“Now that the money is paid, Phyllis, dear, and the whole matter is hushed up, Louis will never be suspected of having had anything to do with that Bill Halsey gang. It was a narrow escape—if the story had come out, it would have stained the boy’s reputation badly. But, thanks to your quick action and watchful care, your brother is released from their clutches and you need worry about that no more.”
“Thanks, too, to your kindness in letting me have the money. I will repay you just as soon as Mr Lane settles financial matters enough to give it to me out of my inheritance.”
“No hurry about it. Instead of that, let’s talk about ourselves. When are you going to let me give you a ring?”
“Oh, not yet,” and Phyllis looked distressed. “Wait till this awful matter of the Gleason death is explained.”
“Will it ever be?” Pollard spoke gravely, and added, “Do you want it to be?”
“Oh,” she cried, “don’t look like that! Doyoususpect Louis, too? Buddy never did it! Never!”
“No, of course he didn’t. Do you sometimes think Phil——”
“Philip Barry! No! He says he did, to shield my brother——”
“And you.”
“Me!”
“Yes. Let’s speak frankly, Phyllis. I can’t bear to fence or quibble with you. Now, you know, you and Louis were there——”
“Oh, no, we weren’t—well—maybe we were—oh, I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Poor little girl. Don’t try to make up stories to me. Tell me just how it was—or, don’t tell me anything—as you wish, but don’t tell me what isn’t so. I can’t help you if you do that.”
Phyllis looked at him searchingly. She trusted him—and yet, she hesitated to put into words her own suspicions of Louis.
“I’m sure Phil Barry is shielding some one else,” she began.
“But, dear, that letter—how could that have been written, except by Barry?”
“Now, don’t you prevaricate to me!” she cried; “you know whatever is the explanation of the letter, Phil Barry isn’t guilty!”
“I don’t know any such thing! If Barry wrote the letter, he must have meant something by it, and until he is proved innocent, there’s good reason for suspecting him.”
“Don’t you suspect Louis?” Phyllis asked directly, facing Pollard with a straightforward gaze.
“Don’t ask me, dear. If I did—if I do—I wouldn’t say so, because—because I love you. Confide in me—please do, darling. If you suspect your brother, tell me so, and I’ll do all I can to divert suspicion from him.”
“Even if you think him guilty?”
“Certainly. If Louis did it—he was blinded by rage, or, moved by a sudden homicidal impulse born of desperation——”
“But that doesn’t excuse him.”
“Not to the law—but to me, he is excused because he is your brother——”
“Yes, my brother—my little Buddy—oh, Manning, I can’t face it!”
“You weren’t there, too—at the time?”
“At the time of the murder? Oh, no!” Phyllis’ eyes were wide with horror.
“Do you know that Louis was there?”
Pollard pressed the question, glad that Phyllis had abandoned pretense, and was telling truths.
“Yes, I do.” The pained eyes looked beseechingly into his. “I have the evidence of an eye-witness—or, nearly.”
“What do you mean by nearly?”
“Why, somebody else was there, who didn’t see Louis, but who heard him—or, rather, heard Mr Gleason talking to him.”
“Is that all? Phyllis, that isn’t enough to convict Louis!”
“Isn’t it? But, if they accuse him—he’ll break down and confess. I know Buddy; as soon as a breath of suspicion touches him he’ll go all to pieces——”
“Whether he’s guilty or not?”
Phyllis stared. “Why, no, of course not if he isn’t guilty. Oh, Manning, do you think he isn’t? Tell me you do!”
“I wish I could, darling. But, I do say, there’s no real evidence and we may be able to prevent any from coming to light. Even if Louis was there, didn’t he leave before the time of the attack?”
“I don’t know. I can’t find out. I daren’t mention it to him. Oh, Buddy, dear—I’m sure you never did it!”
“I’m sure, too,” said Pollard, decidedly, and, whatever was in his mind there was conviction in his tone. “Now, see here, Phyllis, let’s do nothing in the matter. As near as I can make out, Barry’s confession is not believed at all by the police. They are sure he’s shielding some one, but they don’t know who it is. Of course, Barry won’t tell, so Louis is safe.”
“But suppose they do come to believe Phil, and he is arrested!”
“Not a chance.”
“But if they should?”
“Would you care so much?” Pollard spoke softly, and tenderly. “If it should mean Louis’ safety——”
“At the expense of an innocent man? Oh, impossible!”
“But you love Buddy——”
“I do, yes—but if he is guilty—nobody else can be allowed to suffer in his place. Least of all, Phil Barry.”
Phyllis said the name, with a gentler light in her eyes, a softer inflection of her voice, and Pollard felt a sudden chill at his heart.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, quietly, “anything especial?”
“No—oh, no,” but Phyllis blushed.
“Remember, dear, you’re engaged to me,” Pollard said, smiling at her. “I resent such implications of any other interest of yours.”
“You resent my interest in Phil Barry! Why, I thought he was your best friend.”
“He is. But he can’t be yours. Not your best friend—only second-best.”
“Well, he’s too dear a friend for me to let any undeserved suspicion fall on him,” and Phyllis’ eyes shone with righteous indignation.
“First, we must be sure it is undeserved.”
“Very well, I will make sure!”
With a determined gesture, Phyllis pushed a bell button and a maid responded.
“Ask Mr Lindsay to come here,” Phyllis directed, and then turning to Pollard with a pretty gesture of confidence, she said:
“Let’s work together, Manning. You see what you think of the way Louis meets my questions. I’ve decided to meet the issue straight.”
“What is it, Sis?” asked Louis, coming into the room. “What do you want of me? Hello, Pollard, how are you?”
“Buddy, dear,” Phyllis began, “where were you the day Mr Gleason died?”
“Out with it Phyl. Do you think I killed him?”
Louis looked at his sister. The boy was haggard, pale and worried looking, but he met her eye and awaited her answer to his question.
“No, Louis, I can’t think so—but there are circumstances that make it appear possible, and I want your word.”
“Well, then, Phyllis, I didn’t do it.”
Calmly the brother gazed at the sister. Anxiously, Phyllis scanned the well-known face, the affectionate eyes, the sensitive, quivering mouth, but though agitated, Louis had himself well in hand, and his frank speech carried conviction.
Phyllis drew a long breath.
“I believe you, Buddy,” she said.
Pollard was quiet for a moment, and then observed, “All right, Lindsay. And, in that case, you’re probably willing to tell all about your presence there that afternoon. Why haven’t you done so?”
Pollard’s tone was not accusing so much as one of friendly inquiry, and Louis, after a moment’s hesitation, replied:
“Why, Pol, I suppose I was a coward. I was afraid, if I admitted I was in Gleason’s place that afternoon, I might be suspected of the crime—and I’m innocent—before God, I am.”
The solemn voice rang true, and Phyllis clasped his hand as she said, “I know it, Buddy, I know you never did it!”
