Chapter XV.Another MurderDumbfounded, I stood holding the receiver, too dazed to even move. Then, frantically, I called Patton's name, though the sharp click which came when he hurriedly placed the receiver on the hook told me he had rung off. Hastily hanging up the receiver, I rushed into the living room and halted by the door. At my sudden appearance, there was a pause in the conversation. Bartley's eyes came to my face, rested, and he rose quickly to his feet, his face very grave.“What is it?” came his quick question.“Another murder—at Warren's,” I stammered.I saw Ranville's face stiffen into attention as he slowly rose. Bartley's keen eyes never left my face, and a trace of anxiety swept across his face. Carter looked as though he did not believe me, but he asked quickly:“Who? What do you mean?”I told them in a few words of Patton's voice and what he had said. As I named the young professor, I saw that Bartley was not only relieved, but also he seemed rather puzzled. His eyes opened wider when I said he had told me the gardener had been murdered. But at the statement that Patton wanted us to come at once, they all started for the door.Carter, as he rushed out into the hall, said he would get his big car from the garage. Bartley, with a sharp command to wait a moment while he went to his room, rushed up the stairs. Ranville and myself went out on the veranda and watched Carter rush across the grass and fling open the garage door. Immediately there came the first sharp explosion of the engine, and then it settled into a steady roar. He backed in a sweeping circle to the drive. By the time we reached the lawn Bartley came rushing down the steps with a bag in his hand.We fell into the car, and almost before we were seated, Carter started with a jerk. Before we reached the street it was in high, and we swept out of the drive in a sharp curve. Then with the car increasing in speed every second we started down the lighted street. Not a word was said. I could see Carter's face, set and determined, as he drove his car, first at forty, then crept to fifty, and settled down around sixty. Down the wide street we swept, with people turning to look at us in amazement as we dashed past them with the siren wide open.As we came around the bend of the street, where the road led straight as an arrow to Warren's estate, Ranville spoke. He was the first one to speak since we had left the house. And what he said seemed far more spoken to himself than any one else.“So there is something in the library that some one is after,” came his musing voice.“Of course,” Bartley shot back at him. “And what is more, I have been afraid all day that this might happen. I did not want a murder to take place, but if something did happen—an attack on Patton or a burglary—then it would prove a theory that I have.”With a glance over his shoulder, Carter shot out:“Got another one of your hunches, John?”The car was slowing down. In front of us, through the gathering dusk, loomed the wall which enclosed the Warren estate. As the car stopped and we jumped out, Bartley answered Carter's question.“Call it that, Carter,” he said. “I think we will discover something to-night.”Nothing else was said, and on a half run we rushed through the gate and up the path which led to the house. As we turned to the path which ran through the hedges, I gave one glance back at the house. Through the semi-darkness there came the friendly gleam of a light, but there were no signs of confusion, or of any one about. Up the path we ran, and then, as the hedge ended, we could see the eight-sided library before us.Every light seemed to be on, and the front door was slightly open. But of Patton we did not see a sign until we rushed into the building. Then we saw him standing silently near the desk. He whirled around as we entered, and I saw a look of relief sweep his face. One thing struck me sharply—in his hand was a revolver—a revolver which he was gripping firmly.He started down the room to meet us. His face seemed strained, though there was no fear in it. The color had gone out of his cheeks as if there had come some sudden shock. He said nothing, but as we reached his side, he took us around the desk and pointed to the door at the extreme end of the room. For a moment I saw nothing, and then as I took one step forward, I paused and came to a halt. For there by the door, huddled in a heap on the floor, lay the figure of a man—a man who did not move, a man whose appearance seemed to fill the silent room with dignity, a man whom I knew in a glance was dead.Silently we went down the length of the room and came to a pause by the body. It was lying on its face, with the feet toward the desk; one hand was reaching forth in a pathetic position as if in the last moment of life it had tried to stretch toward the safety of the open door a few feet away. As I looked at the figure, I was impressed with the fact that the man was wearing a suit very similar to Patton's—of some indescribable dark stuff. Not only that, save for the difference in years, the figure was about the same build and hair almost the same color.This thought lasted only a moment. Bartley dropped silently to his knees and gently lifted the still head. We bent forward to observe the man's face, and then there passed a glance between Ranville and myself, for the cold face with the staring eyes was that of the man who worked around Warren's place. I started to say something, only to have Bartley speak first.“He was shot through the heart, from behind. I think he must have been leaving the room when the shot was fired.”He rose to his feet and cast a reflective look back to the desk, then hurried across the floor. Silently we followed him, and when we reached the desk, we received another surprise. It was a very large desk, with a great deal of room underneath. By its side stood a wastebasket, but the wastebasket was filled to overflowing with small pieces of paper—paper torn into hundreds of small pieces, which spilled over the side of the basket and over the floor—typewritten sheets torn into hundreds of tiny bits.Bartley picked up a handful of paper and tried to fit some of the pieces together. He found this rather difficult, and then stood looking thoughtfully at the basket. I took several pieces of the paper in my hands and discovered that they once had been part of some typewritten manuscript. Ranville gave one look at the basket, glimpsed the typewritten letters, then glanced hurriedly at the desk.