No Clue. Hay James
and saw. Although his ample night-shirt, stuffed into his equally baggy trousers, contributed nothing but comicality to his appearance, the others submitted without question to his domination. There was about him suddenly an atmosphere of power that impressed even the little group of awe-struck servants who stood a few feet away.
"Stabbed," he said, after he had run his hands over the woman's figure; "died instantly – must have. Got her heart. – Young – not over twenty-five, would you say? – Not dead long. – Anybody call a doctor?"
"I told Lally to stop by Dr. Garnet's house and send him – at once," Webster said, his voice low, and broken. "He's the coroner, too."
Hastings continued his examination. The brief pause that ensued was broken by a woman's voice:
"Pauline! Pauline!"
The call came from one of the upstairs windows. Hearing it, a woman in the servant group hurried into the house.
Webster groaned: "My God!"
"Frantic fiends! It gets worse and worse!" Sloane objected shrilly. "My nerves! And Lucille's annoyed – shocked!"
He held the smelling bottle to his nose, breathing deeply.
"Here! Take this!" Hastings directed, and put up his hand abruptly.
Sloane had so gone to pieces that the movement frightened him. He stepped back in such obvious terror that a hoarse guffaw of involuntary ridicule escaped one of the servants. The detective, finding that his kneeling posture made it difficult to put his handkerchief back into his trousers pocket, had thrust it toward Sloane. That gentleman having so suddenly removed himself out of reach, Hastings stuck the handkerchief into Judge Wilton's coat-pocket.
Arthur Sloane, the detective said later, never forgave him that unexpected wave of the handkerchief – and the servant's ridiculing laugh.
Hastings looked up to Wilton.
"Did you find any weapon?"
"I didn't look – didn't take time."
"Neither did I," young Webster added.
Hastings, disregarding the wet grass, was on his hands and knees, searching. He accomplished a complete circuit of the body, his round-shouldered, stooping figure making grotesque, elephantine shadows under the light of the torch as he moved about slowly, not trusting his eyes, but feeling with his hands every inch of the smallest, half-lit spaces.
Nobody else took part in the search. Having accepted his leadership from the outset, they seemed to take it for granted that he needed no help. Mentally benumbed by the horror of the tragedy, they stood there in the quiet, summer night, barren of ideas. They were like children, waiting to be instructed.
Hastings stood erect, pulling and hauling at his trousers.
"Can't find a knife or anything," he said. "Glad I can't. Hope he took it with him."
"Why?" asked Sloane, through chattering teeth.
"May help us to find him – may be a clue in the end."
He was silent a moment, squinting under the rims of his spectacles, looking down at the figure of the dead woman. He had already covered the face with the hat she had worn, a black straw sailor; but neither he nor the others found it easy to forget the peculiar and forbidding expression the features wore, even in death. It was partly fear, partly defiance – as if her last conscious thought had been a flitting look into the future, an exulting recognition of the certain consequences of the blow that had struck her down.
Put into words, it might have been: "You've murdered me, but you'll pay for it – terribly!"
A servant handed Hastings the blanket he had ordered. He looked toward the sky.
"I don't think it will rain any more," he said. "And it's best to leave things as they are until the coroner arrives. – He'll be here soon?"
"Should get here in half an hour or so," Judge Wilton informed him.
The detective arranged the blanket so that it covered the prone form completely, leaving the hat over the face as he had first placed it. With the exception of the hat, he had disturbed no part of the apparel. Even the folds of the raincoat, which fell away from the body and showed the rain-soaked black skirt, he left as he had found them. The white shirtwaist, also partly exposed now, was dry.
"Anybody move her hat before I came out?" he asked; "you, judge; or you, Mr. Webster?"
They had not touched it, they said; it was on the grass, beside her head, when they discovered the body, and they had left it there.
Again he was silent, brows drawn together as he stood over the murdered woman. Finally, he raised his head swiftly and, taking each in turn, searched sharply the countenances of the three men before him.
"Does – didn't anybody here know this woman?" he asked.
Berne Webster left his place at the opposite side of the body and came close to Hastings.
"I know who she is," he said, his voice lower even than before, as if he wished to keep that information from the servants.
Hastings' keen scrutiny had in it no intimation of surprise. Waiting for Webster to continue, he was addressed by the shivering Mr. Sloane:
"Mr. Hast – Mr. Hastings, take charge of – of things. Will you? You know about these things."
The detective accepted the suggestion.
"Suppose we get at what we know about it – what we all know. Let's go inside." He turned to the servants: "Stay here until you're called. See that nothing is disturbed, nothing touched."
He led the way into the house. Sloane, near collapse, clung to one of Judge Wilton's broad shoulders. It was young Webster who, as the little procession passed the hatrack in the front hall, caught up a raincoat and threw it over the half-clad Hastings.
III
THE UNEXPECTED WITNESS
In the library Hastings turned first to Judge Wilton for a description of the discovery of the body. The judge was in better condition than the others for connected narrative, Arthur Sloane had sunk into a morris chair, where he sighed audibly and plied himself by fits and starts with the aroma from the bottle of smelling salts. Young Webster, still breathing as if he had been through exhausting physical endeavour, stood near the table in the centre of the room, mechanically shifting his weight from foot to foot.
Wilton, seated half-across the room from Hastings, drew, absently, on a dead cigar-stump. A certain rasping note in his voice was his only remaining symptom of shock. He had the stern calmness of expression that is often seen in the broad, irregularly-featured face in early middle age.
"I can tell you in very few words," he said, addressing the detective directly. "We all left this room, you'll remember, at eleven o'clock. I found my bedroom uncomfortable, too warm. Besides, it had stopped raining. When I noticed that, I decided to go out and smoke my good-night cigar. This is what's left of it."
He put a finger to the unlighted stump still between his lips.
"What time did you go out?" asked Hastings.
"Probably, a quarter of an hour after I'd gone upstairs – fifteen or twenty minutes past eleven, I should guess."
"How did you go out – by what door?"
"The front door. I left it unlocked, but not open. At first I paced up and down, on the south side of the house, under the trees. It was reasonably light there then – that is to say, the clouds had thinned a little, and, after my eyes had got accustomed to it, I had no trouble in avoiding the trees and shrubbery.
"Then a cloud heavier than the others came up, I suppose. Anyway, it was much darker. There wasn't a light in the house, except in my room and Berne Webster's. Yours was out, I remember. I passed by the front of the house then, and went around to the north side. It was darker there, I thought, than it had been under the trees on the south side."
"How long had you been out then, altogether?"
"Thirty or forty minutes." He looked at his watch. "It's a quarter