“But, if it comes out I was there, I can’t help being suspected,” Louis went on, a look of terror coming to his face. “I—oh, I hate to confess it, but Iamafraid. Not afraid of justice—but afraid I’ll be accused of something I didn’t do!”
“You would, too, Louis,” Pollard said. “Better keep still about the whole matter, I think. You see, Louis, except for the murderer, you are probably the last one who saw Gleason alive. Now, that, in itself is troublesome evidence, especially if the murderer doesn’t turn up. That is why, I think, my theory of the stranger from the West is undoubtedly the true one. You see, none of the people hereabouts—I mean you, Barry, Davenport, myself, or any of us Club men could have been down there so late, and then turned up here for the dinner party. Of course, that would have been possible, but highly improbable. While an outsider, a man known to Gleason but not to any of use, could have come and gone at will.”
“He had to reach the Gleason apartment soon after Buddy left,” Phyllis mused, thinking it out. “Well, Manning, I’m convinced of Buddy’s innocence. My boy can’t lie to me! I know him too well. He is worried and anxious about the suspicions that may attach to him, but he’s absolutely innocent of crime, aren’t you, dear?”
And Louis looked into his sister’s face, and quietly replied, “Yes, Phyllis,” and she believed him.
“Now,” she said, “I’m going to free Phil Barry.”
“You!” exclaimed Pollard. “Are you going to turn detective?”
“I’m going to help the detectives work,” she declared. “Or, rather, I’m going to get a detective that can work. I don’t think much of what has been accomplished so far. I’m going to get another detective——”
“A private detective?” asked Pollard. “Better be careful, dear. Don’t get mixed up in this thing too deeply.”
“No, I won’t. I’m not going to do anything myself. But, I want to tell you something. Ivy Hayes knows of a girl——”
“Ivy Hayes!” exclaimed Louis, while Pollard raising his eyebrows, murmured, “A girl!”
“I seem to have exploded two bombshells!” said Phyllis, smiling.
She was in better spirits now, since the assurance of Louis that he was not guilty.
“But it is the truth. Ivy Hayes knows of a girl detective——”
“Oh, Phyllis, don’t!” begged Pollard. “A private detective is bad enough—but a girl one! Please don’t.”
“But she’s a wonder—Ivy says so.”
“Sister, for goodness’ sake, don’t tell me you know Ivy Hayes!”
“Certainly I do, Louis. If you may know her why can’t I? And I like her, too. And she’ll get this person for me, and I know Millicent will agree——”
“Quite a feminine bunch,” Pollard laughed. “Do you think you and Mrs Lindsay and Miss Hayes and the girl sleuth can succeed where several men have failed?”
“That’s just what I do think,” cried Phyllis, triumphantly. “This is the era of feminine achievement, and why not in detection as well as in other lines?”
“Have it your own way,” said Pollard, looking at her fondly. “I must go now, but if I can help you—though, being a mere man, I suppose I can’t——”
“Oh, yes, you can,” Phyllis smiled at him. “I’ll be only too glad to call upon you for assistance.” Pollard left, and Phyllis at once called Ivy on the telephone to get more information about the girl detective.
“Oh, it isn’t a girl!” Ivy replied; “that is, it is a girl, but it’s a man, too. They’re associated, you see. Of course, the man is the head of the firm—but the girl, who is his assistant, does quite as much of the work as he does. And, she’s my friend, that’s why I spoke of her as the detective. But he’s the one to call on. He’s Pennington Wise—they call him Penny Wise—how could they help it! Well, he’s your man, and she’s your girl. I used to know her, when we were both kids, and I don’t see her often nowadays, but we’re good friends, and she’s a wonder.”
“You’re a wonder, too, Ivy,” Phyllis said; “thank you lots and heaps. Give me the address, and I’ll excuse you.”
Ivy gave the number, and Phyllis went at once and told the story to Millicent.
“Oh, do get him!” cried Mrs Lindsay. “I’ve heard of Penny Wise—he’s a wizard! I don’t know anything about his girl assistant—but that doesn’t matter. Penny Wise is great! I’ve often heard of him. He’s frightfully expensive, but they say he never loses a case. But, Phyllis, I never suspected Louis! How could you think I did! But—don’t faint now—I do suspect Phil Barry!”
“It doesn’t matter much whom you suspect to-day, Millicent, it will be somebody else to-morrow! Aren’t you about due to suspect me again?”
“You! oh, Phyllis, don’t remind me of the foolish things I said, when I was hysterical and almost crazy! You know how you’d feel if Louis had been killed! You’d suspect anybody!”
“All right, Millicent, I’ll forget it. But I don’t believe for one minute that Philip Barry is the guilty man.”
“You don’t! Why, Phyllis, I thought you did!”
“Oh, I don’t know what I think,” and Phyllis broke down and sobbed.
“There, there, dear child,” Millicent soothed her. “Don’t cry. You’re all worried to pieces. Now, let’s get the Wise man, and then you shift all care and anxiety on to him.”
“But, Millicent, suppose he should prove it to be Phil!”
“If it is Phil, he ought to be shown up. We can’t stop now, for sentiment or preference. We must go ahead and prove positively who is the criminal.”
When Millicent took the tone of an avenging justice, she was almost humorous, so ill did the role fit her. But she was in earnest, and she immediately set to work to engage the services of Pennington Wise.
Her efforts were vain, however, as the detective politely informed her that his press of business would not permit him to take on another case at present.
Greatly disappointed, she told Phyllis, who at once told Ivy Hayes, over the telephone, of her defeat.
“Huh,” said the young woman, “won’t come, won’t he? Well, I guess he will. Expect him this evening, to talk over the preliminaries.”
For the sanguine Ivy felt sure her childhood friend could somehow persuade the great detective to meet the engagement she had just committed him to.
“Zizi,” Miss Hayes later remarked, to her friend, “You just simply got to take on the Gleason case. You hear me?”
“Hear you perfectly,” Zizi’s engaging little voice replied. “But——”
“No buts. You just do it. Why, Ziz, it’s all mixed up with friends of mine. And say, dearie, I want you to do it for old times’ sake.”
“But, Ivy, truly——”
“Truly you will? All right, Ziz. You make Penny Wise stand around—you fix it somehow—and you send him or go yourself to the Lindsay home this evening at eight o’clock. Love and kisses. Your own Ivy.”
Ivy hung up the receiver, satisfied that if her friend didn’t or couldn’t meet her wishes, she would call her up and tell her so. Not hearing from Zizi, Ivy concluded all was going well.
And it was. Zizi, the wonderful little assistant of the great detective, coaxed and finally persuaded him to take the case, assuring him that she, herself, would do most of the work. She put it on the grounds of a personal favor to herself, and as this was so unusual a condition as to be almost unique, Pennington Wise gave in.
And so, promptly at eight, he presented himself at the Lindsays’ and was received with welcome.
For an hour Wise listened to the accounts of the case from the three Lindsays. No one else was present, and Wise asked them to tell him all they could, both of direct evidence or their own leanings or suspicions.
