The Luminous Face

  CHAPTER VII

  Barry's Suspect

  After the funeral of Robert Gleason, Lane, his lawyer, went to theLindsay home, for the purpose of reading to the family the will of hislate client.

  There was no one present except the three Lindsays and DoctorDavenport. The physician was keeping watch over Millicent Lindsay, forher volatile nature and nervous condition made him fear a breakdown.

  But Millicent was quiet and composed, only an occasional quiver of herlip or trembling of her fingers betrayed her agitation.

  Phyllis' eyes were bright with repressed excitement, but she, too,preserved her poise.

  Louis, however, was in a high state of nervous tension. He was jumpyand erratic of speech and gesture, and again, he would relapse into asulky mood and become perversely silent.

  The little party gathered in the library and Lane read the will ofRobert Gleason.

  The terms were simple. Except for bequests to some personal friendsand some charities, the fortune was equally divided between Millicent,his sister, and Phyllis, her stepdaughter.

  No mention whatever was made of Louis, and the young man burst forthinto a torrent of angry invective.

  "Hush, Louis," Doctor Davenport said, sternly; "such talk can do youno good, and it is a disgrace to yourself to speak so of the dead!"

  "I don't care," Louis stormed, "why did he leave a lot to Phyllis, andnothing to me? I'm no relative of his, but neither is Phyl!"

  "But he was very much in love with Miss Lindsay," Lane explained thesituation, "and as he had no expectation of this immediate death, hehoped to make her his wife. But, he told me this when I drew up hiswill--he provided for Miss Lindsay in case of premature death oraccident to himself. I feel sure he hoped to win Miss Lindsay'spromise to be his wife--if he had not already done so."

  "He had not!" exclaimed Phyllis, but she looked thoughtful rather thanindignant at the idea.

  "If he found that he could not do so," Lane went on, "he planned tochange his will. It was, I think, tentative, and dependent on thecourse of his wooing."

  "Never mind all that," said Phyllis, speaking slowly and a littlehesitantly; "the will is valid and final, is it not?"

  "Certainly," returned Lane, but he gave her a searching glance.

  "Then half the money is mine, and half Millicent's," Phyllis went on,still with that thoughtful manner. "Don't worry, Buddy, I'll give youpart of my share." She looked at her brother with fond affection.

  "I suppose it's all right," Millicent said, her glance at Phyllis alittle resentful. "It would have been quite all right, if Phyllis hadmeant to marry my brother--but she had no such intention!"

  "You don't know----" began the girl.

  "I do know," declared Millicent. "And what's more, if you had any handin his murder----"

  "Oh, hush!" cried Fred Lane, shocked even more at Millicent's lookthan at her words.

  "I won't hush! I'm going to find out who killed my brother! He was theonly human being whom I loved. These step-children mean nothing tome--although we have always lived harmoniously enough. Now, if Phyllisis innocent, that's all there is about it. But her innocence must beproved!"

  Phyllis gave her stepmother a kindly, pitying glance.

  "Now, Millicent," she said, "you're excited and nervous, and you don'tknow what you're saying. Go and lie down, dear----"

  "'Go and lie down, dear!'" Millicent mocked her, eyes flashing and hervoice hard. "Yes, that's just what you'd say, of course! You fearinvestigation! No one would dream of suspecting you--unless they knewwhat I know! and you say--'go and lie down!' Indeed, I _won't_ goand lie down! Now, look here, Phyllis Lindsay, you knew what was inthat will of my brother's! I didn't--but you did!"

  "No, I didn't, Millicent----"

  "You did! You led my brother on--and on--letting him think you wouldmarry him--then, when he'd made a will in your favor, you killed himto get the money! That's what you did! And I'll prove it--if it costsme all my share of my poor brother's fortune!"

  She collapsed then, and sat, huddled in the big chair, shaking withsobs.

  Without a word, Doctor Davenport went to her, assisted her to rise,and, summoning a maid to help him, took Millicent Lindsay away to herown room.

  "What ails her, anyway?" Louis growled, looking at Phyllis, curiously.

  "Oh, she's like that when she gets a tantrum," the girl responded,looking worried. "She's really good friends with me, but if she takesa notion she turns against me, and she can't think of anything badenough to say to me."

  "I don't like her present attitude," Lane said, abruptly. "She maymake a lot of trouble for you, Miss Lindsay. _Did_ you know ofcontents of the will?"

  "No," she returned, but she did not look at the lawyer. If, he mused,she were telling an untruth, she would, doubtless, look just likethat.

  "Are you sure?" he followed up.

