The Moving Finger

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  “Oh! But you cannot hope to build the well on Mrs. Porter’s property.”

  Thorne laughed heartily. “Hardly; Mrs. Porter would never give me permission to do so.”

  “Then why waste time trespassing on her property?”

  Again Thorne laughed, but a shadow lurked in his eyes as he glanced keenly at his questioner. “Frankly, I have two investigations under way,” he acknowledged. “One to locate a spring, and the other to discover who murdered Bruce Brainard.”

  Vera’s back was toward the setting sun, and her face was in shadow. “If you spend your time looking for wells you will not solve the mystery of Mr. Brainard’s death,” she said with slow emphasis.

  “I’m not so sure of that.” Thorne spun the cleft stick about in his fingers. “Are we not told that truth lies at the bottom of a well? Good-by.” And lifting his cap he vaulted the fence which separated his property from the Porter estate and disappeared behind some barns.

  Vera did not at once resume her walk to the house, and when she did so her usually light footstep was dragging and her expression more troubled.

  “Has Miss Millicent returned, Murray?” she asked on entering the butler’s pantry a few minutes later.

  “No, miss.” And Vera went wearily into the deserted library.

  The rooms, with shades and curtains partly drawn and the fire on the hearth reduced to smoldering embers, was not conducive to cheerfulness, and Vera shivered as she threw herself down on the wide leather couch and pillowed her head on one of its numerous cushions.

  “I wish I’d gone to Washington with Dorothy,” she muttered, snuggling down under the warm folds of a carriage robe she had brought from the coat closet. “I could have stood their chatter better than—” Her thoughts supplied the name her lips did not utter, and Mrs. Porter, gliding noiselessly into the library, never dreamed that Beverly Thorne’s domineering personality was keeping her beautiful nurse from peaceful slumber.

  Mrs. Porter, her hands full of papers, went directly to the fireplace. Poking the embers into a feeble blaze, she squatted down on a footstool and placed the letters she carried one by one into the flames. Vera, lying with eyes closed, and buried in her own thoughts, did not become aware of her presence until the clang of a fire iron which Mrs. Porter inadvertently let slip aroused her. A certain furtiveness in Mrs. Porter’s movements checked Vera’s impulse to address her, and she watched her employer in a growing quandary. Should she let Mrs. Porter know that she was not alone in the room, or was she already aware of her, Vera’s, presence? It was highly probable that the latter was the case, as Mrs. Porter had to pass near the lounge to get to the fireplace, and Vera resolutely closed her eyes and did her best to drop off to sleep.

  Mrs. Porter, with painstaking care, opened each letter and scanned it intently before depositing it in the fire. Her features looked pinched and worn in the ruddy glow from the burning paper. She faltered as her busy fingers came at last to a handful of twisted papers, and it took her some moments to smooth out the torn sheets and place each separately on the red-hot embers. The last sheet followed its predecessor before the first had been quite consumed, and Mrs. Porter shuddered as the sheet, like some tortured body, twisted about, then stiffened, and the words it bore showed in bold relief:

  Tuesday morning—Saw Alan. God help us both.

  A flame shot upward across the sheet, and the scorching trail left no record in the ashes on the hearth.

  Mrs. Porter poked among the embers until convinced that each scrap of paper had been burned, then rising stiffly she gazed uneasily about the library, letting her eyes finally rest on Vera. She studied the girl’s perfect profile with appraising keenness before seating herself in front of the center table and picking up her pen. But the words she sought to put on paper would not come, and she threw down her pen with a pettish exclamation; the continued silence in the room was getting on her nerves.

  “Vera!” she called shrilly. “Wake up.”

  Even before she had finished speaking Vera was on her feet, and a second more was standing by the older woman’s side, laying a soothing hand on her trembling fingers.

  “What is it, Mrs. Porter?” she asked. “What can I do for you?”

  “Talk to me.” Mrs. Porter patted the chair next to hers and Vera sank into it. “I must have some diversion or I shall go mad!” And the gleam in her eyes lent color to her words. “Gossip with me.”

  “About what—politics?” mentioning the topic farthest from her thoughts; she was too nervously inclined to discuss personal matters.