The detective was a man of great personal magnetism. Tall and strong, his very bearing inspired confidence and hope. His face was fine and mobile, his wavy chestnut hair, brushed over back, was fine and thick, and his keen blue eyes took in everything without any undue curiosity.
He was both receptive and responsive, and in an hour he had the history of the case, clearly and definitely in his mind.
“Now, then,” he said, “we can admit of several suspects already. There was a motive, let us say, for any one who benefited by Mr Gleason’s will. That includes Mr and Miss as well as Mrs Lindsay.”
Millicent frowned at him. “Me!” she cried, explosively.
“I only say you benefited by the will,” said Wise, mildly. “I have as much right to mention your name as those of the other two.”
“Louis didn’t get anything from the will,” said Phyllis.
“He did, in a way,” the detective returned. “You’re so fond of your brother, that whatever is yours, is pretty much the same as belonging to him. Now, I’m not going to consider you two ladies as suspects at all. But Mr Lindsay’s cause I shall look into.”
Louis colored, angrily, and was about to make a sharp retort, when the kindness of Wise’s expression caught his notice, and he suddenly decided he’d like to be friends with the detective.
“Look into it all you like,” he said, with an air of relief at giving his troubles over to this capable person. “I’m glad to have you. You see, Mr Wise, I was there so fearfully close to the time of the crime, that I’ve been afraid to have it known how close.”
“Don’t be afraid, my boy. If you’re guilty I’ll find it out, anyway; and if not, you’ve more to gain than lose by being frank and honest.”
“Who are your other suspects?” Phyllis asked, anxiously.
“Everybody,” said Wise, smiling at her. “First, Doctor Davenport——”
“Oh, no!”
“First, Doctor Davenport, because, he first raised the alarm. Next, Mr Pollard, because he declared an intention of killing Mr Gleason. Next, Mr Monroe, because——”
“Dean Monroe!” exclaimed Louis, “why he has never been thought of!”
“That’s the answer!” said Wise. “He was in that group who discussed murder that afternoon, he went away, his subsequent movements have not been traced, and, as you say, he’s never been questioned or even thought of in the matter. Therefore, I investigate his case.”
“And Philip Barry?” Phyllis could hold back the question no longer.
“Ah, yes, Mr Barry.” Pennington Wise looked at her. “You are interested in him? Especially? Forgive me if I seem intrusive. I am not really, but I have to know some things to know how to go about others.”
“Miss Lindsay is engaged to Mr Pollard,” Millicent informed the inquirer. “She’s a firm friend of Mr Barry’s, but, I think you ought to know that Manning Pollard is her fiance.”
“Yes,” Phyllis said, as Wise asked the question by a glance. “I am engaged to Mr Pollard, but I don’t want Mr Barry suspected.”
“Not if he did it?”
“He didn’t do it.”
“But the letter? He wrote that?”
“No; he did not.”
“He says he did. It is signed by him. It is in keeping with his nature and his attitude toward Mr Gleason. Why do you say he didn’t write it?”
“I don’t know, Mr Wise. I have a feeling, a conviction that somebody forged that letter.”
“But how would that be possible?”
“I don’t know. I can’t tell you. But I’m sure.”
“I haven’t seen the letter yet, Miss Lindsay,” Pennington Wise looked at her reflectively. “And until I do, I can’t speak positively. But I’ve read up this case, more or less, and I can’t see how a forgery could pass the experts as this has done. I incline to think it is genuine. But it need not have implied murder at all.”
“No,” repeated Phyllis, “he didn’t write it. I know he didn’t.”
“If he didn’t, trust me to find it out,” Wise reassured her. And, as they heard the bell ring, “I dare say that’s my little assistant. She agreed to come later. I want you to like her.”
“I know I shall,” said Phyllis, enthusiastically; “I’ve heard about her from Miss Hayes.”
And in another moment Zizi appeared in the doorway.
“Mrs Lindsay?” Zizi said, by way of interrogative greeting, and, with a second nod to Louis, she crossed the room and sat down by Phyllis.
“Miss Lindsay,” and the visitor took both Phyllis’ hands in her own. “I am so glad to know you. May I help you?”
“Oh, I hope you can,” Phyllis said, fascinated by the strange child.
For Zizi looked like a child. Little, slim, and of a lithe, nervous personality, her big, dark eyes gazed into Phyllis’ with an expression of intense interest in her and her affairs.
“You’re troubled,” she went on, as Phyllis responded to her evident friendliness. “But it will be all right; Pennington Wise will clear up the mystery and you will be glad again.”
“You queer little thing!” Millicent exclaimed. “Turn around here and let me look at you.”
Zizi, turned, smiling, her white teeth just showing between her scarlet lips, her eyes dancing, cheeks glowing, and her black hair muffed over her ears—a highly-colored picture of vivid, restless vitality.
“Yes, Mrs Lindsay,” she responded in her low, yet clear voice, “and please like me, for I’m going to stay here.”
“Stay here!”
“Yes, please, during the investigation. Mr Wise will come and go, but I have to be here all the time.”
“Why, certainly—of course, if you wish——”
“Good!” Louis cried; “glad to have you stay, Miss——”
“Zizi,” she said, “just Zizi.” And the smile she flashed on Louis was the complete undoing of that impressionable young man.
“And now to business,” Zizi went on, her manner changing subtly from the witch-like, fascinating child to the energetic young woman. “Tell me things.”
“We’ve already told Mr Wise about the case——” Millicent began.
“Not the kind of things you tell him—other things. About this Mr Barry, now. Has he a high temper?”
Phyllis stared-What had Phil Barry’s temper to do with the murder of Robert Gleason?
“You see,” Zizi explained, “if he had, the note might have meant he’d kill his rival—if not it might have meant a lesser threat.”
“He has a high temper,” Phyllis admitted, reluctantly; “I may as well say so, for others would tell you that. He’s a mild, equable nature as long as things go his way. But if he’s thwarted or crossed, even in trifles, he flies in a rage at once. I oughtn’t to say this——”
“Because it seems to incriminate him,” Zizi nodded her little head; “but I compel the truth—don’t I?” she smiled at Phyllis. “I’ll bet you wouldn’t have said that to any other detective. Well, now, with the knowledge that Mr Barry is quick tempered, that he was jealous of Mr Gleason and that he wrote the threatening letter, and that he has given no positive account of what he was doing at the critical moment—shall we suspect him? Answer, no.”
“Why?” Phyllis spoke breathlessly, relieved but anxious to know more.
“Well, principally for the reason that he has confessed.”
“Don’t murderers ever confess?” Louis asked, his eyes on the beautiful young thing that was of a type hitherto unknown in his experience.
Zizi was not really beautiful, but her magnetic charm was so great, her ways so winsome, and her mysterious eyes so full of changing expression and half-veiled witchery that she enthralled them all.
Wise watched her. He was accustomed to have his clients surprised at his strange little assistant, but oftener they were critical than wholly admiring. Tonight, however, Zizi was at her best—she was more than usually attractive, and her manner was gentler than she often chose to make it.
