss Deane, kindly inform your sister that I must see her at the earliest possible moment.”

  “She will see you when she is disengaged, and not before,” retorted Mrs. Porter, wrath getting the better of her judgment, and laying an imperious hand on Dorothy’s arm she conducted her from the room.

  Mitchell turned back and paced up and down the library for over five minutes, then paused in front of the telephone stand. “So the old lady is hostile,” he muttered, turning the leaves of the telephone directory. “And Pope isn’t back yet—” He ran his finger down the list of names and at last found the one he sought. Hitching the telephone nearer he repeated a number into the mouth-piece, and a second later was talking with Beverly Thorne.

  “What, doctor, you don’t wish to come here again!” ejaculated the detective, as Thorne refused his first request. “Now, don’t let that fool feud interfere with your helping me, doctor. I assure you you can be of the greatest assistance, and as justice of the peace I think there is no other course open to you. Yes, I want you right away—you’ll come? I shan’t forget it, doctor. I’ll meet you at the door.” And with a satisfied smile the detective hung up the receiver and went in search of Murray.

  Mitchell, twenty minutes later, stood twirling his thumbs in the front hall; his growing impatience was finally rewarded by the ringing of the front bell, and before the butler could get down the hall he had opened the door and was welcoming Thorne.

  “We’ll go upstairs, doctor,” said Mitchell, after Thorne had surrendered his hat and overcoat to Selby, and stood waiting the detective’s pleasure. “Selby, ask Miss Vera Deane to join us at once—”

  “I am here,” cut in a voice from the stair landing, and Vera stepped into view. Her eyes traveled past the detective and rested on Beverly Thorne with an intentness which held his own gaze. Totally oblivious of Mitchell and the butler they continued to stare at each other. Suddenly the carmine crept up Vera’s white cheeks, and she turned to Mitchell, almost with an air of relief. “What is it you wish?”

  “A few minutes’ chat with you,” answered the detective, mounting the stairs. “Suppose we go into Mr. Brainard’s bedroom. Will you lead the way?” waiting courteously on the landing, but there was an appreciable pause before Vera complied with his request, and it was a silent procession of three which the butler saw disappear upstairs.

  Mitchell was the first to speak as they gathered about the bedroom door. “Nice dainty little watch charm to carry about with me,” he said, holding up a massive brass key which measured at least six inches in length, with a ward in proportion. “Did you lock Mr. Brainard’s door, Miss Deane, on Monday night when you returned to your other patient?”

  “No, I left the door unlocked, but closed.” Vera spoke with an effort. “As you see, Mr. Mitchell, the old lock turns with difficulty, and I feared the noise it makes”—a protesting squeak from the interior of the lock as Mitchell turned the key illustrated her meaning—“would disturb Mr. Brainard.”

  “It needs oiling, that’s a fact.” Mitchell flung open the unlocked door. “Come right in,” he said, and stalked ahead of them.

  Vera paused on the threshold and half turned as if to go back, but Thorne’s figure blocked the doorway. Slowly, with marked reluctance, she advanced into the bedroom, and at a sign from Mitchell, who was watching her every movement, Thorne closed the door, his expression inscrutable.

  “Look about, Miss Deane,” directed Mitchell, sitting down and drawing out his notebook. “I want you to study each article in the room and tell us if it is just where it stood at the time you discovered Brainard had been murdered. Sit down, if you wish,” indicating a chair near him.

  “Thanks, I prefer to stand.” Vera eyed the two men, then did as she was bidden, but as she looked about the bedroom she was considering the motive underlying the detective’s request. What did he hope to learn from her? How dared he make her a stalking horse, and in the presence of Beverly Thorne! The thought bred hot resentment, but the red blood flaming her cheeks receded as quickly as it had come at sight of a figure stretched out in the bed under the blood-stained sheets and blankets. A slight scream escaped her and she recoiled.

  “It is only a dummy,” explained Mitchell hastily, laying a soothing hand on her arm. She shrank from his touch.

  “I realize it now,” said Vera, moistening her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “I had not expected to find it there.”

  “Do you see any changes in the room, Miss Deane?” asked Mitchell, as she lapsed into silence.

  Vera, who had been gazing at the figure in the bed as if hypnotized, turned mechanically about and inspected the bedroom. The window curtains had been drawn back and the shades raised, and the room was flooded with light. Catching a glimpse of herself in the huge antique mirror above the mantelpiece as she turned her back to the bed, Vera was startled to see how white and drawn her reflection appeared in its clear depths, and surreptitiously rubbed her cheeks to restore their color.

  “I see nothing changed on the mantel,” she said, and the sound of her calm voice reassured her; she had not lost her grip, no matter what the mirror told her. “But”—she wrinkled her brow in thought as her eyes fell on a chair on which were flung a suit of clothes and some underclothing—“Mr. Brainard’s dress suit was laid neatly on the sofa over there, and his underclothes there also.”

