Chapter 6

Had Herbert Whitmore, in a spirit of diabolical fun, resolved to present the New York police with a baffling murder mystery, he could not have carried out the design more effectively than in the manner of his taking off. Not a clue to the perpetrator of the crime or the manner of its accomplishment, was found in the merchant's home. There were not wanting signs of hasty destruction, but the obliteration of all possible leads had been complete.

Two hours were consumed in the search of the house, and all the while Beard looked on silently, offering neither help nor hindrance. Britz, pursuing the search with the help of Greig, put an occasional question to the secretary, but the almost invariable reply was a non-committal shrug of the shoulders.

"Since you won't tell us anything about Mr. Whitmore, kindly inform me where _you_ spent the morning?" demanded Britz.

"Up to ten o'clock I was in this house," the secretary replied. "Then I visited the office of the Garfield Safe Deposit Company. I remained in the vaults, assorting Mr. Whitmore's papers until three o'clock. From there I came directly to the iron works."

"In other words, you have a complete alibi with which to meet a charge of murder?"

"Between the time that Mr. Whitmore entered his office and the time he was found dead, I was at the vault, continuously within sight of two guards," declared Beard.

The butler and the other servants were entirely empty of helpful knowledge concerning the crime. All of them united in declaring that Mr. Whitmore had left the house six weeks ago, that no one had seen him leave and he had not been back. Mr. Beard had taken charge of his affairs, in fact he had come to the house to live. None of them had seen Mr. Whitmore since the night of his disappearance, nor had they received any word from him. While they had not accepted unequivocally Mr. Beard's assurance that their employer was on a business trip, nevertheless they had no other knowledge concerning their master's whereabouts and therefore did not openly question Beard's assertions.

"Mr. Beard," said Britz, when he had finished questioning the servants, "I shall not arrest you for the present. But you will hold yourself in readiness to appear at Police Headquarters whenever I may want you."

"I shall not leave the city," promised Beard.

"Very well. Now kindly leave the house," requested Britz.

The secretary left reluctantly, as if unwilling to permit the detectives to be alone with the servants. But he offered no resistance as Britz escorted him to the door and closed it behind him. Relieved of Beard's presence, the detective summoned the butler.

"Who visited Mr. Whitmore on the night he disappeared?" Britz said sharply.

"A lady," answered the butler.

"Who was she?"

"I don't know. I had never seen her before."

"Did you see Mr. Whitmore after her departure?"

"Yes, sir, in the library."

"Did he say anything?"

"He asked me about a letter I had mailed."

"Did you observe the address on the letter?"

"Yes, sir. It was addressed to Mrs. George Collins, at Delmore Park."

"Was the lady whom you admitted that night Mrs. Collins?"

"I don't believe so. I don't know Mrs. Collins, but it couldn't have been she, for Mr. Whitmore did not seem to know the visitor."

"Thank you," said Britz, extending his card. "If Mr. Beard should discharge the servants, please call me up at Police Headquarters."

"Yes, sir," promised the butler.

Britz donned his hat and coat.

"Come on, Greig," he called to his assistant. "We're going to Delmore Park."

Outside, they found the newsboys shrieking the crime. The afternoon papers had worked themselves into typographic frenzy over it. Britz guessed that the coroner had primed the reporters with all the facts which had been ascertained at the office, and the reporters, exercising a lively fancy, had created a mystery that was calculated to absorb newspaper readers for many days. As Britz perused the news sheets on the way to the Grand Central Station, he noted with a smile that the reporters shared with the coroner and the employés of the iron works, the same mystification as to how the assassin managed to reach his victim without revealing himself to the clerks in the office.

"It is inexplicable to me how the murderer got in and out of the private office," one of the newspapers quoted the head clerk. "He must have worn the fabled invisible cloak," was the only explanation he could offer.

"It's uncanny," another clerk was quoted. "I sat at the third desk from Mr. Whitmore's door all morning and I'm ready to swear no one entered or left that office. He could not have committed suicide, for I would have heard the shot. He came down this morning, after an absence of six weeks, pleasant and amiable as usual. We all loved him, all of us at one time or another experienced his kindness. Any intimation that we are shielding the murderer is absurd. Had we seen him, he never would have left the office alive."

Dropping the paper, Britz sought in his pocket for the leather card case in which he had deposited the needle earlier in the afternoon. After scrutinizing it carefully, he replaced it in the case with an air of satisfaction.