“Oh, yes,” she said, in reply to Louis’ query, “but you have to know why they confess. You see Mr Barry confessed to shield some one else.”
“Who?” Louis asked, but he flushed and looked embarrassed.
“You know who,” Zizi returned, “and maybe it wasn’t only yourself, but Phyllis, too. You see—you must see, all of you, that the situation is serious. Louis was there very shortly before the crime took place. Phyllis is said to have been there—whether she was or not—no one can be found who saw or spoke to Mr Gleason after that—so it would be just like the detectives to fasten the crime on one or both of the Lindsays. Anyway, that’s the way it looked to Mr Barry, and in his quick tempered—which means impulsive way—he gave himself up. Although he is as innocent of the crime as you two are.”
“My goodness!” Millicent exclaimed, “you start out by clearing all those who have been suspected!”
“Not all. There still remain several of the Club men—also the possibility of a stranger—I mean a stranger to you people who are interested. Mrs Lindsay, where did your brother live before he went to Seattle?”
“In a little village in New Hampshire—Coggs’ Hollow.”
“Lovely name! Did you live there, too?”
“No; I lived in Ohio with my parents. An uncle, my mother’s brother, took Robert to live with him, in New Hampshire, when the boy was quite small. That’s why Robert and I never saw much of each other. We were affectionate enough when we met, but living apart, we were not really intimate. I was surprised when he came East, and we renewed our family relations. Then——”
“Then he fell in love with Phyllis”—Zizi interrupted. “And it wasn’t reciprocated.”
“Quite true,” Phyllis said, calmly.
“Yes,” Millicent agreed, “it was really love at first sight. And as Phyllis had any number of suitors, Robert tried to cut them out by promises of such luxuries and dazzling prospects as his wealth could offer. But Phyllis couldn’t seem to bring herself to say yes——”
“But she had, hadn’t she?” Zizi didn’t look at Phyllis. “Wasn’t the dinner party to be an announcement?”
Millicent shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t know,” she said: “ask her.”
Zizi turned. “How about it, Phyllis?”
“I don’t know, either,” Phyllis said, slowly. “I had half promised—because—oh, why not tell? because Mr Gleason had promised me a lot of money—which I very much needed—at once—if I would make the announcement that night.”
“Go on, tell it all,” Pennington Wise put in; “you wanted that money——”
“To pull me out of a desperate hole,” Louis burst forth. “I got in bad—very bad—with some gamblers and some loan sharks—and Sis was good enough to try to get me out of it. She—she didn’t have to marry old Gleason—even if she did announce an engagement.”
“Hush, Buddy,” said Phyllis, looking at him reprovingly; “I never thought of saying yes to him, and backing out afterward. I wouldn’t do such a thing. But I planned to go there that afternoon and try once more to persuade him to give me the money, without a definite promise on my part. I hoped that for the sake of Louis’ good name I could persuade him. But—I didn’t go.”
“Never mind all that,” Zizi said, impatiently, “it won’t get us anywhere to mull over that. Now, Penny Wise, here’s where I stand. All people here present are innocent of this crime. Philip Barry—I think—is also innocent. I’ve no reason to suspect a stranger—an acquaintance of Mr Gleason’s—and I think if there were such an individual, there must have been some trace of him. People don’t glide in and out of a situation like shadows.”
“Go slow, Ziz,” cautioned the detective, looking at her thoughtfully. “Keep your imagination in leash.”
“Yes, sir,” and she bowed with mock docility. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to Coggs’ Hollow.”
“To-night!” gasped Millicent, as Zizi rose, and began pulling on her gloves.
“Yes; there’s a train at midnight, I can easily catch it. Good-by, all.”
She drew her cloak together and fastened it, and held out her hand to Wise with a demanding gesture.
Understandingly, he took out his pocketbook, and gave it to her without a word.
She tucked it into her roomy handbag, and turned to the door.
“I’ll go with you,” Louis cried, already in the hall, and getting into his overcoat.
“To the station? Thank you,” Zizi smiled.
“No; all the way. To New Hampshire.”
“Nixy!” she laughed, flashing her white teeth. “He travels the fastest who travels alone. But I’ll be glad to have you entrain me.”
The two went out together, and hailing a taxicab, Louis delightedly put Zizi in.
“Anyway, I’ll have you to myself for an hour,” he exulted. “What are you, I can’t make you out. A sprite, a witch, an elf?”
“Oh, yes, all those things, and a girl beside. And you needn’t fall in love with me—it would be a foolishness.”
“But I’ve already fallen.”
“Oh, well, all right. It doesn’t matter.” Zizi was absorbed in thought, and seemed really to care nothing at all for Louis’ state of mind.
Meantime, Millicent was demanding of Pennington Wise an explanation of the astonishing Zizi.
“Don’t worry about her,” he said, smiling. “Don’t think about her. She never does a wrong thing—in detective work, I mean. She will some day—I daresay—and it may be she has now. But she acts on impulse, on intuition, on what some people call a hunch. And I’ve never known her to slip up. She is a wonder—but don’t try to understand her—for you can’t.”
“But will she go to New Hampshire—all alone by herself? At night!”
“Oh, yes, and she’ll take care of herself.”
“Louis will go with her,” Phyllis said, “I know he will.”
“No, Miss Lindsay, you’re mistaken there. Zizi won’t let your brother accompany her.”
“I’m sure it would be all right,” Millicent observed; “at work on a case, you know.”
“Right enough, but Zizi won’t let him go because she doesn’t want him to. Now, as to Mr Gleason’s will. Did you two ladies know about its terms?”
“We weren’t certain,” Millicent said, “for my brother changed it quite often. He was ready to settle a large amount on Phyllis at once if she would consent to marry him, but he had already made a will leaving his fortune equally divided between us two. He never liked Louis, rather, he disapproved of him. Of late, Louis has run wild——”
“It isn’t his fault,” Phyllis defended; “he has been duped and deluded by a lot of men with whom he had no business to associate at all. But let’s leave Louis out of it, for Mr Wise has declared he doesn’t suspect him, and he is in no other way concerned in this business.”
“That’s true, Miss Lindsay. Now, tell me, did Mr Gleason contemplate changing his will again in case Miss Lindsay refused him definitely?”
“Yes, he did,” Phyllis stated; “he told me unless I made the announcement at the dinner party, he would change his will and cut me out of it entirely.”
“Did he, then, assume that you could be bought in that fashion.”
Phyllis colored, but she replied, “Yes, he did. But, mostly because he knew how desperately I wanted money for my brother. And, too, it isn’t a gracious thing to say—but Mr Gleason was not such an attractive man that he had much reason for being accepted outside of his wealth.”
“I see; and he had made the existing will recently?”
“Within a month or so.”
“Who knew of it?”
“No one, I believe,” Millicent said, “but Phyllis and Louis and myself—except, of course, the lawyer who drew it.”