“It looks as though some one went to considerable effort to destroy a manuscript.”Patton's voice came sharp and quick. “They did; I found that mess of papers on the floor. When I left the room there lay on my desk several hundred pages of Warren's notes. And now—now they are torn to a thousand pieces. And”—he paused—“for the life of me I cannot understand it.”Patton's face, as he looked at the destroyed manuscript, showed that he was facing a situation which was beyond him. Not only was he very much disturbed, but also rather frightened at what had taken place. It was with a great deal of eagerness that he started to answer the request Bartley made—to tell us just what had happened.“Carter brought me over, you know. I was unable to do very much until the girl, who had acted as Mr. Warren's secretary, came. She came to the library about one and showed me what had been done. I found that Warren had half completed his book. In fact I never looked at any of his material beyond where he had ended. He was half finished, and I thought it would be best to see just what had been done.”Bartley gave a quick look at the pieces of paper upon the floor and asked: “Then this torn paper is simply the notes and materials which Warren used in the first portion of his book?”“Yes. I left the papers upon the desk when I went out. As I told you, I did not go beyond what Warren had already done. I wanted to become familiar with his plan. For that matter, the untouched notes are still in the safe. But when I returned to the library, I found the condition which you see.”“It looks as if some one simply destroyed those papers in a fit of rage,” was Carter's comment.I saw Ranville turn to Bartley and their eyes met; but they said nothing, and it was Patton's excited voice which broke the silence:“That's right, Carter. Of all fool things, the biggest one was to destroy that mass of notes I left on the desk. The manuscript of the book, the half which Warren had completed, is still in the safe.”“You say you left the library?”Patton nodded. “Yes; about five o'clock the secretary went home for her lunch. She was to return again in an hour. I remembered what you told me—not to leave the library unguarded if I went out.”“What!” came Carter's startled voice as he turned to Bartley. “Do you mean to tell me you expected something like this to happen?”Bartley's eyes went down the length of the room to the still figure at the door. There was a note of sorrow in his voice as he replied briefly:“I expected something.”Carter gave a start, his face expressing a good deal of amazement. The Englishman, however, did not seem at all surprised by what had been said. And then Patton went on to tell why he had left the library. It was a very simple thing; he wanted some tobacco and he discovered that he had none in his pockets. Not finding any in the library, he went out leaving the door open. That was a little after five. Down by the iron gate he found the gardener and asked him to go and stay in the library until he returned. This was the first hint I had received that the gardener was still working on the estate.The gardener had said that he would go in a moment or so, adding that no one could reach the building without passing up the path. With this, Patton had wandered down the street to the business section and had gone into the first store he noticed, bought tobacco and an evening paper. As he figured it, he was not away from the grounds more than thirty or forty minutes, returning directly after making his purchase. When he came up the path and entered the library, the first thing he saw was the hundreds of bits of paper on the floor, and that the manuscript was destroyed.That was the first thing. Almost in the same moment he saw the figure lying by the rear door. He ran over to its side—to discover it was the gardener and that he was dead—shot. He was so dazed for a moment that he did nothing. Then he went to the phone and called us.It was a simple story, and yet an amazing one. That in the space of one hour—in the time it took Patton to go to a store and buy some tobacco—another murder had been committed in the scientist's library; it seemed almost beyond belief. But that the gardener—a simple-minded man of his type—should be the victim was even more startling. I started to voice my thought, but Carter was ahead of me.“But, John! Why—why under God should any person kill that gardener?”“They never intended to kill the gardener,” came Ranville's dry voice.Bartley gave him a keen look, commenting:“Ranville is right. No one ever intended to kill the gardener. They wanted—that is, if they wished to kill any one—to murder Patton.”“But,” came Patton's wailing voice, “why should any one wish to kill me?”Bartley's eyes met Ranville's, and it was the Englishman who spoke:“I am not so sure that they intended to kill you, Patton. Though if any one was to be killed, why you were the logical victim. What I think happened was this: they thought they killed you. You and the gardener are about the same build. You are both wearing a dark suit to-day, and your height is the same. When they shot at that man, they thought they were shooting you.”“But—” Patton started in a bewildered voice. He was interrupted by Bartley's statement:“Ranville is right, I think; but we might go even further. It is my idea that the murderer never discovered who it was he killed. He thought he killed Patton.”“How do you make that out?” was Carter's question.