  “Politics?” repeated Mrs. Porter. “You’ll find no argument there, Vera; I’ve lived too long in Washington not to float with the tide—mine are always Administration politics. But”—with a sudden sharp glance at her companion under lowered lids—“I am always interested in the tattle-tales of Cupid. Your sister Dorothy and my nephew Hugh don’t seem to be as good friends as formerly; what has estranged them?”

  Vera’s fingers closed tightly over the arm of her chair and her answer was slow in coming. “Oh, they have frequent bickerings.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps the present tiff is more serious—for the moment.”

  Mrs. Porter looked relieved. “I hope you are right, for I have quite set my heart on that being a match. Do you know,” in a sudden burst of confidence very foreign to her usually reserved nature, “I was beginning to fear that Bruce Brainard’s horrible death might have been at the bottom of the estrangement.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Porter!” Vera’s shocked expression drew instant explanation and Mrs. Porter, in her excitement, failed to observe Vera’s growing agitation.

  “The atmosphere of this place since the tragedy distorts every action, every idea!” she began incoherently. “I do my utmost to forget it, but I can think of nothing else. And you found Bruce dead on Tuesday morning—only forty-eight hours ago!”

  “It seems a lifetime!” confessed Vera wearily.

  “And that stupid detective has done nothing,” fumed Mrs. Porter. “In the face of no evidence, he still thinks Bruce was murdered.”

  “I don’t catch your meaning.” And Vera looked as puzzled as she felt.

  “Why, if Bruce had been murdered there would have been some clue; whereas, the lack of evidence against anyone proves that Bruce must have committed suicide.”

  “Where did he get the razor?” The question almost leaped from Vera, and she bent forward in her eagerness to catch the other’s answer.

  “Brought it with him.” But Mrs. Porter’s eyes had shifted and Vera could not read their expression. “Listen, Vera, let us argue this matter out—I’m tired of beating about the bush!” Mrs. Porter’s air of candor would have convinced anyone not familiar with her moods and tenses—Vera gazed at her and remained discreetly silent. “I know that every door and window in the floor and the cellar were locked, because I accompanied Hugh when he went the rounds to see that the house was securely fastened on Monday night. Even the police admit that no one broke into the house.”

  “Yet they contend that Bruce Brainard was murdered.” Vera spoke almost without her own volition, and bit her lip until the blood came, but the words could not be recalled.

  Mrs. Porter’s hand flew to her heart as if to still its rapid beating. “Yes,” she agreed dully, the false animation of a moment before deserting her. “Who in this household would have a motive for killing Bruce?”

  Her question met with no response, and as the pause lengthened they avoided looking at each other; twice Mrs. Porter tried to speak, but her voice failed her, and she rose uncertainly to her feet. Vera sat as if carved from marble, and even the opening of the library door failed to draw her attention.

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Porter,” said Mrs. Hall, advancing towards the desk. “I think you had better send for a physician for Mr. Craig.”

  “Craig! Is he worse?” Mrs. Porter turned imploring eyes on the day nurse.

  “I don’t like his symptoms,” replied Mrs. Hall, noncommittally. �
�And I dare not take the responsibility of treating him until a physician has seen him. Please don’t delay in sending for one.”

  By that time Vera was on her feet. “Can I be of assistance?” she asked, addressing Mrs. Hall.

  “Not now; perhaps later,” responded the day nurse. “Mrs. Porter, please tell me whom you desire called in, now that Dr. Noyes is no longer here, and Miss Deane can telephone for him.”

  Mrs. Porter turned an agonized face toward them. “No, I’ll speak to Dr. Thorne myself. He has been highly recommended to me and is the nearest physician this side of Alexandria. I never expected,” she added bitterly, picking up the telephone, “to ask any of his family to assist me, but Craig’s need is paramount. Don’t wait, Mrs. Hall.” And the day nurse hastened back to her patient.

  Vera was on the point of following her when Mrs. Porter signed to her to wait, and she listened with the keenest attention to the one-sided conversation on the telephone. Mrs. Porter finally hung up the receiver in a rage.