“Mr Fred Lane?”
“Yes.”
“Wasn’t he one of that group of men who were discussing murder at the Club that day?”
“Yes,” Millicent looked inquiringly at him; “but you don’t dream that Mr Lane——”
“Why not?”
“Oh, nonsense, Fred Lane and my brother were good friends.”
“At any rate, it is to the men of that group that I shall first direct my investigations. Few of them really liked Mr Gleason. Forgive me, if I seem unkind, Mrs Lindsay, but I cannot work if trammeled by too great consideration for your feelings.”
“Don’t stop for that, Mr Wise. I quite understand. And I know my brother was not a favorite with the Club men. He was too different. He was out of the picture. They had little in common. Now, in so far as that is of assistance to you in forming your theories, use it, for it is quite true. My brother was a far better and worthier man than most of them, but his ways were different and he did not show to advantage when among them. If Phyllis could have cared for Robert he could have made her very happy, I know. But that’s all past. What I want now, is to avenge my brother’s death. To discover and punish his murderer, no matter who he may be. I beg of you, Mr Wise, spare no time, pains or expense to ferret him out.”
“Indeed I shall not. Can you think of any grievance or reason for enmity toward Mr Gleason on the part of those men I refer to?”
“Only one reason, Mr Wise, and that applies to several. They were jealous of his attentions to Miss Lindsay.”
“Oh, Millicent!” Phyllis cried, in protest.
“It is true. Miss Lindsay is a belle, and all the men of that group were her admirers—or almost all. Doctor Davenport, is, of course, excepted, and Mr Lane. They are married men.”
“Leaving Mr Barry, Mr Pollard and Mr Monroe.”
“Yes; and they surely cannot be suspected. You have declared Mr Barry innocent, Mr Pollard was in his own home at the time of the crime, and Dean Monroe—why, he hasn’t even been thought of.”
“Has he been inquired of as to his whereabouts at the time?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. Has he, Phyllis?”
“I don’t know. But it’s silly to think of Dean! Why, he scarcely knew Mr Gleason.”
“But he is devoted to you?” Wise asked the question so casually that Phyllis answered, frankly, “Yes, he is. That is, he has asked me to marry him.”
“And you refused?”
“I did. But, Mr Wise, is it necessary to tell you such things?”
“It is, Miss Lindsay. I fully believe that you are the innocent cause of this murder. This attaches no blame to you, in any way, but it makes it imperative for me to learn these details. Probably nine crimes out of ten are committed because of a woman—so don’t let it disturb you.”
“Not disturb me!” Phyllis cried; “of course it disturbs me! If there are women so foolishly vain as to enjoy stirring up strife among their admirers, I am not of that sort. I wish I were dead!”
“There, now, Phyllis,” Millicent said, “don’t act like that. I, too, believe the murderer was somebody who was jealous of Robert because of you, but you can’t help that. I’m sure my brother had no enemy who would come from the West to kill him.”
“You can’t be sure of such a thing as that, but we can prove up where the people were who might be suspected here.”
Methodically Wise went about the job.
Although he had told the Lindsays he was sure of Philip Barry’s innocence, none the less did he look into his alibi.
And it seemed to be all right. The doorman and the desk clerk at the small hotel where he lived were almost certain that he had came in that afternoon, just about six, as he said he did. They were not willing to swear to it, but they were reasonably certain, and Wise felt pretty sure they were right.
Next he went to the nearby hotel where Pollard lived.
“Yes, sir,” declared the doorman there, “I saw Mr Pollard come in—he nodded to me just like he always does. And later, I saw him when he went out again. I put him into his taxi myself.”
“At what time, about?”
“No about about it. It was just twenty-five minutes to seven——”
“How do you know?”
“I’ll tell you how I know. Mr Pollard glanced at his wrist watch as he got into the cab. It had a radium dial, and I saw it plain.”
“Mr Pollard wears a wrist watch, then?”
“Yes, he’s worn it ever since the war. Got used to it over there, I s’pose. Well, anyway, that’s what happened, so—if the watch was correct—it was seven-twenty-five.”
“Good,” said Wise. “And, as I understand it, one or two people saw Mr Pollard in his room, or heard him telephone during the hour or so he was here?”
“Yes, sir,” the desk clerk rehearsed the story a little wearily. The employees of the hotel had told the tale often, for owing to Manning Pollard’s threat—which had passed into history—he was frequently being suspected by somebody, detective or amateur, and the hotel people had been called upon to rehearse the story until they were letter perfect in their parts.
Next, Pennington Wise investigated the doings of Dean Monroe.
And the result was that he learned that Monroe had gone from the Club that day straight to the home of his mother, and had remained with her until so late that he had to make great haste dressing for dinner in order to reach the Lindsay house on time.
“H’m,” said Penny Wise, profoundly, to himself; “h’m.”
Three days later, Zizi returned. She went to Wise’s apartment before going to the Lindsay house.
“Find out much?” he asked her, as she flung off her wraps, and deposited her small person in a very large easy chair.
“I sure did! But I’m glad to get back! New England is no paradise in winter. Get me something to eat, there’s a bright Penny.”
“All right,” and Wise rang a bell. “Take your time, Ziz, but have a little pity on a mere man, consumed with curiosity.”
“I will. Coggs’ Hollow is exactly what its name sounds like. A tiny, primitive village, just the same now as it was a quarter of a century ago, when Robert Gleason lived there, with his uncle.”
“You found people who knew him, then?”
“I did.”
“Could they throw any light on the murder—or its cause?”
“Not light—but a sort of a glimmer of a glow of a hint of dawn.”
“Good! That’s enough. You succeeded, then!”
“Oh, yes; and, Penny Wise, whom do you suppose I saw up there, also nosing about?”
“Who?”
“Mr Manning Pollard.”
“Ziz, you’re crazy. He wasn’t there. I’ve seen him myself every day you’ve been gone.”
“Seen him! Seen Manning Pollard? Penny,you’recrazy!”
“No, Zizi, my child, I’m not crazy. And, as a matter of fact, I suppose you’re not, either. Now, what do you mean by thinking you saw Pollard in New Hampshire when I know he was here in New York?”
“First, you tell me what you mean by thinking he was here in New York when I saw him in Coggs’ Hollow?”
“Saw him? and talked with him?”
“No; I didn’t see him to speak to—but I saw him.”
“Where was he?”
“Walking along the street.”
“Did he see you?”
“Yes.”
“Did he speak to you, or bow?”
“Oh, no; he doesn’t know me!”
“How do you know him?”
“I don’t. But I’ve seen his picture—both in the paper and at Miss Lindsay’s, and, as you know yourself, he’s unmistakable. Nobody could take any one else for Manning Pollard! Why, that face is of a type not often seen. And his physique, and his big, square shoulders—why, Penny, I know it was he.”
“Well, Ziz, I don’t say it wasn’t, but we must puzzle out how he got up there and why he went.”
“What have you done here while I was away?”