“I may be wrong, you understand. But it seems to me something like this happened. The gardener, when he said he could see any one come up the path, forgot it was an easy matter for a person to land on the shore in a boat. The trees would hide him from any person down by the gate. I have an idea also that the gardener never hurried about coming to the library. He took his own time and for some unknown reason went to the back door instead of the front one.”“I don't see how you make that out,” broke in Patton.“Look where he was killed,” came the quick response from Ranville.“Yes,” said Bartley slowly. “Look where the body was lying. You find it on its face with one hand reaching for the door—the open door only a few inches away. The man was shot in the back while his face was turned away from the person who shot him. He fell, naturally, in the position in which we found him. And that makes me think the gardener came in the rear door, got several feet within the building, when all at once he saw the person engaged in destroying the manuscript.”“But why did he turn to leave then?” was my question.“It is my idea that when he turned to get out of the library, the other person had not seen him. Perhaps, even, the gardener knew who it was. He managed to go several feet before the man fired. I believe when he fired and the man fell and did not stir, he thought he had killed Patton. From the back, with the same colored suit, and the same general build, they look a bit alike.”It seemed logical enough, and I could tell from the men's faces that they agreed. Then all at once Carter gave a sudden cry and said that we must get the chief. He started for the telephone, only to have Bartley call out to him:“George, don't tell the chief what we want him for. Tell him to come right up here, but say nothing about the murder. I have my reasons.”Carter shrugged his shoulders and, after fooling with the phone for some time, managed to get the chief. When he returned to our side, he said the chief was puzzled, wishing to know for what he was wanted, but he would come up right away.With this, we started to examine the room. But after a quick, though very careful, search on the part of Ranville and Bartley, there was nothing of importance found. Only the small pieces of torn paper, which filled the wastebasket and littered the floor by the desk, showed that anything had been touched. There was no doubt these pieces of paper had once comprised Warren's notes—the notes which Patton said he had left on the desk.As we went over to the front door, Ranville, who was in the lead, bent over, and as he straightened up, held in his hand a magazine—a very popular magazine with a gay cover of a girl in a scanty bathing suit. As Bartley saw it, he gave one glance, then turned to Patton.“Two questions, Patton. Did you slip on the rug, and did you buy this magazine when you went to the store?”The rug was a small Turkish one which we had noticed the various times we had been in the library. The colors were so beautiful that no one could help noticing it. It was always just inside the door, but now it was rumpled and disturbed, laying partly across the doorsill. As I looked at it, I decided that some one had slipped upon it.Patton gave the magazine one glance, then gazed at the rug. He slowly shook his head, saying:“It is ‘no’ to both questions.”“Somebody slipped on that rug,” commented Carter.“And when they went out of the room,” added Ranville. “It's dragged over the sill. If they stumbled when they entered the room, it would be lying farther inside the library.”He bent a second and then fell to his knees, apparently interested in something he found by the sill. Scraping the substance with his knife, which he had taken from his pockets, he rose extending his hand to Bartley.“It's mud,” he said.We came closer to observe. There in his hand were a few bits of dried dirt—dirt which evidently had been wet only a short time ago. As Bartley saw it, he reached forth to crumple a piece of it between his fingers. Then he went out on the veranda and down the three steps to the ground. At the bottom step he bent down and then called:“You will find more of it here.”On the edge of the bottom step there were unmistakable signs of a muddy shoe. The signs were not plain enough to form a footprint, but one could see that some person in going up the steps must have brushed off the mud from their shoes. Patton gave it one look, then straightened up to say:“That's not mine. I never went within a mile of any mud.”Bartley was on the verge of a reply when we heard some one hail us at the bottom of the slight hill. Turning, we saw the chief hurrying across the lawn. His face was red as if he had been running, and when he stopped at our side, he gave us a very wondering look. There was no doubt he was very curious as to why he had been called so suddenly again to the library.In a few short words Bartley told him of the dead man that was within. His eyes opened wide at the information, and his jaw dropped when Bartley told him it was the gardener who was dead. Then as he started for the house, Bartley's hand went forth and touched his arm:“Chief, don't call up your office for several hours. Get your coroner if you must, but try and get him out here without any one knowing what has taken place.”As the chief turned a puzzled face in his direction and started to protest, Bartley continued:“I have my reasons, Chief, and they are good. If you keep this thing still for several hours, I have an idea I can come pretty close to putting my hand on the murderer.”We all gave him a startled glance. So far as I could see, not only was Warren's murder destined to become one of the unsolved crimes, but this deepened the mystery. There had been no apparent reason for Warren's death, for the gardener's there was none at all. True, Bartley had said the gardener had been killed in mistake for Patton; but there was no reason in the world why any person should have wished to kill Patton. But here was Bartley