The Luminous Face

“Oh, if you could do that!” Phyllis’ eyes shone with gratitude and pleasure at the thought of thus having her burden shared.

But Lane’s return to the room precluded further planning just then.

“Pollard,” Lane said, “I’m beginning to think things look a bit dark for Phil Barry.”

“As how?”

“Not only that letter business, which is, to my mind very serious, but other things. Merely straws, perhaps, but they show the direction of the wind. Mrs Lindsay told me that Barry said he saw you, Pollard, to-day, down in the vicinity of the Gleason house. Then, Mrs Lindsay said, you came in here and said you had been at home all day.”

“So I have,” Pollard returned, staring at Lane.

“Well, here’s the funny thing. Only yesterday, Barry told me that he had seen you over in Brooklyn – ”

“Brooklyn! I never go there!”

“Well, Barry said he saw you there. Now, it’s quite evident to me, Barry is lying, and it must be in some endeavor to get you mixed up in the Gleason matter.”

“It looks a little like that – but, how absurd! Why should he say he saw me in Brooklyn?”

“I don’t know. You weren’t there?”

“No; I almost never go to Brooklyn, and I certainly was not there yesterday. I haven’t been there for a year, at least!”

“I’m not quite on to Barry’s game, but there’s two cases where he falsified in the matter of seeing you. Now, why?”

“I say why, too. I can’t see any reason for the Brooklyn yarn. I suppose I can see a reason for his saying he saw me down in Washington Square, if he means to try to fasten the crime on me. But, the Brooklyn story I see no sense in. What do you think, Lane?”

“I begin to think Barry’s the guilty man, though up to now, I had quite another suspicion.”

“A definite one? A person?”

“Yes, decidedly so. And I’ve no reason to give up my suspicion – except that Barry has loomed up more prominently than my suspect.”

“Speak out – who’s your man?”

“Yes, Mr Lane, tell us,” Phyllis urged.

“No; not at present. It’s some one whose name has not even been breathed in connection with the case, and if I suspect him wrongly it would be a fearful thing to say so.”

“All right, if that’s the way of it, better keep it quiet.” Pollard nodded his head. “Been all through Gleason’s papers?”

“Yes; and I can’t find any letters from any one out West or anywhere else who would seem a likely suspect. No old time feuds, or present-day quarrels. If we except Barry.”

“And me.”

“You haven’t a quarrel with him, Pollard – or had you?”

“I had not. I never saw him more than three times, I think. And when I said – ”

“Yes, I know what you said, and why. Don’t harp on that, Pol, but try to help me out in this Barry business. Can you see Barry going down there and shooting Gleason?”

Pollard was still for a minute; then he said:

“I suppose you mean, can I visualize Barry doing the thing. No, I can’t. To begin with, he hasn’t the nerve.”

“Oh, some quiet, inoffensive men pick up nerve on occasion.”

“Well, then, he hadn’t sufficient motive.”

“A lady in the case is frequently the motive.”

“I daresay. Well, here’s a final disclaimer. I was with Barry myself until about six o’clock that night. I hold he wouldn’t have had time to go down to Gleason’s after I left him, and get back and appear at Miss Lindsay’s at dinner time, quite unruffled and correct in dress and demeanor.”

“Are you sure he did do this?”

“Certainly; I was there myself.”

“But he left you, say, at six. Dinner was at eight. Seems to me that was time for all.”

“Yes, if he rushed matters. It would, of course, imply premeditation. He would have had to get down to Gleason’s quickly – hold on, the telephone message was received at Doctor Davenport’s office at about a quarter to seven – I remember the detective harped on that.”

“All right. Say he did commit the crime at about six-thirty, or quarter to seven, that would give him time to get home and to the dinner at eight. It all fits in, I think.”

“I suppose it does,” Pollard agreed, slowly. “But, that would mean that when he left me that afternoon, or evening – about six o’clock, anyway, he had this thing all planned, and rushed it through. I submit that if that were so, he would have been excited, or preoccupied, or something. On the contrary, Lane, he was as calm and casual as we are this minute. I can’t see it – as I said in the first place.”

Then Phyllis spoke.