  “His servant’s a fool!” she declared, laying an impatient finger on the bell which connected with the servants’ hall. “He doesn’t know where Dr. Thorne is or when he will be back. Ah, Murray,” as that worthy appeared, “go at once to Thornedale and find Dr. Thorne and bring him here,” she wound up, sinking down on the couch, and a burst of tears relieved her overwrought feelings. “Oh, Craig, Craig—my dear, dear boy!”

  Murray, seeing Vera spring to Mrs. Porter’s side, vanished, and, being impressed with the urgency of his errand, never stopped to get his overcoat, and in a hatless condition made his way across the fields. He was just entering the carriage drive to Thornedale when he descried the doctor coming along the highway, and he started forward to meet him. He was almost within hailing distance when a man stepped from behind a clump of bushes and called him by name.

  The footman stared at the newcomer as if unable to believe his eyes.

  “So it’s yourself!” he ejaculated, walking slowly around him. “And who do you wish to see, sir?”

  “Miss Vera Deane, of course.” Both the words and the emphasis were not lost on Beverly Thorne, whose rapid approach had gone unnoticed, and he contemplated the newcomer with mixed feelings as he strode past them, Murray never even seeing him.

  Chapter XII

  Detective Mitchell Asks Questions

  Contrary to Vera’s idea of a “chatty” motor drive into Washington, Millicent and her two guests made the trip almost in silence. Hugh Wyndham, alone, seemed to find the silence irksome, but his efforts to force conversation met with no encouragement and he finally lapsed into silence. It was not until the limousine had crossed Long Bridge and was bowling along the asphalted streets of Washington that Millicent broke her moody silence.

  “Do you wish to go direct to the Tribune office, Dorothy?” she asked, picking up the speaking-tube.

  Dorothy consulted her wrist watch. “Perhaps I had better; it is later than I thought. If I get through my work early we can stop at Brentano’s on the way home.”

  “Let me go there for you,” suggested Wyndham. “What book do you wish?”

  “No book, thanks; Vera wants me to order a hundred of her visiting-cards struck off.” As she spoke Dorothy opened her handbag and taking out her purse offered a Treasury bill to Wyndham. He waved it aside.

  “Pay for the cards when they are finished,” he exclaimed.

  “Please take it,” insisted Dorothy, closing her bag with a snap. “Vera objects to charge accounts.”

  “If you wish me to.” Wyndham pocketed the money just as the limousine drew up at the curb, and throwing aside the lap-robe he jumped out and assisted Dorothy to the sidewalk before the chauffeur could leave his seat. “Are you coming with me to Brentano’s, Millicent?” he asked, seeing that his cousin made no move to leave the car.

  Millicent contented herself with a nod of assent and Wyndham hastened after Dorothy who, not waiting, had already entered the office building. Wyndham’s voice brought her to a stand near the elevator shaft.

  “Dorothy”—he lowered his voice and drew her to one side of the corridor where there was no danger of their conversation being overheard—“I implore you not to distrust me.”

  “I don’t, Hugh.”

  “Then why do you avoid me—why refuse to see me alone?” with suppressed vehemence. “Your behavior, Dorothy, hurts me cruelly.”

  “You are mistaken.” She glanced upward, and her clear eyes did not falter in their direct gaze, while a wave of color mantled her cheeks. “I think of you—dream of you—” She checked herself as she saw the passion which lighted his eyes. “This is no place—go,” as two men approached. “Don’t keep Millicent waiting.” And with that parting injunction she turned to greet the city editor.

  “You are just in time, Miss Deane,” exclaimed the city editor, as Wyndham walked away. “Mr. Reynolds,” indicating his companion, “has a new lot of photographs for you to choose from for the Sunday paper. Here’s the elevator.” And hardly giving the outgoing passengers an opportunity to leave, the energetic city editor hustled Dorothy and the photographer into the elevator, and on arriving at their floor he accompanied them into Dorothy’s office. “Have you a photograph of Millicent Porter?” he asked, taking up the prints which Reynolds laid on Dorothy’s desk.

  “No,” was the photographer’s glum response. “Mr. Wyndham called at the studio early Tuesday morning and forbade us giving copies to the press.”

  The city editor dropped the prints in disgust and turned to Dorothy. “Are you sure you have no picture of Miss Porter in your desk?”