calmly saying that he thought he might be able to discover the murderer. And it needed only one look at his set face to know he was sincere in his belief.Puzzled, though not protesting, the chief agreed to what Bartley had asked, and then turned again to the house. Telling him we would be with him in a few moments, we watched the heavy figure ascend the steps and vanish within the room. Then, when he had passed from our sight, Bartley said:“Twice we have heard about a boat in connection with this affair. Now, if the murderer wished to enter the grounds without being seen, it is reasonable to assume he used a boat. The traces of mud that we found show he was in some water. With this dry weather we are having water is hard to find.”With that he started across the lawn and down through the trees. The estate ended by the lake, which was several hundred feet away. Along the edges of the water low-hanging willow trees formed a leafy green screen. The trees were rather close together; a person could have landed on the shore without much chance of being seen by any one who was a few feet away.We pushed through the branches to find that the shore line was several feet below the grass embankment. Below the grass a soft silt formed the shore, and the water was very shallow for some yards out. As I turned and looked through the low branches—branches which in places dropped below the bank and almost touched the water—I discovered that I could not see the library.By the water's edge we scattered. Carter and I went down the grass to our right, while Bartley and Ranville followed the shore in the direction to where the wall ended at the water. We had not taken more than four steps when there came Bartley's voice, and we hurried to where he and Ranville were standing.They were several feet away from the wall. It came, not only down to the water, but extended a few feet into the lake. The heavy stones had caused the water to hollow out a little curve just inside the estate. It was here that Bartley was pointing. Below us the soft silt—almost mud—extended for several feet into the lake. And there was no doubt, from a deep impression in the mud, that a boat had been run ashore at this very spot. Not only could one see where the boat had landed, but what is more, where some one had jumped for the shore, missed the bank, and had placed one foot in the silt.“That boat did not leave there so very long ago,” came Ranville's comment, as we all looked at the impression. “There is a slight breeze on the lake, the water is lapping against the shore, and in an hour that impression in the mud will be all smoothed out.”Bartley nodded, then bent over the bank to study the impression. He rose with a very perplexed look on his face and began to go slowly over the near-by grass. Suddenly he stopped and turned quickly.“That's not all, Ranville. The man in the boat got one foot in the water when he got out. You can see the dirt where it fell from the edge of the bank. But when he came back, he had something with him—something heavy. Maybe he carried it, but he had to half drag it into the boat. Look,” and he pointed to the bank.There, a little away from the spot where the impression was in the mud, were two places a foot apart—places where the grass was tangled and matted, and where the bank itself was broken down. It did look as though something had been dragged over the bank to the boat. As Bartley looked, his face grew very white, and I saw his hands open and close. He turned to Patton, and his voice was crisp as he shot out:“Patton, that was not your magazine we found in the library.”Patton shook his head. He might have replied, but Bartley gave him no time. The voice was insistent as he asked:“You said the girl—the secretary—was to return to the library and work an hour?”“Why, yes; she went to supper and was to come about six and work until seven. Carter told me we were to eat at seven.”“And you never saw her again after she left?”“Oh, yes, I did,” was Patton's unemotional answer. “Yes, I did. I saw her going up the street toward Warren's when I was in the tobacco store. If I had not stopped to talk for a few moments, I would have been able to catch up with her. Why, what's the matter?”Bartley's grave glance went to Ranville's face. As the Englishman looked at him, to my surprise I saw the red fade slowly from his face. Very gravely he started to nod his head when there came Bartley's quick voice:“What's the matter? Good Lord! Don't you see that the girl must have come up the path just about the moment the gardener was shot? Don't you see she must have walked right into the library, perhaps while the murderer held the gun in his hand—perhaps even at the very moment of shooting? She was there; the magazine on the floor was hers.”Carter gave a sudden start, and Patton's face grew white. He was the first to stammer out:“But where is she now?”Bartley's eyes swept over the water of the lake and rested on the faint impression in the silt—an impression now almost smoothed out. Then, pointing to the bedraggled grass and the place where the bank was broken, he said slowly:“She must have been at the front door just as the murder took place. Whoever did the killing dragged the girl down across the lawn and to the boat. Her feet, as they dragged along the grass, broke down the edge of the bank.”He paused and there came a moment of horrified silence. It needed but one glance at Ranville to see that he agreed with Bartley. From Carter's expression as he gazed at the broken place in the bank, I could tell he believed the same. Only Patton seemed too dazed to comprehend what it might mean.And then as our glances met, Bartley, for one of the few times in his life, uttered an oath and started to run toward the library. As the rest of us stood, hesitatingly, Bartley turned—turned to cry back at us in a voice that shook a little:“For God's sake, hurry! We may be just in time to prevent another murder, and this time the most horrible one of all.”