"Greig," he said, moving his head slightly to one side, so as to face his assistant, "what do you make of the case?"

"Just this, Lieutenant!" He paused as if in deep reflection. "We've got to decide whether those clerks are telling the truth. If we accept their statement that they saw no one enter Whitmore's office and heard no shot--"

"I have already accepted their statement as the truth," interrupted Britz.

"The possibility of suicide is eliminated, of course," pursued Greig. "The pistol we found is brand new and has never been fired. Certainly Whitmore didn't shoot himself and then swallow the gun. And since the clerks are sure that no one entered or left the office, why, the only explanation I can give is that some supernatural agency was employed to bring about Whitmore's death."

Britz bestowed on his assistant a tolerant smile.

"Then I suppose we might as well charge the crime up to the spirits and drop the case!" he said ironically. "No, Greig, we're not going on a still hunt for murderous, disembodied shades. We're going after living people--and we're not going very far. What puzzles you and the clerks--how anyone managed to get to him and fire the shot--is so simple that I'm surprised you're worrying over it. I have already solved that."

Greig stared at his superior in undisguised amazement.

"Why--er--how was it done?" he stammered.

In reply, Britz produced the needle which he had found at the feet of the murdered man.

"Examine this and see if it doesn't solve the puzzle," he said.

Greig looked a long while at the long, thin, glistening instrument.

"There's blood half-way down from the point," he commented audibly. "But I don't see what it explains."

"Of itself, it wouldn't mean much," admitted Britz. "But taken in connection with the fully loaded pistol and the lack of powder marks about the bullet wound, it explains fully why none of the men in the office saw the murderer."

"But--but how do you figure it out?" asked Greig, more puzzled than ever.

"I shall not reveal that at present," answered Britz. "It will help our investigation to permit the murderer to believe that we don't know how he got to Whitmore. From the statements we have obtained, it is evident that conflicting interests are involved in the crime. We shall direct our energies toward bringing these adverse elements into active conflict, and, in the heat of battle, the murderer will be revealed."

They had reached Grand Central Station, and, luckily, had to wait only ten minutes before boarding a train for Delmore Park. During the short journey Britz fell into one of his deep silences, from which Greig did not disturb him until the train drew into the Delmore Park station.

Lieutenant Britz was too experienced a detective to rush unprepared into the home of the Collinses in the hope of obtaining incriminating evidence. In fact, he had determined not to visit the Collins house, but to devote himself to ascertaining something about the life and habits of the man whose name figured so conspicuously in the present stage of the investigation.

It was seven-thirty when the two detectives entered the home of the village postmaster and revealed their identity. The postmaster, a middle-aged, heavy-set man, appeared tired after his day's work. He was familiar with all the gossip of the wealthy residents of the park, and he quickly found new energy when the opportunity to display his knowledge was offered.

"That man Collins is a no good fellow," he confided glibly. "Just a bum--that's all he is. Stays out all night and sleeps all morning. His wife is a fine woman and I don't see how she stood for him all this time. Six weeks ago everybody around here knew that they had separated. She went to her brother's house--Lester Ward. But last night they seemed to be reconciled again. I saw Ward and Collins and Mrs. Collins at the station together and I heard them say they were going to the opera. That was the first time I'd seen Collins and his wife together since they separated. And this morning the postman told me that Mrs. Collins had spent the night in her own house--that she and her husband evidently had decided to live together again."

The postmaster paused reflectively, as if trying to read the meaning behind this unexpected reunion of the Collinses.

"Did you hear what brought about the break six weeks ago?" asked Britz.

"No, we had a lot of excitement around here just then," said the postmaster, his lips curling into a reminiscent smile. "That was the day of the robbery--or the attempted robbery." Aware that his visitors had begun to display increased interest, he proceeded with more deliberation, as if trying to heighten their curiosity. "The night before the Collinses separated, or about two o'clock that morning I should say, a fellow tried to break into the post office. Luckily there was a meeting of the lodge that night and a sociable after it. On the way home, Hiram Barker and Syd Johnson passed the post office just as the robber was forcing the door. They landed on him and took him to the lock-up. I notified the post office people down in New York and he was taken there for trial."

"Well, what happened?" Britz asked.

"The newspapers didn't seem to take much notice of the case," replied the postmaster regretfully. "A paragraph or two was all they gave it. A week ago the fellow pleaded guilty and was sentenced to two years and six months in the Atlanta prison."