  “Did you place them there?” asked Mitchell, jotting down her remarks.

  “No, they were there when I came into the bedroom Monday night.”

  “Did they appear mussed or rumpled the next morning, Miss Deane, as if Brainard had risen in the night and searched the pockets?” inquired Thorne, breaking his long silence. He had followed the detective’s questions and Vera’s replies with the closest attention, while
his eyes never left her. It seemed almost as if he could not look elsewhere, and but for Vera’s absorption she could not have failed to note his intent regard.

  Vera hesitated before answering his question. “I think the clothes had not been touched,” she said. “My impression is that they lay exactly where Mr. Brainard placed them before retiring.”

  “Do you think Mr. Brainard, a sick man, placed the clothes on the sofa, and not Wyndham or Noyes?”

  “You must get that information from either of those men,” replied Vera wearily. “I was not present when Mr. Brainard was put to bed.”

  “But you can inform us, Miss Deane, if Dr. Noyes ordered an opiate administered to Brainard,” broke in Mitchell, and Thorne looked sharply at him. What was he driving at?

  “No, Dr. Noyes did not order an opiate.” Vera moved restlessly. “I gave Mr. Brainard a dose of aromatic spirits of ammonia as directed, and that was all.”

  Mitchell rose and stepped into the center of the bedroom and pointed to the transom. It was an oblong opening in the thick wall, forming the top, apparently, of what had formerly been a door jamb; the communicating doorway, judging from appearances, having been bricked up years before. The glass partition of the transom, secured at the bottom to the woodwork by hinges, hung down into the bedroom occupied by Craig Porter from chains fastened to the upper woodwork of the transom, and was barely visible from where Vera and Thorne stood in Brainard’s bedroom. The glass partition, when closed, was held in place by a catch lock at the top.

  “Look at that, Miss Deane,” exclaimed Mitchell harshly. “The transom is almost entirely open. Do you still maintain that you heard no sound during the night in this bedroom?”

  “I heard no sound which indicated murder was being committed in this room,” Vera protested vehemently. “I tell you I heard nothing,” observing Mitchell’s air of skepticism. “To prove to you that all sound does not carry into the next bedroom, one of you go in there, and I will steal from the hall into this room and over to the bed, and the one who remains can tell what takes place in this room.”

  “A good idea.” Mitchell walked briskly toward the door. “You watch, doctor,” and he stood aside for Vera to step past him into the hall, then followed her outside and closed the door securely behind him.

  Barely waiting for their departure, Thorne moved over to the chair on which lay Brainard’s clothes, and hurriedly searched the few pockets of the dress suit, only to find them empty. Evidently the police had taken charge of whatever had been in them. He was just turning away when the door opened without a sound and Vera, her white linen skirt slightly drawn up, slipped into the room and with stealthy tread crept toward the bed.

  Thorne watched her, fascinated by her unconscious grace and her air of grim determination. He instinctively realized that the test she had suggested was repugnant to her high-strung, sensitive nature, and only his strong will conquered his intense desire to end the scene. As close as he was to her he heard no sound; but for the evidence of his eyes he could have sworn that he was alone in the room. He saw her turn to approach the head of the bed, falter, and draw back, and was by her side instantly. She looked at him half dazed, and but for his steadying hand would have measured her length on the ground. He read the agony in her eyes and responded to the unconscious appeal.

  “Come back, Mitchell,” he called, and while he pitched his voice as low as possible its carrying qualities reached the detective in Craig Porter’s bedroom, and he hurried into the next room in time to see Thorne offer Vera his silver flask.

  “No, I don’t need it,” she insisted, pushing his hand away. “It was but a momentary weakness. I have had very little sleep for the past forty-eight hours, and am unstrung. If you have no further questions to ask me, Mr. Mitchell, I will return to my room.”

  Before replying Mitchell looked at Thorne. “Did she do as she said she would?” he asked. “I heard nothing in the next room until you called me.”

  “Yes. Frankly, had I not seen Miss Deane open the door and enter this room I would have thought myself alone,” responded Thorne.

  “The carpet is thick.” Mitchell leaned down and passed his hand over it. “It would deaden any sound of footsteps. You are sure that you heard no talking in here Monday night, Miss Deane?”

  “I have already said that I did not,” retorted Vera, and she made no attempt to keep the bitterness she was feeling out of her voice. “It seems very hard to convince you, Mr. Mitchell, that I am not a liar.”

  Thorne, who had been staring at the bed-table, looked up quickly.

  “Did you see a razor lying on this table when you arranged the night light for Brainard, Miss Deane?” he asked.

  “No.” Vera sighed; would they never cease questioning her? “That brass bell, the glass night light, empty medicine glass, and water caraffe were the only articles on the table.”

  Mitchell went over to the foot of the bed. “Just whereabouts on the bed did you see the razor yesterday morning?” he asked.