“I’ve found out all about the Barry letter for one thing.”
“Tell me.”
“A cleverly contrived thing. It was originally written in vanishing ink and Barry signed it in real ink. Then, when the vanishing ink vanished, the perpetrator of the precious scheme filled in the typed letter above the signature.”
“Clever! What was the original document?”
“It was a testimonial or something of the sort to a Club servant. Head Steward, or somebody, and this testimonial was arranged for him. Barry remembers being asked to sign and remembers signing. Then he forgot all about it.”
“Weren’t others to sign?”
“Barry thought so, but the matter was never carried on.”
“H’m. Who asked Barry to sign?”
“Dean Monroe.”
“How he continues to crop up! Is he the murderer?”
“Now, look here, Zizi, we’re up against an enormously interesting case. It’s simple up to a certain point, and then it’s inexplicable. The murderer is one of the cleverest men on this planet. For, look. He arranged that letter deliberately, fixed up the Club servant scheme, to get Philip Barry’s signature on a blank sheet of paper. Having that, he later wrote in whatever he chose. His cleverness consisted, at this point, in not overdoing. Had he made the letter a threat of murder, it would have looked false on the face of it, for Barry is not like that. Well, he had this letter ready to plant in Gleason’s desk after he had committed his crime—and he did so. Next, he left no fingerprints on the telephone or on the revolver, save those of Gleason himself. Was that clever?”
“Oh, Penny, it was! And he made the prints on the telephone with Mr Gleason’s fingers after Mr Gleason was dead! And he did the telephoning himself!”
“Yes; how quick you are, Zizi! That’s exactly what happened, because that’s the only way it could have been. Now, a man clever enough for all that is clever enough for anything. Yet I can’t see how he did it. Nor do I grasp his motive.”
“Jealous of Phyllis?”
“That isn’t enough to account for the crime.”
“No, it isn’t! He had another motive, and I’ve found it out. I found out up in Coggs’ Hollow.”
“Going to tell me?”
“You bet I am! Right away. How did you guess the man?”
“I didn’t guess. I deduced from his alibi. Such a clever villain—what would he naturally choose by way of alibi?”
“Just what he did do. Pretend not to have any—but when they investigate, they find he has a cast-iron one!”
“Exactly, and Manning Pollard’s was all that. But I can’t see how he managed it.”
“There’s only one way. He must have had a confederate who did the killing.”
“No; a clever criminal doesn’t have a confederate. No; Pollard killed Gleason himself. By the way, Zizi, I found Pollard’s fingerprints on the Barry letter.”
“But Dean Monroe did that.”
“Dean Monroe asked Barry to sign it, but—he told me himself—Pollard gave him the paper and asked him to get Barry’s signature. This, Monroe did, and gave the paper back to Pollard. Later, Pollard told Monroe the plan had been given up. I dug that all out, without speaking to Barry about it. I don’t want Pollard to imagine we suspect him. Now, my child, what was his motive?”
“A pretty strong one. It seems that Manning Pollard is an illegitimate child. He was born in Coggs’ Hollow, of unmarried parents. Later, his father and mother married, so he was legally legitimized. But of course, a stigma remains. Now, Mr Pollard is several years younger than Robert Gleason, so the assumption is that Robert Gleason, who lived all his boyhood in Coggs’ Hollow, knew this secret of Pollard’s birth, and had threatened to expose him, unless he desisted from trying to win Phyllis away from Gleason.”
Pennington Wise thought a few moments.
“That’s it,” he said, at last; “that’s it, Zizi. You’re a wonderful child for sure! How did you get it?”
“I went straight to the town clerk, and he not only showed me his books, but he told me the story. He knows nothing of the Gleason murder, and I didn’t tell him. Up in that little dot of a village they don’t know the news of New York.”
“But they must know of Gleason’s death. He was a foremost citizen, wasn’t he?”
“Of Seattle, yes. But when he left Coggs’ Hollow he was a young man of twenty-five or so, and I suppose they’ve forgotten all about him. Anyway, the town clerk didn’t remember him very clearly, but he remembered all about the Pollard family. Of course, it was a celebrated case up there.
“The fact of the couple’s marriage, five or six years after Manning Pollard’s birth, was a sensational affair, and though nobody could blame Mr Pollard, the fact remains that he was really an illegitimate child.”
“And, knowing this, Gleason probably was quite ready to tell it, and so——”
“And so, Pollard made it impossible for him to tell. Now, Penny Wise, that’s a fine theory, a noble deduction—but, how did Pollard commit that murder when he was at home in his hotel? Like you, I can’t see him employing a gunman. Rather, I see him going there to plead with Gleason to spare him. Then, when Gleason refused, in the heat of passion, Pollard shot him.”
“But the carefully prepared letter from Barry proves premeditation.”
“That’s so. And, remember his threat to kill Gleason. Would he have said that, if he had really intended to kill him?”
“I think so. I’ve thought all along, that Pollard’s bravado was his hope of escape. He would argue that a man who made such a threat would not be suspected. And, quite as he calculated, everybody said, ‘oh, if he had meant to kill Gleason, he never would have advertised his intention.’ That was a bold stroke, but an efficacious one. Yet, we can’t be right, Zizi, for he was at home. I’ve been to the hotel again. I’ve tabulated all his movements. He did go home at six, he did go out again at seven-twenty-five, and during that time he was in his room, because he telephoned twice, and he talked to the bellboy. And these three circumstances were at intervals of twenty minutes or so, therefore, he couldn’t have been down in Washington Square at all. After he got into his taxi, the driver accounts for his every movement until he reached the Lindsay house at dinner time. So, there’s his alibi.”
“Perfect.”
“Yes, that’s the trouble——”
“Now, don’t say, ‘distrust the perfect alibi,’ Penny, for that’s a platitude and a silly one, too. Your innocent man has a perfect alibi. He may or may not remember it, but it’s perfect all the same. Now, this alibi of Pollard’s is, to all appearances, the alibi of an innocent man. He has that secret of his past, Gleason did know it, that makes a motive. He did, as you say, fix up the Barry letter—though that may not be quite true——”
“What do you mean by that, Ziz?”
“I mean perhaps somebody else worked the vanishing ink, and all that——”
“But who would want to?”
“The murderer—if it turns out to be not Pollard. Look here, Penny, Pollard is either innocent or guilty. If guilty, all your deductions are correct, but if innocent they must be transferred to some one else.”
“Surely. But to whom?”
“Dunno yet. Me, I think it is Pollard—but how,how, how did he manage it?”
“Only by a confederate who did the deed.”
“Which is not the solution! I don’t know how I know it, but I know that didn’t happen. Why, a villain might get a gunman to shoot somebody, but not to put up all that elaboration. The fingerprints, the telephoning stunt—all that was the work of an artist in crime, the cleverest criminal in the world, as you’ve admitted. Not a hireling.”
“A hireling might be clever.”
“Not in that way. No, a wizard like that is not anybody’s hireling. He’s in business for himself.”