Dumbfounded, I stood holding the receiver, too dazed to even move. Then, frantically, I called Patton's name, though the sharp click which came when he hurriedly placed the receiver on the hook told me he had rung off. Hastily hanging up the receiver, I rushed into the living room and halted by the door. At my sudden appearance, there was a pause in the conversation. Bartley's eyes came to my face, rested, and he rose quickly to his feet, his face very grave.
“What is it?” came his quick question.
“Another murder—at Warren's,” I stammered.
I saw Ranville's face stiffen into attention as he slowly rose. Bartley's keen eyes never left my face, and a trace of anxiety swept across his face. Carter looked as though he did not believe me, but he asked quickly:
“Who? What do you mean?”
I told them in a few words of Patton's voice and what he had said. As I named the young professor, I saw that Bartley was not only relieved, but also he seemed rather puzzled. His eyes opened wider when I said he had told me the gardener had been murdered. But at the statement that Patton wanted us to come at once, they all started for the door.
Carter, as he rushed out into the hall, said he would get his big car from the garage. Bartley, with a sharp command to wait a moment while he went to his room, rushed up the stairs. Ranville and myself went out on the veranda and watched Carter rush across the grass and fling open the garage door. Immediately there came the first sharp explosion of the engine, and then it settled into a steady roar. He backed in a sweeping circle to the drive. By the time we reached the lawn Bartley came rushing down the steps with a bag in his hand.
We fell into the car, and almost before we were seated, Carter started with a jerk. Before we reached the street it was in high, and we swept out of the drive in a sharp curve. Then with the car increasing in speed every second we started down the lighted street. Not a word was said. I could see Carter's face, set and determined, as he drove his car, first at forty, then crept to fifty, and settled down around sixty. Down the wide street we swept, with people turning to look at us in amazement as we dashed past them with the siren wide open.
As we came around the bend of the street, where the road led straight as an arrow to Warren's estate, Ranville spoke. He was the first one to speak since we had left the house. And what he said seemed far more spoken to himself than any one else.
“So there is something in the library that some one is after,” came his musing voice.
“Of course,” Bartley shot back at him. “And what is more, I have been afraid all day that this might happen. I did not want a murder to take place, but if something did happen—an attack on Patton or a burglary—then it would prove a theory that I have.”
With a glance over his shoulder, Carter shot out:
“Got another one of your hunches, John?”
The car was slowing down. In front of us, through the gathering dusk, loomed the wall which enclosed the Warren estate. As the car stopped and we jumped out, Bartley answered Carter's question.
“Call it that, Carter,” he said. “I think we will discover something to-night.”
Nothing else was said, and on a half run we rushed through the gate and up the path which led to the house. As we turned to the path which ran through the hedges, I gave one glance back at the house. Through the semi-darkness there came the friendly gleam of a light, but there were no signs of confusion, or of any one about. Up the path we ran, and then, as the hedge ended, we could see the eight-sided library before us.
Every light seemed to be on, and the front door was slightly open. But of Patton we did not see a sign until we rushed into the building. Then we saw him standing silently near the desk. He whirled around as we entered, and I saw a look of relief sweep his face. One thing struck me sharply—in his hand was a revolver—a revolver which he was gripping firmly.
He started down the room to meet us. His face seemed strained, though there was no fear in it. The color had gone out of his cheeks as if there had come some sudden shock. He said nothing, but as we reached his side, he took us around the desk and pointed to the door at the extreme end of the room. For a moment I saw nothing, and then as I took one step forward, I paused and came to a halt. For there by the door, huddled in a heap on the floor, lay the figure of a man—a man who did not move, a man whose appearance seemed to fill the silent room with dignity, a man whom I knew in a glance was dead.
Silently we went down the length of the room and came to a pause by the body. It was lying on its face, with the feet toward the desk; one hand was reaching forth in a pathetic position as if in the last moment of life it had tried to stretch toward the safety of the open door a few feet away. As I looked at the figure, I was impressed with the fact that the man was wearing a suit very similar to Patton's—of some indescribable dark stuff. Not only that, save for the difference in years, the figure was about the same build and hair almost the same color.
This thought lasted only a moment. Bartley dropped silently to his knees and gently lifted the still head. We bent forward to observe the man's face, and then there passed a glance between Ranville and myself, for the cold face with the staring eyes was that of the man who worked around Warren's place. I started to say something, only to have Bartley speak first.
“He was shot through the heart, from behind. I think he must have been leaving the room when the shot was fired.”
He rose to his feet and cast a reflective look back to the desk, then hurried across the floor. Silently we followed him, and when we reached the desk, we received another surprise. It was a very large desk, with a great deal of room underneath. By its side stood a wastebasket, but the wastebasket was filled to overflowing with small pieces of paper—paper torn into hundreds of small pieces, which spilled over the side of the basket and over the floor—typewritten sheets torn into hundreds of tiny bits.