  "Of course, I'm sure!" she flung up her head and looked at him. Herdark eyes were not flashing, but smoldering with a deep fire ofindignation. "How dare you question my statements!"

  "Now, Phyl," said her brother, "be careful what you say. Millicent hasit in her power to do you a bad turn, and she's willing to do it ifshe thinks you're mixed up in her brother's case. Do you know_anything_ about it, old girl?"

  Phyllis gave him a look of reproach, but he went on.

  "Now don't eat me up with your eyes, Sis. When I ask if you knowanything about the thing, I don't mean did you kill Robert Gleason! Ofcourse, I know better than that! But--oh, well, don't you think, Lane,that Millicent can make trouble for us?"

  "Us?" and the lawyer raised his eyebrows. "Where do you come in,Lindsay?"

  "Oh," with an impatient shrug, "Phyl's troubles are mine, of course.And seems to me, Millicent has a very annoying bee in her bonnet."

  "Easy enough to settle the matter," Lane said, briefly. "Where wereyou, Miss Lindsay, when the--the tragedy took place?"

  "Why, I don't know," Phyllis replied. "Here--at home--I think."

  But a sudden flood of scarlet suffused her face, and she was quiteevidently preserving her composure by a strong effort.

  The small, slight figure, sitting in a tall-backed chair was a pictureof itself. Phyllis' bright coloring, her deep, glowing eyes, scarletlips and rose-flushed cheeks were accented by the plain black gown shewore and her graceful little hands moved eloquently as she talked, andthen fluttered to rest on the carved arms of the great chair.

  "Sure?"

  "Stop saying 'sure?' to me!" Phyllis spoke shortly, and then gave agood-natured laugh. "Of course, I'm not sure, Mr Lane. I'll have tothink back. I haven't a--what do they call it--an alibi, but all thesame I didn't kill----"

  "Don't say that," Lane interrupted her, "nobody for a minute supposesyou killed anybody. Mrs Lindsay herself doesn't. It's hysteria thatmakes her say so. But, she _can_ make trouble. And, so, I wantyou to think carefully, and have your evidence ready. Where were youlast Tuesday at about half-past six or seven o'clock?"

  Phyllis thought. "Here, I think," she reiterated. "I was out--and Icame home and dressed for the dinner party."

  "What was the dinner hour?"

  "Eight."

  "And you were dressing--how long?"

  "Oh, I don't know--an hour, probably."

  "That leaves some time yet to be accounted for. Where were you justbefore you came home?"

  "Look here, Mr Lane," Phyllis' eyes flashed now, "I won't be quizzedlike that! If I'm suspected of a crime----"

  "You aren't," Lane repeated, "but if Mrs Lindsay accuses you of acrime, you must be prepared to defend yourself."

  "Wait till she does, then," said Phyllis, curtly, and lapsed intosilence.

  But Louis looked disturbed.

  "What can Millicent do, Lane?" he asked. "She can't make up any yarnthat will implicate my sister, can she?"

  "Oh, no; probably not. All she can do, is to show that Miss Lindsayknew what she would inherit, and, therefore, can be said to have amotive for the----"

  "Rot! As if Phyllis would
shoot a man to get his money!" But LouisLindsay's looks belied his words. While showing no doubt or distrustof his sister, he had all the appearance of a man deeply anxious oralarmed at his thoughts. "And, besides, Phyl knew nothing about thewill--did you, Sis?"

  Phyllis looked at him without replying, for a moment, then she said,"Hush, Louis; don't keep up the subject. I'm going straight toMillicent--and if she's able to talk to me, I'll find out what shemeans."

  Phyllis left the room, and his business over, Lane went away from thehouse.

  As he walked along the street, he mused deeply on the matter.

  Of course, Phyllis was in no way concerned in the crime--but Lanecouldn't help thinking she knew something about it--or somethingbearing on it. What could it be? How could that delicate, exclusivegirl be in any way mixed up with the deed done down in WashingtonSquare?

  Lane made his way to the Club. He knew he'd find a lot of his friendsthere at this hour, and he wanted to hear their talk.

  He was not surprised to find a group of his intimates discussing theGleason case.

  "Now the funeral's over," Dean Monroe was saying, "the detectives canget busy, and do some real work."

  "They can get busy," Manning Pollard agreed, "but can they do any realwork? I mean, any successful, decisive work?"

  "You mean, discover the murderer," Lane said, joining in the talk atonce, as he took his seat among them.

  "Not a hard job, to my mind," Dean Monroe said, slowing inhaling hiscigarette's smoke. "_Cherchez la_ chorus girl."