"What was his name?" inquired Britz.

"He gave it as John Travis."

"Rather an unusual name for a post office robber," commented Greig.

"He was a peculiar fellow, all right," declared the postmaster. "Wouldn't say a word to anybody. Just took his medicine without a whimper."

For a half hour the two detectives were entertained with gossip of the wealthy colony but when they left they were in possession of the life histories of Mrs. Collins, Collins and Ward.

Out in the street Britz consulted his watch.

"We've just got time to catch the eight-forty for New York," he said. "I guess we won't visit the Collinses to-night."

"Do you perceive any connection between the murder of Whitmore and the attempted post office robbery?" asked Greig.

"There may be," said Britz. "I'm going to Headquarters now to map out plans. This investigation will have to be pursued systematically in order to obtain results."

Three quarters of an hour later Britz was at his desk in Police Headquarters, studying the various ramifications of the case. Occasionally he scribbled a note and laid it aside for future reference. He was attacking the problem just as a business man might proceed with a commercial proposition--viewing it from all angles and arranging a programme for his subordinates to follow. At least half a dozen channels needed to be explored, all of which offered possibilities in the way of clues. On a typewritten sheet before him were the names of a score of men available for new cases. Britz pondered the list, carefully weighing the qualifications of each man, estimating his capability, his persistency, his resourcefulness. At last he checked off eight names, and, summoning a uniformed doorman, directed that the eight men be ordered to report to him forthwith.

"Officer Muldoon of the Eighth Precinct is waiting to see you," the doorman informed him.

"Show him in," said Britz.

Muldoon entered with the mysterious air of one who has important information to impart and does not intend that his hearer shall underestimate its importance.

"I think I've got a line on this Whitmore case," he began.

"Well, what is it?" Britz asked curtly.

"Just six weeks ago last night I was patroling Fifth avenue in front of the Whitmore house. I saw a lady come out and enter a taxicab. She was a beauty--fine looking and dressed like a queen. In the half-open doorway of the house Mr. Whitmore stood, watching her descend the steps. Both he and she looked as if they'd been quarreling."

"Anything more?" Britz asked impatiently.

"No, sir," the policeman admitted.

"Would you know her again if you saw her?"

"I surely would."

"Very well. Inform your precinct commander that you have been temporarily assigned to Headquarters and remain outside until I send for you."

Muldoon, happy to find himself relieved of patrol duty and assigned to this important case, proceeded toward the door, a broad smile illumining the wide area of his dull face. He shut the door softly behind him, but reopened it almost immediately, a look of bewilderment in his eyes.

"The woman--the one I saw--she's outside talkin' to Detective Greig!" he gasped.

Britz shot one quick glance at him, then said:

"Remain outside until I send for you."

Five minutes later and the door opened again, this time to admit Greig and a woman--a woman so perceptibly under the influence of overpowering emotions as to cause her to stagger rather than walk into the room. As she stood with hands resting on Britz's desk, she suddenly felt herself seized with a desire to weep. Wiping the moisture from the corners of her eyes, she accepted the chair which Greig offered, settling herself in it as if she had come for a long stay.

There was an awkward pause, which was broken by Greig:

"This lady, Miss Strong, has valuable information."

She turned her moistened eyes on Britz, who, through half-closed lids, was endeavoring to appraise her.

Keen student of human nature that he was, quick as he was to gather those little details of personal appearance which, to the trained eye, reveal with pitiless accuracy the innermost character of a human being, Britz was unable to form any satisfactory estimate of her. Outwardly, she had the appearance of a woman crushed beneath a great grief. Yet, there appeared to be something insincere in her sorrow, something calculating in her hesitancy. These contradictions in her manner puzzled and annoyed him, for experience had taught the detective to be wary of women informers. So he waited for her to speak.

"I wish to deliver the murderer of Mr. Whitmore," she said, stifling a sob.

Britz nodded encouragingly, but she appeared in no haste to proceed. Instead, she permitted her gaze to alternate between him and Greig, as if trying to read the effect of her words in their impassive faces.

Her pause might have been that of the consummate actress waiting to note the effect of her artfully delivered line; it might have been the timorous uncertainty of a child affrighted at its own boldness.

"The murderer will be at my home at eleven to-night," she went on in the same seemingly artless way.

"And you are preparing a trap for his capture?" inquired Britz, deliberately conveying to her the incredulity which he felt.