Bartley picked up a handful of paper and tried to fit some of the pieces together. He found this rather difficult, and then stood looking thoughtfully at the basket. I took several pieces of the paper in my hands and discovered that they once had been part of some typewritten manuscript. Ranville gave one look at the basket, glimpsed the typewritten letters, then glanced hurriedly at the desk.
“It looks as though some one went to considerable effort to destroy a manuscript.”
Patton's voice came sharp and quick. “They did; I found that mess of papers on the floor. When I left the room there lay on my desk several hundred pages of Warren's notes. And now—now they are torn to a thousand pieces. And”—he paused—“for the life of me I cannot understand it.”
Patton's face, as he looked at the destroyed manuscript, showed that he was facing a situation which was beyond him. Not only was he very much disturbed, but also rather frightened at what had taken place. It was with a great deal of eagerness that he started to answer the request Bartley made—to tell us just what had happened.
“Carter brought me over, you know. I was unable to do very much until the girl, who had acted as Mr. Warren's secretary, came. She came to the library about one and showed me what had been done. I found that Warren had half completed his book. In fact I never looked at any of his material beyond where he had ended. He was half finished, and I thought it would be best to see just what had been done.”
Bartley gave a quick look at the pieces of paper upon the floor and asked: “Then this torn paper is simply the notes and materials which Warren used in the first portion of his book?”
“Yes. I left the papers upon the desk when I went out. As I told you, I did not go beyond what Warren had already done. I wanted to become familiar with his plan. For that matter, the untouched notes are still in the safe. But when I returned to the library, I found the condition which you see.”
“It looks as if some one simply destroyed those papers in a fit of rage,” was Carter's comment.
I saw Ranville turn to Bartley and their eyes met; but they said nothing, and it was Patton's excited voice which broke the silence:
“That's right, Carter. Of all fool things, the biggest one was to destroy that mass of notes I left on the desk. The manuscript of the book, the half which Warren had completed, is still in the safe.”
“You say you left the library?”
Patton nodded. “Yes; about five o'clock the secretary went home for her lunch. She was to return again in an hour. I remembered what you told me—not to leave the library unguarded if I went out.”
“What!” came Carter's startled voice as he turned to Bartley. “Do you mean to tell me you expected something like this to happen?”
Bartley's eyes went down the length of the room to the still figure at the door. There was a note of sorrow in his voice as he replied briefly:
“I expected something.”
Carter gave a start, his face expressing a good deal of amazement. The Englishman, however, did not seem at all surprised by what had been said. And then Patton went on to tell why he had left the library. It was a very simple thing; he wanted some tobacco and he discovered that he had none in his pockets. Not finding any in the library, he went out leaving the door open. That was a little after five. Down by the iron gate he found the gardener and asked him to go and stay in the library until he returned. This was the first hint I had received that the gardener was still working on the estate.
The gardener had said that he would go in a moment or so, adding that no one could reach the building without passing up the path. With this, Patton had wandered down the street to the business section and had gone into the first store he noticed, bought tobacco and an evening paper. As he figured it, he was not away from the grounds more than thirty or forty minutes, returning directly after making his purchase. When he came up the path and entered the library, the first thing he saw was the hundreds of bits of paper on the floor, and that the manuscript was destroyed.
That was the first thing. Almost in the same moment he saw the figure lying by the rear door. He ran over to its side—to discover it was the gardener and that he was dead—shot. He was so dazed for a moment that he did nothing. Then he went to the phone and called us.
It was a simple story, and yet an amazing one. That in the space of one hour—in the time it took Patton to go to a store and buy some tobacco—another murder had been committed in the scientist's library; it seemed almost beyond belief. But that the gardener—a simple-minded man of his type—should be the victim was even more startling. I started to voice my thought, but Carter was ahead of me.
“But, John! Why—why under God should any person kill that gardener?”
“They never intended to kill the gardener,” came Ranville's dry voice.
Bartley gave him a keen look, commenting:
“Ranville is right. No one ever intended to kill the gardener. They wanted—that is, if they wished to kill any one—to murder Patton.”
“But,” came Patton's wailing voice, “why should any one wish to kill me?”
Bartley's eyes met Ranville's, and it was the Englishman who spoke:
“I am not so sure that they intended to kill you, Patton. Though if any one was to be killed, why you were the logical victim. What I think happened was this: they thought they killed you. You and the gardener are about the same build. You are both wearing a dark suit to-day, and your height is the same. When they shot at that man, they thought they were shooting you.”
“But—” Patton started in a bewildered voice. He was interrupted by Bartley's statement:
“Ranville is right, I think; but we might go even further. It is my idea that the murderer never discovered who it was he killed. He thought he killed Patton.”
“How do you make that out?” was Carter's question.
