The Moving Finger

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  Dorothy’s expression changed. “I must remind you, Mr. Harding, that I am the head of my department and responsible to the managing editor only. If you desire to detail me to a special assignment you must speak to him first.” There was truth in what she said, and Harding hesitated. Dorothy turned to Mitchell. “Do you wish to see me?”

  Mitchell cast an amused glance at the indignant city editor whose florid complexion rivaled his red necktie in point of vivid color, then pulled forward a chair and made himself comfortable. Harding glanced about, and, finding no other chair in the small room, propped himself against the side of the desk and the wall.

  “Go ahead, Mitchell,” he said pugnaciously. “Tell her what you told me.”

  Dorothy glanced from one to the other, her calm demeanor covering a rapidly beating heart. What had the detective confided to Harding? What had he really discovered relating to Bruce Brainard’s death?

  Mitchell took a paper from his pocket and, reaching up, bent the portable electric lamp so that its light fell directly upon the desk and incidentally shone full in Dorothy’s face. If she detected the maneuver she gave no indication of it as she leaned back in her revolving chair and waited politely for the detective to speak.

  “Miss Deane, you understand wireless?” questioned Mitchell.

  “I do.”

  “And Miss Millicent Porter also?”

  “Yes. We were both taught wireless at the National Service School, the woman’s preparedness camp at Chevy Chase, Maryland.”

  “Have you kept up wireless instruction since then?”

  “Yes, we both took the commercial examination last fall.”

  “And you can operate the marine wireless at the Porter mansion?”

  Dorothy looked at Mitchell steadily. What was he driving at?

  “Yes, we have practiced on the wireless there,” she acknowledged.

  “When was the marine wireless outfit installed there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Last summer?” persisted Mitchell, annoyed by the curtness of her tone.

  “Oh, no, before then.”

  “Then it was not erected solely for Miss Porter’s benefit?”

  “No. I believe Mr. Craig Porter had it installed before he went abroad to join the French aviation corps, and Mrs. Porter never had it taken down.”

  “I see.” Mitchell stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Do you know the instrument’s sending capacity, Miss Deane?”

  She thought before answering. “I believe about one hundred miles, but I am not certain. Miss Porter and I generally used the instrument to receive messages.”

  “But you have sent messages?”

  “Yes, occasionally.”

  “To whom did you send a message last night, Miss Deane?”

  Dorothy’s reply was prompt. “To no one.”

  Mitchell smiled, not unkindly. “I’m afraid denial won’t do any good. I saw you and Miss Porter in the attic at the Porter mansion last night.”

  “You saw us?” Dorothy’s surprise was unmistakable, and Mitchell chuckled. “Where were you?”

  “In Dr. Thorne’s dining-room, the window of which overlooks that side of the Porter mansion.” There was a brief pause, and then Mitchell repeated his former question. “To whom did you send a message last night?”

  “I sent no wireless message last night,” reiterated Dorothy.

  “Oh, so it was Miss Porter.” A self-satisfied smile crossed the detective’s lips, and Dorothy’s heart sank as she racked her brain in an effort to puzzle out the meaning of his questioning her on such a subject. What had the wireless to do with his investigation of the mystery surrounding Bruce Brainard’s death? She sat forward in her chair as Mitchell commenced speaking again. “I saw you both in the attic earlier in the evening, as you did not pull down the shades. About midnight I saw one of you return, but as only a candle was burning near the window at that time, I could not be certain whether it was you or Miss Porter.” He paused and looked inquiringly at Dorothy.

  “You say it was about midnight? Are you quite certain, Mr. Mitchell, that you did not fall asleep and dream all this?”

  “I did not,” answered Mitchell shortly, ruffled by her manner of receiving his news. “In proof of it the Arlington Radio Station caught Miss Porter’s message, but not the name of the person she was sending it to.”

  “Ah, indeed?” skeptically. “And what was the message?”

  “‘Peace and tranquillity.’”

  Dorothy’s reception of his answer startled the detective—she burst into peal on peal of laughter.