"No, not a trap," she dissented. "I am determined to see justice done."

Britz was too well aware of the average woman's distorted notion of abstract justice to accept her statement at its face value. Woman by her very nature is incapable of appreciating or applying impartial justice, and her incapacity grows in proportion to her immediate interest in the matter involved. This latter might apply with equal force to the average man; but man, less governed by emotions, will permit his sense of justice to prevail when not blinded by personal interest. Abstract justice will frequently appeal to him and he will act with rational regard for its proper application. To a woman's eyes, however, justice invariably shapes itself as her emotions dictate.

Britz, mindful of the fact that with a woman justice and self-interest are inextricably interwoven, immediately began to search for the visitor's selfish motive in offering to surrender the murderer, if, indeed, she meant to surrender the real perpetrator of the crime and not to shield him behind someone against whom she held a grievance.

"Who is the man you wish to surrender?" he asked with aggravating calmness.

"George Collins," she replied without hesitancy.

"What evidence have you that he committed the crime?"

"He often threatened to kill Mr. Whitmore. He told me of his intention innumerable times in the past six weeks."

"Have you any evidence bearing on the act itself--on the killing, I mean?"

"How can I have?" she replied with a faint smile. "He didn't invite me to see him do it."

"Then you simply believe he committed the murder because he had threatened to do so?"

In a carefully planned murder it is always safe to mistrust the obvious. Beard's outburst against Collins had seemed a genuine eruption of uncontrollable emotions, at first. But his subsequent conduct had given his words the aspect of shrewd premeditation. Now she appeared intent on fastening guilt on Collins. Her very anxiety to do so implied a hidden motive. It was necessary to be on guard against trickery.

Evidently she sensed Britz's lack of confidence, for she hastened to say:

"I know why he wanted to kill Mr. Whitmore. It was because Mrs. Collins was preparing to obtain a divorce in order to marry Mr. Whitmore. She had confessed her love for Mr. Whitmore and Collins had intercepted a letter from the merchant in which he urged her to obtain the divorce."

"When did Collins intercept the letter?" quickly asked Britz.

"On the morning Mr. Whitmore disappeared."

Here was something tangible at last. Not direct evidence that Collins was guilty, but circumstantial evidence of the highest importance. Not only had he threatened to kill the merchant, but he had motive for the crime, and a motive which could be established easily in a court of law.

"You say Collins will be at your house at eleven to-night?" inquired Britz.

"Yes," she answered, an eager light in her eyes. "And if you care to be there and will listen, you shall hear him confess the crime."

Her words and the tone of certainty in which she spoke almost dazed Greig. Even Britz had to struggle hard against betraying his amazement. The whole thing seemed incredible--yet the detectives had experienced more incredible happenings in the course of their long service.

"You say he will confess?" Britz said mechanically.

"More than confess," she answered. "You'll hear him gloat over the crime. He'll display his exultation before me, and I want you to be there to listen."

"But why--why are you betraying him?" faltered the detective.

Her face clouded, while her lips parted slightly in an expression of intense hatred. For an instant she rested her chin on her gloved hand, staring fixedly before her. Then, with a rebellious toss of her head, she declared:

"I am betraying him because he betrayed me."

Here was logic which the police could readily grasp. No inconsistency about a woman betrayed executing vengeance on her betrayer! Nothing obtuse, or puzzling, or improbable about that! It was not the first time that Britz had encountered such a woman. Convince a woman that her lover means to desert her and she will permit his head to rest unsuspectingly against her cheek, his fingers to entwine themselves lovingly in hers, his lips to linger caressingly on her lips, while her desecrated love is setting the trap for his destruction.

Was this woman really about to spring a trap beneath Collins's feet? Was Collins really the murderer or was she trying to fasten guilt on an innocent man? Was she ready to really assist the police, or was she trying to lead them into endless channels of error?

The questions remained unanswered in Britz's mind; must remain unanswered until the woman herself, should, in some way, disclose the impelling motive of her visit to Headquarters.

One thing, however, Britz determined on. He would not permit his watchful nature to be beguiled into slumberous acceptance of conditions as presented through the mouth of this woman.

"It's now quarter past ten," he reminded her. "Permit me to suggest that you go home alone, and that we join you in fifteen or twenty minutes."

"Very well," she replied, rising and drawing up her gloves. "I shall expect you."