“I may be wrong, you understand. But it seems to me something like this happened. The gardener, when he said he could see any one come up the path, forgot it was an easy matter for a person to land on the shore in a boat. The trees would hide him from any person down by the gate. I have an idea also that the gardener never hurried about coming to the library. He took his own time and for some unknown reason went to the back door instead of the front one.”
“I don't see how you make that out,” broke in Patton.
“Look where he was killed,” came the quick response from Ranville.
“Yes,” said Bartley slowly. “Look where the body was lying. You find it on its face with one hand reaching for the door—the open door only a few inches away. The man was shot in the back while his face was turned away from the person who shot him. He fell, naturally, in the position in which we found him. And that makes me think the gardener came in the rear door, got several feet within the building, when all at once he saw the person engaged in destroying the manuscript.”
“But why did he turn to leave then?” was my question.
“It is my idea that when he turned to get out of the library, the other person had not seen him. Perhaps, even, the gardener knew who it was. He managed to go several feet before the man fired. I believe when he fired and the man fell and did not stir, he thought he had killed Patton. From the back, with the same colored suit, and the same general build, they look a bit alike.”
It seemed logical enough, and I could tell from the men's faces that they agreed. Then all at once Carter gave a sudden cry and said that we must get the chief. He started for the telephone, only to have Bartley call out to him:
“George, don't tell the chief what we want him for. Tell him to come right up here, but say nothing about the murder. I have my reasons.”
Carter shrugged his shoulders and, after fooling with the phone for some time, managed to get the chief. When he returned to our side, he said the chief was puzzled, wishing to know for what he was wanted, but he would come up right away.
With this, we started to examine the room. But after a quick, though very careful, search on the part of Ranville and Bartley, there was nothing of importance found. Only the small pieces of torn paper, which filled the wastebasket and littered the floor by the desk, showed that anything had been touched. There was no doubt these pieces of paper had once comprised Warren's notes—the notes which Patton said he had left on the desk.
As we went over to the front door, Ranville, who was in the lead, bent over, and as he straightened up, held in his hand a magazine—a very popular magazine with a gay cover of a girl in a scanty bathing suit. As Bartley saw it, he gave one glance, then turned to Patton.
“Two questions, Patton. Did you slip on the rug, and did you buy this magazine when you went to the store?”
The rug was a small Turkish one which we had noticed the various times we had been in the library. The colors were so beautiful that no one could help noticing it. It was always just inside the door, but now it was rumpled and disturbed, laying partly across the doorsill. As I looked at it, I decided that some one had slipped upon it.
Patton gave the magazine one glance, then gazed at the rug. He slowly shook his head, saying:
“It is ‘no’ to both questions.”
“Somebody slipped on that rug,” commented Carter.
“And when they went out of the room,” added Ranville. “It's dragged over the sill. If they stumbled when they entered the room, it would be lying farther inside the library.”
He bent a second and then fell to his knees, apparently interested in something he found by the sill. Scraping the substance with his knife, which he had taken from his pockets, he rose extending his hand to Bartley.
“It's mud,” he said.
We came closer to observe. There in his hand were a few bits of dried dirt—dirt which evidently had been wet only a short time ago. As Bartley saw it, he reached forth to crumple a piece of it between his fingers. Then he went out on the veranda and down the three steps to the ground. At the bottom step he bent down and then called:
“You will find more of it here.”
On the edge of the bottom step there were unmistakable signs of a muddy shoe. The signs were not plain enough to form a footprint, but one could see that some person in going up the steps must have brushed off the mud from their shoes. Patton gave it one look, then straightened up to say:
“That's not mine. I never went within a mile of any mud.”
Bartley was on the verge of a reply when we heard some one hail us at the bottom of the slight hill. Turning, we saw the chief hurrying across the lawn. His face was red as if he had been running, and when he stopped at our side, he gave us a very wondering look. There was no doubt he was very curious as to why he had been called so suddenly again to the library.
In a few short words Bartley told him of the dead man that was within. His eyes opened wide at the information, and his jaw dropped when Bartley told him it was the gardener who was dead. Then as he started for the house, Bartley's hand went forth and touched his arm:
“Chief, don't call up your office for several hours. Get your coroner if you must, but try and get him out here without any one knowing what has taken place.”
As the chief turned a puzzled face in his direction and started to protest, Bartley continued:
“I have my reasons, Chief, and they are good. If you keep this thing still for several hours, I have an idea I can come pretty close to putting my hand on the murderer.”
We all gave him a startled glance. So far as I could see, not only was Warren's murder destined to become one of the unsolved crimes, but this deepened the mystery. There had been no apparent reason for Warren's death, for the gardener's there was none at all. True, Bartley had said the gardener had been killed in mistake for Patton; but there was no reason in the world why any person should have wished to kill Patton. But here was Bartley calmly saying that he thought he might be able to discover the murderer. And it needed only one look at his set face to know he was sincere in his belief.