  "Oh, I don't know----" said Pollard.

  "Well, I know!" Monroe came back quickly. "Oh, I don't mean Iknow--but who else could it have been? You may say Pollard, here,because he announced his intention of killing Gleason. But we all knowPol's little smarty ways. He didn't even defend himself, because,secure in his innocence, he let the old detectives themselves find andprove his alibi! A silly grandstand play, I call it!"

  Pollard smiled. "It was silly, I daresay, but if I had eagerlydefended myself, they might have thought me guilty. So, why not letthem find out the truth for themselves? But, as to the choruskiddies--I doubt if the bravest of them would have the nerve to shoota man. Remember they're only babies."

  "Not all of them," offered Barry.

  "Oh, well, those who have arrived at years of wisdom are not the onesGleason favored," Pollard said. "However, there's a possibility thatsome man--some bold, bad man may have done it for the sake of a girl."

  "Then he must be found through the discovery of the girl," declaredLane. "And with that fur piece to work on, it's a funny thing if theycan't get the lady."

  "It would be coincidence, I think," Pollard said, seriously. "I don'tknow much about real detective work, but it seems to me, if I found afur collar at the scene of the crime, the owner of that would be thelast person I'd look for."

  "You give the collar too much importance, Monroe, and you, Pollard,give it too little," Lane spoke in his most judicial manner. "I'm nodetective myself, but I am a lawyer, and I modestly claim a sort ofknowledge of criminal doings. The fur collar is a clew. It must beinvestigated. It may lead to the truth and it may not."

  "Hear, hear!" cried Barry. "What wisdom! Oh, what sagacity! It may andit may not! Lane, you're a wizard at deduction!"

  They all laughed, but Fred Lane was in no way dismayed.

  "All right, you fellows," he said; "but which of you can make anybetter prognostication? Come now, here are four of us; let's make abet--or, no, that's hardly decent--let's each express an opinionregarding the murderer of Robert Gleason, and see who comes nearest tothe truth."

  "Sure we'll ever know the truth?" asked Monroe.

  "Well, if we don't there's no harm done. Go ahead, and let it beunderstood that these are merely thoughts--private opinions andabsolutely confidential."

  "All right," agreed Dean Monroe, "I'll speak my mind first. I'm allfor the chorus girl--and when I say chorus girl, I use the termgenerically. She may be a Movie Star or a Vaudeville artist. But somechicken of the stage, is my vote. Yet I don't claim but she did thedeed herself--it may well have been her stalwart gentleman friend, whowas jealous of the rich man's friendship with his girl. There's myopinion."

  "Good enough, too," appraised Lane. "Moreover, you've got the furcollar in evidence. You may be right. You next, Pollard?"

  "I'm inclined to think it was somebody from Gleason's Seattle home.Seems to me there must have been people out there who felt as I didabout the man--who really wanted him out of the world; and, too, theymay have had some definite grievance--some conventional motive--whatare they? Love, hate, money?"

  "Revenge is one."

  "All the same, revenge and hate. Well, doesn't it seem more like awild Westerner to come there and shoot up his man than for a NewYorker to do it? I don't take much stock in the chorus girl theory."

  "Wait a bit, Pol," put in Barry. "Seattle isn't wild and woolly andcowboyish and bandittish! It's as civilized as our own fair city, andas little given to deeds of violence as New York itself!"

  "Your logic is overwhelming," Pollard laughed. "Ought to have been alawyer instead of an artist, Barry! But I stick to my guns--which arethe guns of the Westerners who knew Gleason--the inhabitants ofSeattle and environs. I may be all wrong, but it seems the mostplausible theory to me. Perhaps I'm prejudiced, but I think Seattle ismighty well rid of its leading citizen."

  "Hush up, Manning," reproved Monroe; "your foolish threat was badenough when the man was alive, it's horrid to knock him now he'sdead."

  "That's so--I'll shut up. But Lane asked for my opinion, and now he'sgot it."

  "Yours, Barry?" asked Lane, without comment on Pollard's.

  "I don't want to express mine," said Philip Barry, with such a seriouslook that nobody smiled. "You see, I have a dreadful suspicion of--ofsome one I know--we all know."

  "Me?" asked Pollard, cheerfully.

  "No"; Barry grinned at him. "You're just plain idiot! But, truly,haven't any of you thought of some one in--in our set?"

  Apparently no one had, for each man present looked blankly inquiring.

  "Oh, I'm not going to put it into words," and Barry gave a shrug ofhis shoulders. Slightly built, his dark, intense face showing hisartistic temperament, Philip Barry had a strong will and a hightemper.