“Have it your own way. And I think you’re right. Well, then, how did Pollard get down there? Aeroplane?”
“No; there’s a simple explanation, only we haven’t got it yet. Incidentally, how did he get up to New Hampshire and back without being missed here in New York. Aeroplane?”
“He couldn’t have done it at all. You’re mistaken about seeing him there.”
“Maybe.” Zizi knitted her pretty brows. “What time did he leave the hotel in that taxi to go to Phyllis’ dinner?”
“Seven twenty-five. He had two errands on the way. He stopped——”
“I know. For theater tickets and for flowers. How do they know so positively the exact time he left?”
“That’s a coincidence. The doorman happened to catch sight of Pollard’s wrist watch as he got into the cab. It has a luminous face—I’ve seen him wear it—and the doorman noticed it was just twenty-five minutes after seven.”
“What! Oh, oh, Penny! That explains it all! Oh, me, oh, my! To think of the simple solution! Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive! Oh, gracious goodness sakes! Be sure your sin will find you out!”
“For heaven’s sake, Zizi, don’t act like a wild woman! When you begin to quote things I know you’re luny! Sit down and tell me what you’re talking about!”
“Is this a dagger that I see before me? Oh, what a noble mind was here o’erthrown!”
“Don’t get your Shakespeare mixed up. That first quotation is from Macbeth, but the other is from Hamlet. You look more like one of the witches!”
“Oh, I am! I am! Double, double, toil and trouble!”
“Zizi, behave! Stop your foolishness!”
The girl was dancing up and down the room like a veritable witch-elf. She flung her long, thin arms about, and was really excited, her brain teeming with the sudden revelation that had come to her.
“Do you remember the Macbeth witches?” she demanded, pausing before him, poised on one foot, and looking like a Sibyl herself.
“Of course I do! Double, double, toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble!”
“That’s it—that’s the answer! Oh, Penny Wise, it’s as plain as day—as Day! I see it all—all—all!”
“Might I inquire what enlightened you?”
“The radium watch! The luminous face! Oh, I’m onto the watch! I’m on the watch!”
“Zizi, you are crazy. I refuse to talk to you as long as you act so foolishly. Will you be quiet and tell me things?”
“Penny, I’m so excited. Yes, I’ll tell you, after I prove my case to myself. I’ve got to go to the hotel—to Pollard’s hotel—and see about something.”
And in a moment she was gone, and in the shortest possible time she was at the hotel.
“Again?” groaned the telephone girl, as Zizi earnestly began to whisper her questions.
“Yes, again—and yet.” Zizi said: “Now, listen, and tell me this. What did Mr Pollard say when he called his cab that night?”
“Why, that’s a funny thing. Why do you ask that? He said ‘Will you call me a cab, please.’”
“Why was that funny?”
“Because he always says, ‘Call me a taxi.’ I remember, because I’m afraid some time I’ll say, ‘You’re a taxi!’”
“Funny girl! Well, I’m trying to prove that Mr Pollard was not himself that night!”
“Oh—Mr Pollard never drinks anything.”
“How do you know?”
“I just happen to know. You’re wrong, he was perfectly sober.”
“Then why did he telephone to the cleaner’s when he knew it was past their closing time?”
“I suppose he didn’t think of that.”
“Not like Manning Pollard’s way. One more thing. Isn’t Mr Pollard a careful dresser?”
“Is he! The finest ever. He’s so particular, he’s an old fuss.”
“You know a lot about him, don’t you?”
“I can’t help it. A telephone operator gets side-lights on people who are continually discussing their affairs over her lines. I don’t have to listen in, but I can’t help knowing how often Mr Pollard telephones to cleaners and tailors and haberdashers and all that. Can I?”
“No, honey, of course you can’t. Good-by.”
And as Zizi left the hotel she met Manning Pollard coming in. He looked at her curiously, for though they had never met, Phyllis had told him of the queer girl, and he felt sure this was she.
To confirm it he went directly to the telephone girl and inquired of her, and the obliging young woman repeated to him the whole of her conversation with Zizi.
“H’m,” Pollard observed to himself, “h’m—exactly so.”
And he turned on his heel and went out again.
Absorbed in his thoughts, he paid no attention to a slim little figure that slipped out from a protecting doorway and followed him. Nor did he notice that the determined little person kept on following him as he boarded a Fifth Avenue Bus and went southward.
Zizi, who could make herself as inconspicuous as a schoolgirl when she chose, sat in the rear seat, looking out of the window.
Pollard got out at the Washington Square terminus, and walked briskly westward. This was away from the Gleason apartments, though Zizi had not expected him to go there.
She followed, unnoticed, until Pollard entered what seemed to be a second-rate boarding house.
Nodding her head contentedly, Zizi waited until her quarry again made an appearance.
Then as the man went over and took a North-bound Bus, Zizi found a taxicab and gave the order to fly back to Penny Wise.
It was after fifteen or twenty minutes of the excited girl’s conversation and explanations that Wise was in possession of all the facts.
“Can we get him?” he asked, and then the telephone rang.
“Hello,” said Wise, and received this astonishing response.
“Manning Pollard speaking. You have been too many for me, Mr Wise. I give myself up. I don’t know how you discovered so much, but I see there’s no use in further effort to hide my crime. I confess, and you may come and take me. I am in my rooms at the hotel.”
“You are a bit astonishing, Mr Pollard,” Wise said. “But I accept your invitation and I will go at once to you. Will you stay there till I come.”
“Certainly. When I perceive the game is up, what else is there for me to do? Moreover, would I call you up and surrender, if I were not sincere about it?”
“I can’t see why you should. At your hotel, then? All right.”
“Heavens, Zizi, what a man! I’ll start right off. You call Prescott, and tell him just what Pollard said, and tell him to go to the hotel with two policemen—or enough to take the prisoner.”
Wise went and Zizi did as he had bade her.
“What?” Prescott cried, over the wire, “you don’t say so! Well, wonders will never cease! I don’t altogether believe in it, but I’ll hurry to the hotel.”
Then Zizi herself hurried to the hotel, more excited than ever.
She calmed herself a little on the way, for she knew she must be cool and collected to take her part in the scene.
She reached the hotel a moment or two before Prescott got there.
But he came, as she waited, and, seeing her, exclaimed, “Are you sure? Where’s Mr Wise?”
“He isn’t here,” she said, a little unnecessarily. “I’ll go up with you.”
“Come if you like,” said Prescott, carelessly, and with his two husky companions he entered the elevator.
At Pollard’s door the group paused, and Prescott knocked.
“Come in,” they heard, and went in.
The man sitting in an easy chair sprang up.
“What the devil!” he cried.
“Easy now, Mr Pollard,” Prescott said, “you told us to come and get you, and we’re here.”
“Told you—come and get me—— Get out, I say!”
Prescott stared. Was this Manning Pollard? Talking so unlike himself! Clearly, it was not!