As she walked toward the door, Britz lifted himself out of his seat, and, brushing past Greig, whispered:

"Have Muldoon trail her!"

Greig nodded understandingly, escorted her into the corridor and repeated Britz's directions to the waiting officer. Returning to the room, he found Britz leaning back in his chair, absorbed in thought, the lines of his forehead gathered between the eyebrows.

"Well, it looks as if we're going to get the murderer without much effort on our part," said Greig jubilantly.

"Greig, don't jump too hastily at every bait that is held out," replied Britz, emphasizing each word. "All the evidence seems to contradict the theory that Collins is the murderer. He may have betrayed this woman. She may be yearning for revenge. But it does not follow that he killed Whitmore."

"Why, what evidence is there to the contrary?" weakly asked Greig.

"Why, the very murder itself," said Britz, as if stating an incontrovertible conclusion.

"I don't understand," the other admitted helplessly.

"We have two witnesses who stated that Collins openly threatened to kill Whitmore," pursued Britz. "For four weeks, it is asserted, he went about seeking revenge on the man who, he believed, had wrecked his home. It makes no difference whether Whitmore was a home-wrecker or a man of the utmost probity. It was sufficient that Collins thought Whitmore was trying to destroy his home--that he wanted to marry Mrs. Collins. A murderous fury burned in Collins's mind and he was intent on killing the merchant. He didn't plan to kill and get away undetected. Not much! His was to have been a heroic killing, followed by a glorious acquittal in a courtroom crowded with sympathizers who recognized in him a noble defender of the American home. No secret murder satisfies the vengeance of such a man. Had he committed the murder he would have surrendered immediately and tried to justify the act before an applauding public."

"No, it does not look like the crime of a wronged husband," agreed Greig.

"Besides," Britz went on, "we have evidence of a reconciliation between Collins and his wife. It may be simply a pretense, an effort to delude the police. But from what we have gathered about Mrs. Collins, it is unlikely that she would consent to live with a murderer, even though she did not denounce him openly."

"But the reconciliation occurred last night--they went to the opera together," reminded Greig. "The murder was committed this morning."

Britz bent forward in his seat, favoring his assistant with a tolerant smile.

"Only one reason could prompt a woman of Mrs. Collins's caliber to return to a man of Collins's type," he said. "She might hesitate a long while before leaving her husband. But once she took the decisive step, nothing short of a desire to save the life of the man she loved could induce her to return. Don't you see the situation? She must have had knowledge that Whitmore was coming back. And, isn't it more than likely that before she consented to return to her husband she exacted a promise from him not to execute the vengeance which he had threatened?"

"It's certainly an amazing tangle," admitted Greig. "And I had thought that it was all clear as day!"

"No, Greig," smiled Britz, "it isn't very likely that we're going to arrest Collins. But we'll go to the woman's house and watch developments."

The two detectives proceeded uptown in the subway to Ninety-first street, then walked slowly down Broadway, turning west at Ninetieth street.

As they turned the corner they became aware of an excited group of men and women in front of a big, gray-stone house, the name of which corresponded to that given by the visitor at Headquarters.

The crowd was gathered in front of the entrance, talking excitedly, each asking the other what had happened. No one seemed to know precisely what the excitement was about, but that something extraordinary had occurred was plainly evident.

Britz and Greig plunged into the hallway and pushed the elevator button, but the car did not descend. They waited impatiently a minute or two, then proceeded up the stairs.

On the third floor they found most of the tenants of the house massed in front of the closed door of one of the rear apartments.

"We are officers," said Britz, forcing a lane through the crowd. "Who lives in there?"

"A woman named Strong," someone answered.

Britz pressed a finger firmly against a button set in the jamb of the door, and, in response to the insistent clamor of the bell, the door was opened by Muldoon. On seeing Britz he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Come on into the sitting-room," he said, closing the door on the curious crowd that pressed forward.

At the threshold of the sitting-room, their forms framed in the wide, curtained doorway, the two detectives stood, amazement printed on their faces. Greig's heart was throbbing violently and his breath came in short gasps. Britz, as he gazed on the unexpected sight that met his eyes, stood as one stupefied.

On a couch at the side of the room, her pale face a chalky white, her eyes staring rigidly, a thin line of blood dropping from the corner of her mouth, the woman they had come to see was stretched--dead.

And, standing over her like a statue of dumb despair, was the figure of Horace Beard.