Puzzled, though not protesting, the chief agreed to what Bartley had asked, and then turned again to the house. Telling him we would be with him in a few moments, we watched the heavy figure ascend the steps and vanish within the room. Then, when he had passed from our sight, Bartley said:
“Twice we have heard about a boat in connection with this affair. Now, if the murderer wished to enter the grounds without being seen, it is reasonable to assume he used a boat. The traces of mud that we found show he was in some water. With this dry weather we are having water is hard to find.”
With that he started across the lawn and down through the trees. The estate ended by the lake, which was several hundred feet away. Along the edges of the water low-hanging willow trees formed a leafy green screen. The trees were rather close together; a person could have landed on the shore without much chance of being seen by any one who was a few feet away.
We pushed through the branches to find that the shore line was several feet below the grass embankment. Below the grass a soft silt formed the shore, and the water was very shallow for some yards out. As I turned and looked through the low branches—branches which in places dropped below the bank and almost touched the water—I discovered that I could not see the library.
By the water's edge we scattered. Carter and I went down the grass to our right, while Bartley and Ranville followed the shore in the direction to where the wall ended at the water. We had not taken more than four steps when there came Bartley's voice, and we hurried to where he and Ranville were standing.
They were several feet away from the wall. It came, not only down to the water, but extended a few feet into the lake. The heavy stones had caused the water to hollow out a little curve just inside the estate. It was here that Bartley was pointing. Below us the soft silt—almost mud—extended for several feet into the lake. And there was no doubt, from a deep impression in the mud, that a boat had been run ashore at this very spot. Not only could one see where the boat had landed, but what is more, where some one had jumped for the shore, missed the bank, and had placed one foot in the silt.
“That boat did not leave there so very long ago,” came Ranville's comment, as we all looked at the impression. “There is a slight breeze on the lake, the water is lapping against the shore, and in an hour that impression in the mud will be all smoothed out.”
Bartley nodded, then bent over the bank to study the impression. He rose with a very perplexed look on his face and began to go slowly over the near-by grass. Suddenly he stopped and turned quickly.
“That's not all, Ranville. The man in the boat got one foot in the water when he got out. You can see the dirt where it fell from the edge of the bank. But when he came back, he had something with him—something heavy. Maybe he carried it, but he had to half drag it into the boat. Look,” and he pointed to the bank.
There, a little away from the spot where the impression was in the mud, were two places a foot apart—places where the grass was tangled and matted, and where the bank itself was broken down. It did look as though something had been dragged over the bank to the boat. As Bartley looked, his face grew very white, and I saw his hands open and close. He turned to Patton, and his voice was crisp as he shot out:
“Patton, that was not your magazine we found in the library.”
Patton shook his head. He might have replied, but Bartley gave him no time. The voice was insistent as he asked:
“You said the girl—the secretary—was to return to the library and work an hour?”
“Why, yes; she went to supper and was to come about six and work until seven. Carter told me we were to eat at seven.”
“And you never saw her again after she left?”
“Oh, yes, I did,” was Patton's unemotional answer. “Yes, I did. I saw her going up the street toward Warren's when I was in the tobacco store. If I had not stopped to talk for a few moments, I would have been able to catch up with her. Why, what's the matter?”
Bartley's grave glance went to Ranville's face. As the Englishman looked at him, to my surprise I saw the red fade slowly from his face. Very gravely he started to nod his head when there came Bartley's quick voice:
“What's the matter? Good Lord! Don't you see that the girl must have come up the path just about the moment the gardener was shot? Don't you see she must have walked right into the library, perhaps while the murderer held the gun in his hand—perhaps even at the very moment of shooting? She was there; the magazine on the floor was hers.”
Carter gave a sudden start, and Patton's face grew white. He was the first to stammer out:
“But where is she now?”
Bartley's eyes swept over the water of the lake and rested on the faint impression in the silt—an impression now almost smoothed out. Then, pointing to the bedraggled grass and the place where the bank was broken, he said slowly:
“She must have been at the front door just as the murder took place. Whoever did the killing dragged the girl down across the lawn and to the boat. Her feet, as they dragged along the grass, broke down the edge of the bank.”
He paused and there came a moment of horrified silence. It needed but one glance at Ranville to see that he agreed with Bartley. From Carter's expression as he gazed at the broken place in the bank, I could tell he believed the same. Only Patton seemed too dazed to comprehend what it might mean.
And then as our glances met, Bartley, for one of the few times in his life, uttered an oath and started to run toward the library. As the rest of us stood, hesitatingly, Bartley turned—turned to cry back at us in a voice that shook a little:
“For God's sake, hurry! We may be just in time to prevent another murder, and this time the most horrible one of all.”