  “Excuse me,” she stammered as soon as she could speak. “You were so serious and—and—” Again she laughed whole-heartedly. “You have unearthed a mare’s nest, Mr. Mitchell.”

  Mitchell’s rising color testified to his displeasure. “Kindly tell me the meaning of those three words, Miss Deane,” he demanded.

  “They bear the customary meaning attributed to them,” retorted Dorothy, her eyes still twinkling. “The phrase you quoted is frequently used by Miss Porter and myself for practice work in sending messages.”

  The detective watched her in angry silence, then started to address her just as the door was pushed quietly open and Hugh Wyndham stopped on the threshold. Neither man observed him as they faced Dorothy, their backs turned to the entrance.

  “Your explanation is very pat, Miss Deane,” said Mitchell. “Perhaps you can also explain what it was Miss Millicent Porter threw into an unused well late yesterday afternoon.”

  Dorothy gazed silently at her questioner, then her glance traveled upward until it rested on Wyndham, and her breath forsook her. The gathering wrath in Wyndham’s eyes as he took a menacing step toward the unconscious detective acted like a douche of cold water on Dorothy’s benumbed wits.

  “I can explain,” she announced, her voice quivering with subdued excitement. “Miss Porter dreads publicity. She threw a cut into the well, the only cut ever made from one of her photographs, so that her picture would not appear in a newspaper.”

  “I-n-deed,” drawled Mitchell. “And where did Miss Porter get this—eh—cut?”

  “I gave it to her.”

  Her words brought a bellow from Harding. “What! do you mean to say you stole the cut from this office and gave it to Miss Porter?”

  “I did.”

  Harding pounded the desk. “Where’s your honesty?” he roared. “Where’s your loyalty to the newspaper that employs you?”

  “My loyalty belongs to the paper so long as it does not conflict with my loyalty to my friends,” answered Dorothy. “As for my honesty—I have paid for the cut.”

  “D–mn the money! It isn’t a question of money,” he retorted thickly. “You are fired, understand—fired!”

  Dorothy was on her feet instantly. “It is the managing editor who dismisses me, Mr. Harding,” she reminded him, and turned with dignity to Mitchell. “As I must turn in my copy, Mr. Mitchell, you will have to excuse me.” And closing her roll-top desk she picked up her coat and hat and joined Wyndham in the city room, where he had preceded her. She tossed her manuscript to a copy reader, and, after exchanging a word with the foreman, left the office, Wyndham in tow.

  The Porter limousine had driven off but a scant five minutes when Inspector North entered the Tribune building and went direct to the managing editor’s office, only to be told that he would not be there until after dinner. The inspector was making for the society editor’s office when he spied the city editor emerging from it.

  “Hello, Harding,” he hailed. “Miss Deane in?”

  “No, just gone.” Harding kicked a chair out of his way as a slight vent to his feelings. “Anything I can do for you, Inspector?”

  “Yes. Tell me, is Miss Dorothy Deane in mourning?”

  “Mourning? H—1, no! Say—” But the inspector waved a friendly farewell as he hastened toward the elevator shaft, and Harding completed his sentence with another oath.

  Inspector North was more f
ortunate in his next call, and found the Chief of the Secret Service comfortably seated in his office in the Treasury Department.

  “I don’t usually bring ‘lost and found’ articles to you, Chief,” he explained, taking a chair by the desk and drawing a leather handbag out of his overcoat pocket. “But I’m puzzled. What do you think of this?”

  Chief Connor turned the bag over and over. “Good leather,” he remarked. “Unmarked. Where did you get the bag?”

  “It was turned in by a conductor on the Mt. Pleasant line who found it in his car. Open it, Chief.”

  Connor started to do so and the catch caught, then as he used more strength it flew open with such suddenness that half its contents rolled to the floor. Inspector North instantly retrieved each article.

  “Is there nothing but money?” asked Connor, contemplating the Treasury notes which his companion laid on his desk.

