CHAPTER XVIITHE CORONER ASKS QUESTIONS
Thenext to occupy the witness chair was the fire chief. He answered briefly the questions put to him, and Lois McLane, beginning to feel the closeness of the atmosphere, longed for his departure. She had promised Ethel to stay and take her home, and the Morgue Master had assured her that Ethel would probably be called to the stand after the fire chief had given his testimony.
“You think then, that the fire was started by defective electric wires?” asked Penfield.
“I do.”
“Was much damage done?”
“The walls and floors were badly damaged, while the rugs, curtains, and several pieces of furniture were totally destroyed.”
“What caused the dense smoke, of which Mr. Ogden and other witnesses speak, if the fire was, as you testify, confined to a comparatively small space?” inquired Coroner Penfield.
“The fire had apparently smoldered in the wallsof the room, and on its bursting out, ignited a davenport on which were numerous pillows; all the chairs in the room were tufted, and when they caught as well as the velvet hangings, it added to the density of the smoke. But for the discharge of two boxes of cartridges, my men could have put out the fire much more quickly.”
“Did these cartridges go off in only one direction, Chief?”
“No; on the contrary they scattered in every direction, and I found bullet holes even in the house next door to the Ogdens’. In several instances my men’s helmets were pierced by them.”
“What caliber were the bullets, Chief?”
“Thirty-eight—for use in rifles,” as he spoke, the fire chief pulled a handful of brass shells and bullets from his pocket. “I picked these up after the fire was out, and took the bullets out of the walls.”
“Did the bullets penetrate through the walls to the hall beyond?”
“No; but the two doors to the den were open, and the bullets also went through the windows, and that is the way they reached the next house.”
“Did you see Mr. James Patterson alive when you entered the Ogden residence?” asked the coroner, handing the brass shells and bullets to the foreman of the jury.
“No; I only reached the house a few seconds before the igniting of the cartridges, and Mr. Patterson was found in the lower end of the hall, toward the back stairs.”
“Did you see the position of Mr. Patterson’s body?”
“Yes. Dr. McLane sent for me at once on finding the body.”
The coroner toyed for a second with his pencil, then tossed it on the high desk before which he was sitting. “Had the body been moved?” he asked.
“Dr. McLane told me that it had not.”
“In your opinion, Chief, could a bullet from the cartridges in the burning room have reached Mr. Patterson when standing over the spot where his body was later found lying?”
The coroner’s question electrified Lois McLane, as well as the others in the room. What did he mean to imply by his question? The fire chief was some seconds in answering.
“I carefully measured the distance.” As he spoke the fire chief reached over and took up a pad and pencil from the coroner’s desk. “Here,” he said, drawing a rough outline of the hall and rooms opening from it. “Mr. Patterson must have been standing at this point when shot, judging from where his body was found. The hall curves just at the pointwhere the two doors, leading from Mr. Walter Ogden’s room and the den open into it, and on the opposite side, but a little further down the hall, is a bullet proof safe. The bullet evidently struck the safe, ricocheted down the hall to where Mr. Patterson was standing and penetrated his back.”
“Were there any marks on the safe, Chief?”
“Yes, quite distinct marks where the bullet struck.”
At the answer Lois drew a long breath of relief; her too active imagination had attributed unnecessary meaning to the coroner’s first question; and she listened with abating interest to the few questions Coroner Penfield asked the fire chief before dismissing him. The latter was just leaving the platform when Penfield called him back.
“One moment,” he exclaimed. “Was any piece of furniture left intact in the burning room?”
“A desk between the two doors leading to the hall and Ogden’s bedroom, was badly scorched, but being of metal was not seriously damaged. The fire apparently had just gotten to it a few minutes before my men entered.”
“How about Mr. Ogden’s desk in which he kept his boxes of cartridges?”
“Oh, that was directly in the line of fire, and was burned to a crisp; nothing was left of it but a heap of smoldering ashes.”
The coroner dropped his pencil, which he had picked up to scribble a hasty note, and nodded to the fire chief.