“It’s this way, Mr Lane,” she said; “I happen to know that Phil Barry told two untruths – or else, Mr Pollard did. I mean, Phil said, he saw Mr Pollard twice, in places where he himself says he was not. Now shall I believe the one or the other?”

“Choose,” said Pollard, smiling at her.

“But, Miss Lindsay,” Lane said, “don’t choose because of your faith in one man or the other. Choose by rational deduction from circumstances.”

“That’s just what I want to do,” Phyllis replied. “And here’s how it looks to me. Phil Barry didn’t tell the truth or else Mr Pollard didn’t. Now, Mr Pollard has no reason to prevaricate, and Phil, if guilty, has. Therefore – and yet, I can’t believe Phil shot Mr Gleason.”

“I can,” Millicent exclaimed. “I see it all now. Phil’s madly in love with you, Phyllis – as who isn’t? I don’t know what it is, child, but you seem to set all men wild, and you so demure and sweet! Well, it’s common knowledge that Phil adores you. And we all know my brother did. Now the theory or hypothesis or whatever you call it, that Phil was jealous of Robert and killed him – after sending him that warning letter – is, to my mind the only tenable theory and one that proves in every detail. For, granting Phil Barry is the criminal, the letter is explainable, the stories he told about Mr Pollard are explainable, and the whole thing becomes clear.”

“Millicent,” Phyllis said, looking at her seriously, “you are only too ready to assume the guilt of any one you suspect at the moment. I admit your theory, but – I can’t believe Phil did it!”

“No,” cried Millicent, “because you are in love with Phil! That’s the reason you won’t look facts in the face! I declare, Phyllis, you have more interest in your foolish love affairs than in discovering the murderer of my brother! But I am determined to find the villain who shot Robert Gleason! I shall find him – I promise you that! I am not mercenary, I shall devote every last cent of my money – or my brother’s money to tracking down the murderer.”

“Do you know,” said Pollard, quietly, “it seems to me that we all look at this thing too close by. I mean, too much from a personal viewpoint. You, Mrs Lindsay, want to find your brother’s murderer, but you, Phyllis, and you, Louis, are more interested in whether friends of yours are implicated or not. Isn’t that so, Lane?”

“Yes,” agreed Fred Lane. “But, see here, Pollard, I’m laying aside this personal interest you speak of, and I’m trying to go merely and solely by evidence. Now, I think that the evidence against Phil Barry is pretty positive.”

“Well, I don’t,’” Pollard disagreed with him. “It is, in a way – but, good Lord, man, lots of people may write to a person without intending to kill him.”

“Not a letter like Barry’s.”

“Yes, just that. Oh, for Heaven’s sake, use a little intelligence! If Barry had meant to kill Gleason, do you suppose he would have written that letter? Never!”

“Yes, I think he would.” Lane spoke slowly and thoughtfully. “You see, Pol, you’re tarred with the same brush – I mean the artistic temperament, and you ought to see that a man’s mind works spasmodically. Barry had the impulse to kill, I hold, and he wrote that warning letter as – well, as a salve to his conscience, and there it is.”

Meantime, Detective Prescott was on the job. He had taken Barry down to the Washington Square house, but not to Robert Gleason’s apartment.

It was Miss Adams’ doorbell he rang, and to her home he escorted Philip Barry.

Barry’s anger had subsided from belligerent altercation to a subdued sullenness.

“You’ll be sorry for this,” he told Prescott, but as that worthy had often been similarly warned, he paid little attention.

“Now, Miss Adams,” said Prescott, when they were in the presence of the spinster. “I want you to tell me whether this is the man whom you saw go into Mr Gleason’s apartment that afternoon.”

Miss Adams scanned Barry carefully.

They were all standing, and as the lady looked him over, Barry turned slowly round, as if to give her every opportunity for correct judgment.

“Thank you,” she said, quite alive to his sarcastic intent. “No, Mr Prescott, this is not the man.”

“Are you sure?” Prescott was disappointed, not because he wanted to prove Barry guilty of the crime, but because Miss Adams’ negative made it imperative for him to hunt up another man. For the caller of that afternoon must be found.

“Why, I’m pretty sure. Though, of course, clothes might make a difference.”

“You said the man who came wore a soft hat.”

“Yes; but it was a different color from Mr Barry’s. It was a dull green – olive, I think.”