  “That’s all, except this.” And the inspector handed him a black-edged card. Connor read the block lettering with interest:

  Miss Vera Deane

  Graduate nurse

  Making no further comment, Chief Connor sorted each bill in its proper denomination, and in a few minutes had several neat piles of gold and greenback certificates of varying amounts stacked in front of him. Taking up a microscope he examined each bill, testing the quality of the paper between his fingers, and in certain instances he jotted down the check letter, series, and charter numbers.

  “Has Miss Deane notified Headquarters of the loss of her bag?” he asked finally. “There is quite a tidy sum of money here—three hundred dollars.”

  “So I observed,” answered Inspector North dryly. “No, Miss Deane has not notified Headquarters; on the contrary, I telephoned her of its present whereabouts, and she denied ownership of the bag.”

  “Indeed!” Connor sat erect and pressed his desk buzzer, and an assistant appeared from an inner office. “Examine these bills, Neale,” he directed, and waited until the operative had disappeared with the money. “So Miss Deane denies the bag is hers. Did you tell her its contents?”

  “No. I only said it contained her black-edged visiting-card.” North hesitated. “Miss Deane’s sister is society editor of the Tribune. I have just learned at the office that the young ladies are not now in mourning. From another source I heard that Judge Deane, their father, died about seven years ago and his wife did not long survive him. Of course it is possible that some friend of hers had one of her old visiting-cards instead of her own in the bag, especially as Miss Deane declares her bag is in her own possession at home.”

  “That is a plausible theory, but—” It was Connor’s turn to hesitate, and the inspector broke the silence.

  “It is strange that the real owner doesn’t claim the bag, considering that its disappearance involves the loss of three hundred dollars,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s that puzzle which has brought me to you. Few people lose such a sum of money in a street car without raising a fuss about it.”

  “My dear North, the presence of the money is obviously the reason why the bag goes unclaimed,” retorted Connor, and the inspector leaned forward excitedly.

  “You mean—?”

  “That many of the bank notes are counterfeit. The owner of that bag will be the last to claim it. Well, Neale, what have you to report?”

  The operative advanced to the desk and placed the Treasury notes again on the desk with memorandum attached.

  “One hundred and seventy-five dollars of this is counterfeit.” Neale selected a ten-dollar note and showed it to Chief Connor. “This is apparently printed from photomechanical plates and retouched with a graver. It is an exceedingly dangerous counterfeit.”

  Chief Connor nodded assent as he examined the note, then looked inquiringly at his assistant. “Well, Neale?”

  “‘Gentleman Charlie,’” was the latter’s only comment, and Chief Connor smiled.

  “Exactly, Neale. Issue special warnings to all banks. ‘Gentleman Charlie’ has resumed operations.”

  Chapter XIII

  The Red Herring

  The front door of the Porter mansion opened with such precipitancy that Vera Deane, on the point of going upstairs, paused with one foot on the bottom step. A glimpse of Murray’s usually stolid countenance, as he stood in the doorway, indicated news out of the ordinary, for his eyes were open to twice their accustomed size and his mouth was agape.

  “It’s you, miss!” he ejaculated in vast relief at sight of her. “The doctor wants you.”

  Vera changed color. Why should Beverly Thorne want her? To be sure Mrs. Porter had sent for him to attend Craig Porter, but why should he inquire for her—unless he desired to talk to her in her professional character? But he was aware that Craig Porter was attended by a day nurse, while she, Vera, did not go on duty until eight o’clock in the evening.

  Vera had slight time to conjecture, for Murray was brushed aside and a tall man advanced into the hall to greet her. As he lifted his hat Vera stared at him in mute amazement, and it was not until her hand was clasped warmly that she recovered her voice.

  “Dr. Noyes!” she gasped. “You have returned, after all!”

  “So it seems.” Alan Noyes’ grim smile was brief. “A word with you, Miss Deane, before I see Mrs. Porter.”

  Murray, engaged in lighting one of the gas brackets, paused in his labors as a sound from outside the house reached him.

  “Doctor, you and Miss Deane had better step into the drawing-room,” he said, hurrying to the front door after a peek out of the window. “The limousine has just stopped outside, and Miss Millicent will be here in a minute.”