“I have finished, thank you,” and as the man stepped down, he spoke to the Morgue Master. “Tell Charles Whelan, the Ogden butler, to step here,” and Lois McLane sank back in her chair in disappointment; apparently she would have to remain indefinitely at the Morgue.
That Charles did not enjoy being a witness was plain to be seen from his demeanor, and Lois pitied the man as he sat on the extreme edge of his chair, his hands playing nervously with his hat. His voice, as the Morgue Master administered the oath, could scarcely be heard two feet away, and he was cautioned to speak louder.
“What is your full name?” inquired Penfield, trying by his reassuring manner to put the servant at ease.
“Charles Wilson Whelan, sor, thank you, sor.”
“Occupation?”
“A butler, sor.”
“And have you lived long with Mr. and Mrs. Ogden, Charles?”
“Since October, sor.” Charles fumbled in one of his pockets and produced a number of soiled papers. “Here’s me references, sor.”
“Thanks, Charles, but I don’t require them,” said the coroner kindly.
Charles looked blank. “Sure, sor, I thought you was inquirin’ into me character, sor.”
“No, no, Charles; we just want you to tell us what you know about the fire at the Ogden’s last night.”
“The fire, is it?” Charles brightened. “Sure, I know nothin’ about it—never dhreamed of such an awful thing until I heard a voice call ‘Fire,’ and I bolted into the pantry to warn the other servants who were there and below stairs.”
“Which of the servants gave the warning of fire?”
“None of ’em, sor; they was all in the pantry or below stairs.”
“Couldn’t you smell smoke in your pantry, Charles?”
“No, sor,” and seeing the coroner’s dubious expression, the butler added hastily, “Sure, our cook had burned the cream sauce, and the smell of that just filled the pantry.”
“How many servants, besides yourself, does Mr. Ogden employ?”
“The cook, the chambermaid, Mrs. Ogden’s maid, the parlor maid, the furnace man, and meself,” Charles checked them off on his fingers. “But Mrs. Ogden fired the parlor maid, Rose, yesterdaymornin,’ and there was three extra help for the dinner, Emma, the crack cook, and the waiters from Rauscher’s. That’s all, sor.”
“I see.” The coroner laid the list of names on his desk. “Where do you keep the silver, Charles?”
“Down in the dining room in the daytime, but I takes it upstairs every night and puts it in the safe just at the end of the hall.” The butler paused and stared doubtfully at the jury, then coming to a sudden decision, he turned back to the coroner. “Sure, there was a burglar at the Ogdens’ the night before the fire.”
“A burglar?” The coroner’s interest quickened. “Did he steal anything?”
“No, sor; Mr. Julian Barclay scared him off before he had time to.”
“When did you last see Mr. Patterson alive, Charles?”
“Whin all the guests piled out of the dining room at the call of ‘Fire’.”
“And that was the last time?” Charles nodded vigorously. “Well, I think that is all; much obliged, Charles,” and the butler, much gratified by the coroner’s manner, descended hastily from the platform and slipped from the room.
The next witnesses, heard in rapid succession, were the Ogdens’ other servants; each corroboratedCharles’ statement that they were either in the pantry or in the kitchen, and had not realized the house was on fire until Charles had called to them; they also stated that the smell of scorched cream on the kitchen range had probably concealed any smell of burning which might have drifted into the basement. As the last servant left the witness chair, the coroner called to the Morgue Master.
“Ask Miss Ethel Ogden to step here,” he directed, and Lois McLane looked eagerly toward the door as it opened and Ethel walked in. The coroner met her at the foot of the platform and assisted her to the witness chair.
In spite of her white face and wildly beating heart, Ethel was outwardly composed, and her clear voice could be heard at the far end of the room as she took the oath and answered the preliminary questions put to her by the coroner.
“Can you tell me, Miss Ogden,” began Penfield, after a brief silence, “who among the guests at the dinner last night first called ‘Fire’?”
Ethel shook her head. “The voice seemed to come from the direction of the drawing room.”
“Could you recognize it?”
“N-no; it was too hoarse, too discordant to be recognizable.”
“Who sat nearest the drawing room entrance?”