  Vera, who stood with her back almost touching the bed, turned reluctantly around. It was a high four-post bedstead and required a short flight of steps to mount into it, but some vandal had shortened the four beautifully carved posts to half their height and the canopy had also been removed.

  The figure lay huddled face down, for which Vera was deeply grateful. Even in its dark hair she visualized the tortured features of Bruce Brainard, and she turned with a shudder to point to a spot on the bed just below the sleeve of the pyjamas which clothed the figure.

  “The razor lay there,” she announced positively.

  “Thanks.” Mitchell closed and pocketed his notebook. “Now, one more question, Miss Deane, and then we will let you off. At what time yesterday morning did you go to summon Dr. Noyes?”

  “To be exact, at twenty minutes of six.”

  “And what hour was it when you first discovered the murder?”

  Vera stared at him dazedly, then her trembling hand clutched the bedclothes for support, but as her fingers closed over the sleeve of the pyjamas they encountered bone and muscle. With senses reeling she half collapsed in Thorne’s arms as the figure rolled over and disclosed Murray’s agitated countenance.

  “H-he m-made m-me do it, miss,” the footman stuttered, pointing an accusing finger at Mitchell. “Said he wanted to play a trick on Dr. Thorne; but if I’d dreamed he wanted to scare you, miss, I’d never have agreed, never. And I’ve been lying here in agony, miss, afraid to speak because I might scare you to death, and hoping you’d leave the room without knowing about me. If Mrs. Porter ever hears!” Murray gazed despairingly at them. “She wouldn’t have minded me making a fool of Dr. Thorne. Oh, Miss Deane, don’t look at me like that!” and his voice shook with feeling.

  “It’s all right,” gasped Vera, standing shakily erect; Murray’s jumbled explanation had given her time to recover her poise. She turned to Detective Mitchell, her eyes blazing with indignation. “The farce is ended, sir, and my answer to your last question is the same—I found Mr. Brainard lying here with his throat cut at twenty minutes of six. Good-afternoon.” And she left the three men contemplating each other.

  Chapter IX

  In the Attic

  The high wind sweeping around the Porter mansion in ever increasing volume found an echo under the eaves, and the attic in consequence resounded with dismal noises. Much of the space under the sloping roof had been given up to the storage of trunks and old furniture, but on the side facing the Potomac River wooden partitions divided that part of the attic into rooms for servants.

  The south wall of the attic was lined with pine book shelves which ran up to the wooden rafters. There old Judge Erastus Porter had stored his extensive law library, and there his great-niece, little Millicent Porter, had made her playhouse when she visited him. The nook used in childhood had retained its affection in Millicent’s maturer years and, the trunks forming an effectual barricade, she had converted it into a cozy corner, placed pretty curtains in the dor
mer window, a rug on the bare boards, wheeled an easy-chair, a highboy, and a flat-top desk into their respective places, and, last but not least, a large barrel stood near at hand filled with out-of-print books and a paper edition of Scott’s novels. Mrs. Porter on her first tour of inspection of the attic had remonstrated against the barrel, stating that it spoiled the really handsome pieces of furniture which Millicent had converted to her own use, but her daughter insisted that the barrel added a touch of picturesqueness, and that she still enjoyed munching an apple and reading “Ivanhoe,” a statement that drew the strictured comment from Mrs. Porter that Millicent had inherited all her father’s peculiarities, after which she was left in peace and possession.

  Bundled up in a sweater, Millicent sat cross-legged before a small brass-bound, hair-covered trunk, another companion of her childhood, for she had first learned to print by copying the initials of her great-great-grandfather outlined in brass tacks on the trunk lid. The trunk still held a number of childish treasures, as well as cotillion favors, invitations, photographs, and a bundle of manuscripts. But contrary to custom, Millicent made no attempt to look at the neatly typewritten sheets; instead she sat contemplating the open trunk, her head cocked on one side as if listening.

  Finally convinced that all she heard was the moaning of the wind under the eaves, she lifted out the tray, and, pushing aside some silks and laces, removed the false bottom of the trunk and took from it a ledger. Propping the book against the side of the trunk she turned its pages until she came to an entry which made her pause:

  Dined with Mrs. Seymour. Bruce Brainard took me out to dinner. He was very agreeable.

  And apparently from the frequency with which his name appeared in her “memory book,” Bruce Brainard continued to be “agreeable.” Millicent turned page after page, and for the first time read between the lines of her stylish penmanship what her mother, with the far-sighted eyes of experience, had interpreted plainly. Flattered by the attentions of a polished man of the world, years older than herself, Millicent had mistaken admiration for interest and liking for love. Brainard’s courtship of the debutante had been ardent, and what she termed an engagement and her mother “an understanding” had followed. Brainard had pleaded for an early wedding, but business had called him away to Brazil, and on Millicent’s advice, who knew her mother’s whims and fancies, he had postponed asking Mrs. Porter’s consent to their engagement until his return.