  “I am positive that I have not.” Dorothy pulled up a chair and examined the glossy photographs. “Perhaps my predecessor used one of Miss Porter. If so, the cut will be on file with the others.”

  “Her name is in the card index, but the cut itself is missing,” grumbled the city editor. “Wish I knew who took it. I’d fire him. We haven’t had such a sensational murder as Brainard’s in years, and I can’t lay my hands on a single photograph of the principals involved.”

  “Who are chiefly involved?” Dorothy’s face was screened by the large print which she was studying with interest.

  “Chiefly involved?” The city editor knitted his brows. “Well, I should say all the Porter household is involved more or less, but I believe that English doctor, Noyes, who skipped out of the country so opportunely, knows a thing or two which might aid in tracing the murderer. And,” he added, warming to his subject, “if I’d been on that coroner’s jury I would have made Millicent Porter talk.”

  Dorothy smiled with her lips only, her eyes fixed steadily on the pretty woman in the photograph. “Possibly the jury found Miss Porter had nothing to say,” she remarked.

  “Nothing to say? A girl whose fiance has just been murdered!” The city editor laughed loudly as if enjoying a huge joke. “Miss Deane, you’re dippy.”

  “Perhaps; but I fail to see a reason for dragging Miss Porter further into the limelight. Why center publicity about her?”

  “Because she’s good material for a ‘sob’ story, if nothing more; but I have a hunch”—he lowered his voice to a confidential pitch—“that she is going to be the big feature of the case before the Brainard mystery is cleared up. So long,” and he left the room.

  Reynolds heaved a sigh of relief which was echoed by Dorothy. “Now we can get along with our work, Miss Deane; how will these photographs do for a layout of the leaders of the ultra-smart set?” placing a number of prints together; and Dorothy soon became absorbed in making her selections.

  After the departure of the photographer, twenty minutes later, Dorothy wrote her directions on the back of each photograph and had just completed her task when the office boy entered and laid a “flimsy” on her desk.

  “Take these photographs to the engraver and tell him I must have the cuts by tomorrow afternoon,” she directed, and picked up the “flimsy.” It proved to be a garbled account of Millicent Porter sent out by one of the news ag
encies and laid great stress upon her wealth and the social prominence of her family. Dorothy frowned as she crumpled it in her hand, then thinking better of her action she smoothed out the “flimsy” and carefully pigeonholed it.

  Dorothy’s thoughts were far from her work as she mechanically carried out the daily office routine. A talk with a White House usher elicited the news that the President was playing golf and might go to the theater that night; a chat with a confidential clerk in the Department of State provided her with the list of guests at a diplomatic dinner to be given that night by the Secretary of State; but her other telephone calls drew blank; and Dorothy, after looking over the meager items chronicled in the social columns of the afternoon papers, welcomed the ring of the telephone. It proved to be a long-distance call from Albany, N. Y., giving her the information that a Congressman’s wife was receiving at the Governor’s reception, describing the gown which she would wear, and stating that she desired to have it fully written up in the Morning Tribune.

  Half an hour later Dorothy was correcting her typewritten copy when the door was jerked unceremoniously open, and the city editor walked in, followed by Detective Mitchell. Dorothy’s heart sank at sight of the city editor’s aggressive air; previous encounters had given her an inkling of his bullying disposition, and the presence of Mitchell did not look propitious.

  “See here, Miss Deane, why haven’t you informed me that you are visiting Millicent Porter?” demanded the city editor.

  “I did not think the news would interest you.” Dorothy laid down her copy and nodded coolly to the detective. “Good afternoon, Mr. Mitchell.”

  “Interest me?” stormed the city editor. “Here I’ve been trying vainly to get a line on what’s doing out at the Porter mansion; every reporter refused admission, and you staying there—” He swallowed hard. “Write a fifteen-hundred-word human interest story for tomorrow’s paper, get an interview if possible from Mrs. Porter and her daughter—but remember, I want a story with meat in it—and don’t you comeback to this office without it.” And his clenched fist, descending on the desk by way of emphasis, jarred the scissors and paste pot out of their accustomed places.