Ethel considered a moment. “I believe Mrs. Leonard McLane and Mr. Julian Barclay sat directly in front of the drawing room doors, but a huge centerpiece of flowers prevented my seeing that part of the table.”
The coroner turned in his chair and faced her squarely. “When did you last see Mr. James Patterson alive?” he asked.
“As he went up the staircase to the second floor,” Ethel’s voice quivered, and her eyes filled with tears. Jim Patterson had, through his unfortunately jealous disposition forfeited her friendship, but he had met his death bravely, while endeavoring to carry out her last request, and his memory should be sacred.
“I have been told that it was at your request that Mr. Patterson attempted to enter the burning room.” Coroner Penfield paused, then asked impressively, “Is that so?”
“Yes. And I bitterly regret—” she choked and broke down.
“I understand,” said Penfield sympathetically, and waited considerately for her to regain her composure. “And what did you ask Mr. Patterson to procure for you from the burning room?” He waited an appreciable moment for a reply, and not getting it, repeated his question more emphatically.
“I asked him to get something out of my desk inthe den,” said Ethel at last, and both Coroner Penfield and Lois McLane took silent note of her unwilling almost sullen tone. “I could see from across the street that the fire seemed to be raging about the front of the room and judged that my desk was not in the direct line of fire. I started into the house, intending to go upstairs myself, but Mr. Patterson stopped me at the front door and—and—went instead. Oh, I wish he hadn’t,” she added. “I shall always reproach myself.”
“Miss Ogden,” Penfield touched her sympathetically on her arm to attract her attention from her bitter thoughts, “was Mr. Patterson successful—?”
“Successful?” she echoed, uncomprehendingly. “Why, he was killed.”
“Successful in procuring what you sent him for, I mean,” explained Penfield hurriedly.
“I found one of the articles I asked him to bring me in the desk this morning; the other was gone.”
“And you infer—?” persisted the coroner, as Ethel stopped.
“That Mr. Patterson picked up one article and, perhaps driven back by advancing flames, had not time to find the other.”
“What were these articles?”
Ethel stiffened at the question. It was the one she dreaded. Was her secret to be laid bare? WasJulian Barclay to know that she valued his ring and his miniature of her at so high a price that she had sent a man to his death to get them for her? So open a confession of her passionate attachment to him stung her proud and sensitive nature to the quick.
Coroner Penfield gave her no time to consider her answer.
“I must ask you to reply promptly,” he said brusquely, glancing significantly at the wall clock. “You are unnecessarily wasting the time of the court. Quickly now, what were these articles?”
“A ring and a miniature,” she answered confusedly.
“And which article did Mr. Patterson find?”
“The miniature, as the ring was still in the desk drawer.”
“Of whom was the miniature?”
“Of myself,” replied Ethel faintly. She did not look at Lois, and missed her sudden start and low-toned ejaculation.
“Have you recovered the miniature from among Mr. Patterson’s effects?” asked the coroner.
“Not yet; I—I fainted on hearing of Mr. Patterson’s death, and when I felt equal to making inquiries, I was told that Dr. McLane had turned over everything found in Mr. Patterson’s possession tothe police. I have not seen Dr. McLane since learning this.”
“I see.” Coroner Penfield contemplated her thoughtfully. The delicate, refined beauty of her young face, her trim figure and stylish clothes all possessed unconscious appeal, and Penfield, seeing her effort at forced composure, altered his plans.
“I will not detain you farther,” he announced. “Look out for that bottom step,” and Ethel thankfully accepted his assistance, conscious that her knees were trembling under her. But her ordeal in the witness chair had been briefer than she had dared to hope, and a ghost of a smile touched her lips at sight of Lois McLane standing by the doorway.
The two friends left the court room together, but on the other side of the door Ethel halted involuntarily, for at their entrance Julian Barclay had turned from moody contemplation of the few pictures the room boasted, and approached them. He shook hands with Mrs. McLane, his gaze traveling over her shoulder to Ethel.
As their eyes met, Ethel almost cried out, there was such dumb agonizing appeal in his dark eyes. She leaned impulsively forward, but the words on her parted lips were checked by the entrance of the Morgue Master.
“You are wanted, Mr. Barclay,” he announced.