  His words, however, instead of hastening Noyes’ footsteps toward the drawing-room caused him to loiter in the hall, then sighing heavily he accompanied Vera into the drawing-room just as Murray opened the front door.

  “Miss Deane”—Noyes stepped close to her side—“what are the latest developments in the Brainard”—he hesitated—“tragedy?”

  “So far as I know there are no new developments, except those published in the morning newspapers.” Vera watched him narrowly, and noticed the worn lines in his face and his harassed air. “The police appear nonplussed.”

  “Have they discovered any clues?” Noyes’ anxiety was palpable, and Vera looked at him with increased earnestness.

  “I am not in their confidence, doctor,” she said quietly. “If they have discovered new clues I am not aware of it.”

  Noyes took a quick turn up and down the room, and thereby imperiled numerous pieces of bric-a-brac as, blindly ignoring the congested arrangement of Mrs. Porter’s choice heirlooms, he thought over Vera’s statements.

  “Have they decided whether Brainard’s death was suicide or murder?” he inquired, pausing in front of her.

  “I believe they consider that—that—he did not kill himself.”

  Noyes listened to her halting sentence with marked impatience.

  “In other words, you mean that the police believe Brainard was murdered?” She nodded assent. “I gathered that was the consensus of opinion when reading the morning newspapers. And what is your opinion, Miss Deane?”

  The question was unexpected, and Vera drew back. “I am not qualified to judge,” she commenced confusedly. “From the nature of the wound—”

  “You take it to be murder?”

  “No, no,” with unexpected vehemence, and Noyes eyed her sharply. “A man can nick himself with a razor on either side of his throat, and no one be able to tell whether the wound was self-inflicted or done by another with intent to kill.”

  The twilight had deepened, and Noyes experienced difficulty in reading Vera’s expression.

  That does not seem to be the opinion of the deputy coroner, and he performed the autopsy,” Noyes said dryly. “He affirms that the wound could not have been self-inflicted.”

  “But you are a surgeon,” broke in Vera impetuously. “What did you think when you saw the wound?”

  Noyes regarded her with singula
r intentness. “You forget that I left this house before the discovery of Brainard’s death.”

  “True, you were to sail on the St. Louis”—Vera never took her eyes from him. “The steamer has sailed, but you—are here.”

  “A self-evident fact,” impatiently. “I missed the boat.”

  “Oh!” The ejaculation was faint, but Noyes started and turned red.

  “Enough of myself,” he commenced brusquely. “How is Craig Porter?”

  It was Vera’s turn to redden; she had completely forgotten her patient in her astonishment at Alan Noyes’ unexpected appearance. “Mrs. Hall has just informed Mrs. Porter that Craig appears to be worse, and she has sent for Dr. Beverly Thorne.”

  “Indeed? I wonder—” He did not complete his sentence, but fell into moody silence which Vera forbore to break. Mrs. Hall was with Craig Porter; she was not needed in the sick room for nearly three hours, and, except for dinner, her time until eight o’clock was her own. The alteration in Alan Noyes puzzled her; his pleasant reserved manner had given place to brusque inquisitiveness but indifferently masked. What had brought about the change? Speculating was idle work, and she was about to address him when he spoke.

  “I have not inquired for Miss Porter; is she well?”

  Vera failed to observe in the dim light the effort the question cost Noyes, but she was quick to note the formality of his query. Four days before he would have said “Millicent.” A lovers’ quarrel would explain his peculiar behavior and altered demeanor; but he and Millicent had been good friends, nothing more. Vera frowned in perplexity, and her reply was tinged with stiffness.

  “Miss Porter appears quite well.”

  Noyes peered at her in the gloom in uncertainty. “Appears well,” he muttered under his breath. “Has she—”

  He was interrupted by the pulling back of the portieres of the hall doorway, and Millicent Porter walked in, her light footfall being deadened by the heavy rugs. An exclamation, quickly stifled, escaped Noyes, and he pulled his officer’s cape more closely about him, then turned and faced her.