“Who are you?” Prescott said, curiously; and then, illogically, “Mr Pollard, who are you?”
“I’m not Manning Pollard. If you’ve come to arrest him, you’ve got the wrong man.” But though blustering, the speaker was white with fear. Overcome with surprise and terror, he fell back into his chair and began to swear fluently.
“None of that, now,” said Prescott, dumfounded, but vigilant. “If you’re not Manning Pollard you’re his twin brother! Is that it?”
“No—oh, no.”
“Well, then, who are you?”
“I’m—oh, hang it all—I’m Horace Taylor.”
“And just what are you doing in Pollard’s rooms? And why do you look so much like him? You’re his very double!”
“Double, double, toil and trouble!” Zizi chanted softly, to herself, but no one noticed her.
“I am,” said Taylor, bitterly, “and he has betrayed me. I’ll make a clean breast of it. I’ve done nothing wrong—and I didn’t know he was going to. I’m—well I’m his half-brother.”
“You’re the exact image of him in form and feature, but your manner is utterly different.”
“Yes, because he has had education and culture—and I’ve had none.”
“Well, out with your story.”
“Manning Pollard is the son of the man who was also my father. We are exactly alike, though I’m a couple of years older.”
“Are you a legitimate son?”
“I am not—but neither is Manning, though he was legally made so, by his parents’ marriage some years after he was born.”
“You know all that?” cried Zizi. “You were up in Coggs’ Hollow day before yesterday.”
“Yes, miss. I saw you there, at the clerk’s office. I knew then there was trouble brewing for Manning.”
“Double, double, toil and trouble——”
“Yes, miss, exactly that! Manning hired me to personate him here in his rooms the night of—well, you know that night, Mr Prescott. He—oh, thunder! shall I tell it all?”
“Yes, tell it all,” Prescott was breathless with curiosity and interest.
“Well, he paid me heaps to meet him at a certain spot.”
“Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street?”
“Yes, in the crowd. He had supplied me with clothes just like his own, and given me full instructions.”
“What were the instructions?” Prescott demanded.
“I was to meet him there, at about six, and I was to assume his identity for a time. I was to come here, come up to his rooms, here, dress for dinner, take a taxi and go away at exactly twenty-five past seven. While here I was to telephone once or twice, also to call a bellhop and see him.”
“What a plot!” exclaimed Prescott, “oh,whata plot!”
“I did all this, and then, later, when I went into the Astor for the theater tickets, Manning met me there, and in the crowd, we changed identities again, he got into the cab I had got out of, and he went on to the dinner and I went home.”
“You knew what his object in all this was?”
“I did not! Before God I never would have consented if I had. He told me it was to play a joke on some of his friends, and the price he offered was so great I consented.”
“And you telephoned to the cleaner’s and all that?”
“Yes; and called the bellboy to take the letter—which Manning had prepared. Then afterward, when I read the papers I felt sure that Manning had killed Robert Gleason. I never taxed him with it, for it was none of my business and if it was true I didn’t want to know it.”
“This explains Mr Barry seeing Pollard over in Brooklyn—it was you, I suppose.”
“I suppose so. What are you going to do with me?”
“Hold you for the present, but if your story is true, you’re merely a dupe. How come you here now?”
“Manning came down to my place about an hour ago, and said for me to come right up here and personate him again for an hour or so, and then he said he’d never trouble me again.”
“You came willingly?”
“Oh, the poor chap was so upset, seemed in danger, and said I could save his life by doing this.”
“You have. Of course he’s miles away by now. What a mess—oh,whata mess!”
Prescott was disgusted. First that such a gigantic hoax had been put over on him, and second that he had utterly lost all chance to catch the perpetrator thereof.
“You put it over neatly enough,” Prescott growled, looking at the man, Taylor.
“Yes, but I nearly muffed it. While I was dressing here that night, some guy called up to know Robert Gleason’s address. I hadn’t a notion, but I chanced to see a little address book on the desk, and I soon found it.”
“Yes, that was the butler of Davenport’s patient,” Prescott remembered. “Well, it was one great game. And we’ve lost our man!”
And then Pennington Wise came.
“Taylor?” he said, looking curiously at the double. “Well, youarean exact duplicate!”
“What do you know about this?” cried Prescott, “Where’s Pollard?”
“Dead,” replied Wise, gravely. “I’ve just left your place, Taylor, and your precious half-brother shot himself there fifteen minutes ago.”
“Spill it,” commanded Prescott.
“I knew when I got the message from Pollard that the dupe would be here so I sent you, Prescott, while I went down to Taylor’s home. As I expected, Pollard was there. He made a full confession, seeing the game was up, and then eluding my watchfulness, he shot himself. I called the police in and I came up here to tell you.”
“I can’t get over it,” said Prescott, his eyes wide with wonder. “What a scheme!”
“Simple in the main,” said Wise, “but elaborate as to details. He left nothing unprovided for. He foresaw every condition and met it. The only thing, and the thing that proved his undoing was his forgetting that Mr Taylor had not enjoyed the same social advantages that he himself had.”
“What do you mean?” growled Taylor.
“He had evening clothes ready for you here. He planned for every item of your conduct, but he couldn’t know that you would wear a wrist watch with evening dress! That little incident caught the attention of Zizi, and from that she instantly deduced that the man that got into that taxi with a wrist watch on in the evening, could not have been Manning Pollard himself! Moreover, he drew the attention of the doorman to the time on its illuminated dial, and so, the luminous face fixed the time, but Pollard would have had on no wrist watch.”
“That’s so,” agreed Prescott, “Pollard’s a perfect dresser, I happen to know.”
“He confessed it all,” went on Wise. “He was game, I’ll say, and he told me frankly that Gleason had threatened to tell of his shameful birth. He was very sensitive about the matter. Gleason told him he would disclose the secret unless Pollard ceased his attentions to Miss Lindsay. Also, Pollard knew, from Lane, of Gleason’s will. Therefore, rid of Gleason, Pollard figured he could win Miss Lindsay and the fortune. So he set about to get rid of Gleason—and did. His threat that day was, of course, with the idea that such a remark would tend to divert suspicion from him—which it did. His alibi, so perfectly prepared, he scorned to declare, knowing that when it was learned by inquiry it would be satisfactory, which it was. That’s all, except to credit my assistant, Zizi, with the acumen which found out the truth. Her suspicion of a double was roused by the wrist watch episode. She came over here, and learned that the exact doings of the man here that fatal evening were not precisely in Pollard’s usual manner. She watched Pollard come in and go out again. She followed him, and when he went into a house, she felt sure it was the home of his double. It was! She saw a man come out, and though it was like Pollard, her newly attentive eyes showed her it was not really he. Off guard, Taylor has many dissimilarities from his brother. She flew back to me with the story, not knowing how soon the denouncements was to come. And then, when Pollard telephoned he would give himself up, I knew at once he meant to have Taylor here in his place. So I went to Taylor’s place, and a more surprised man than Manning Pollard I never saw!”