  Moreover, unlike his type, he had a desperate tenacity of opinion, andonce convinced of a thing would stick to it through thick and thin.

  "Just because an idea came into my head," he went on, "is no reason Ishould give it voice. I might do an innocent man a desperateinjustice."

  "As you like, Barry," Lane said, "but to my way of thinking, if youhave such an idea it's your duty to give it voice. If your man'sinnocent it can't harm him. If he's guilty he ought to be suspected.And, among us four, your views are an inviolable secret, unlessjustice requires them to be told."

  "Well," Barry began, reluctantly, "who first heard of this murder?"

  "Doctor Davenport," said Monroe, quickly. "His nurse telephoned fromthe office----"

  "Did the nurse tell you that?" Barry shot at him.

  "Why, no, of course not. I haven't seen the nurse."

  "Has anybody?"

  "I don't know. I suppose the police have."

  "You suppose! Well, they haven't. I found that out. No, the policehave not thought it worth while to check up Doctor Davenport's storyof his nurse's message to him. They take it as he told it. It was ninechances out of ten they would do so. I say, fellows, don't youremember that conversation we had about murder that afternoon--lastTuesday afternoon?"

  "I do," answered Pollard. "It was then that I made my famous speech."

  "Yes; and that was remembered because it was unconventional anddamn-foolishness besides. But Doctor Davenport's speeches, though offar greater importance, are all forgotten."

  "I haven't forgotten them," said Pollard, thoughtfully. "He said thedetection of crime depended largely on chance."

  "Yes, and he minimized the chances."

  "But, good Lord
, Barry, you're not hinting----"

  "I'm hinting nothing," said Barry, speaking decidedly now, "I'mreminding you what Davenport said; I'm reminding you of his wholeattitude toward the matter of murder; I'm reminding you of hispsychological mind, and that it might have been swayed in thedirection of crime; I'm reminding you that Pollard's fool remark aboutkilling Gleason might have started a train of thought in the doctor'smind----"

  "Making me accessory before the fact!" suggested Pollard.

  "Unconsciously, yes, maybe. Well, there it is. You asked me for myguess. You have it. It isn't a suspicion, it isn't even a theory--it'smerely a guess--but it's at least a possible one."

  "Barry, you're batty!" Dean Monroe declared. "Us artists get that waysometimes." He beamed round upon the group. "Don't mind Phil. He'llcome out all right. And for heaven's sake, fellows, forget what he hassaid."

  Monroe was always looking out for his fellow artist and friend.

  Barry's impulsiveness had often been checked or steadied by Monroe'sbetter judgment and clearer thought. And now, Monroe was trulydistressed at Barry's speech.

  "But where's the motive?" Lane was asking, interested in this newsuggestion, and determined to look into it.

  "That I don't know," said Barry. "I've no idea what his motive couldhave been. But, for my part, I don't believe in hunting the motivefirst. A motive for murder is far more likely to be a secret than tobe something that anybody can deduce or guess."

  "Guessing is foolishness," Pollard remarked, "but don't you allremember that Davenport mentioned fear as a common motive. I recollecthe did, and while I don't for one minute incline to Barry'ssuggestion, yet I can admit the possibility of fear."

  "You mean Doc was afraid of Gleason? Why?" Lane spoke sharply.

  "I don't know why. I don't know that he _was_ afraid--of Gleasonor anybody else. But I do say that he might have been--there are ahundred reasons why a man may be secretly afraid of another man. Whoknows the secrets of his neighbor's heart? I'm making no claim,educing no theory, but it's at least a fact that Davenport did speakof fear as a motive. Now, I merely say, if you're going to suspecthim, you may as well use that tip. That's all."

  Pollard smoked on in silence, and each of the four thought over thisnew idea.

  "It's shocking, that's what it is, shocking!" exclaimed Dean Monroe,at last. "I'm ashamed of you all, ashamed of myself, for harboring thisthought for a minute. Forget it, everybody."

  "Not so fast, Dean," Barry rebuked him. "Any thought has a right toexpression--at the right time and place. I've given you thissuggestion for what it's worth. I've nothing to base a suspicionon--except that the first man to hear of a crime or to go to the spotis a fair topic to think about."

  "But a doctor--called there!" Monroe went on, "You might as wellsuspect the police themselves!"

  "Yes, if they gave us a surprising story of a man killed by a shot and_afterward_ telephoning for help."

  "That story is fishy," admitted Lane.

  "You bet it is," assented Barry. "I can't _see_ that telephoningbusiness at all!"