“It was after dark when he came, wasn’t it?”

“Yes; but the hall was lighted and I saw him clearly. But a man may have two hats, I suppose.”

“I haven’t,” said Barry, shortly. “That is, I haven’t two hats that I wear in the afternoon. This is the only soft felt I possess.”

The hat he wore was of a medium shade of gray, an inconspicuous soft hat of the latest, but in no way, extreme fashion.

“That’s nothing,” Prescott said. “A man can buy and give away a lot of hats in a week. Size him up carefully, Miss Adams; your opinion may mean a lot. Never mind the hat. How does Mr Barry’s size and shape compare with the man you saw?”

“Mr Barry is a heavier man,” the lady said, decidedly; “also I feel sure, an older man. The man I saw was slighter and younger.”

“Did you see his face?”

“No.”

“Yet you’re sure he was younger?”

“Yes, I am. He was of slighter build, and a little taller, and he walked with a jauntier step, almost a run, as he came up the stairs.”

“You are very observant, Miss Adams.”

“Not so very. I took him in at a glance, and he impressed me as I have stated. I have a retentive memory, that’s all. I can see him now – as he bounded up the stairs.”

“In a merry mood?”

“I don’t know as to that. But the impression he gave me was more that of a man in haste. He tapped impatiently at the door of Mr Gleason’s apartment, and when it was not opened instantly, he rapped again.”

“And then Mr Gleason opened it?”

“Then somebody opened it. I couldn’t see who. The man went in quickly and the door was closed. That’s all I know about it.”

Miss Adams sat down then, and folded her hands in her lap. She was quite serene, and apparently not much interested in the matter.

A fleeting thought went through the detective’s mind that possibly Barry had interviewed her before and had persuaded or bribed her to say all this. But it seemed improbable.

Barry, too, was serene. He seemed satisfied at the turn events had taken, and appeared to think that Miss Adams’ decision had cleared him from suspicion.

Not so the detective.

“Well, Mr Barry,” he said, “we’ve got to find another man to fit that olive green hat, it appears. But that doesn’t preclude the possibility of your having been here that day, too. You didn’t hang over the balusters all the afternoon, I suppose, Miss Adams.”

Offended at his mode of expression, the lady drew herself up haughtily, and said, “I did not.”

“But you saw no one come in who might have been Mr Barry?”

“No.”

“Could he have come and you not have known it?”

Miss Adams was about to make a short reply, and then thought better of it.

“I want to help you all I can,” she said, “and I am answering your questions carefully. I suppose any one could have gone into Mr Gleason’s apartment that day without my knowing it, but it is not likely. For I was listening for the arrival of my niece, who, however, did not come. I kept watch, therefore, until about six o’clock, or a little after, then as I gave up all hope of my niece’s coming, I also ceased to watch or listen. Anybody may have come after that. I don’t know, I’m sure.”

Prescott ruminated. Whoever killed Robert Gleason may well have arrived after six o’clock. For the telephone call didn’t reach the doctor until about quarter of seven, and if it were Barry, it must be remembered he didn’t part company with Pollard until six or after.

It would seem then, that Miss Adams’ testimony amounted to little, after all. However, the man with the green hat ought to be found.

“Tell us again of the young man,” Prescott said. “See if you can describe him so we can recognize some one we know.”

Miss Adams thought a moment, and then said: “No, I can’t. He just seemed to me like a young chap, an impulsive sort, who ran in to see a friend. He came upstairs hastily, yet not in any merriment – of that I’m sure. Rather, he gave me the effect of a man anxious for the interview – whatever it might be about.”

“Didn’t he ring the lower bell? Why wasn’t Mr Gleason at his own door when the chap came up?”

“I don’t know. I think he must have rung Mr Gleason’s bell down stairs, for the front door opened to admit him. But Mr Gleason didn’t open his own door until the visitor had rapped twice. Of that I’m certain.”

“Do you think the girl who came before the young man did was still in Mr Gleason’s apartment?”

“Why, I don’t know.” Miss Adams seemed suddenly more interested. “Maybe she was. Maybe she didn’t want to be seen there. Maybe – ”

She paused, and sat silent. Prescott gave her a minute or two, to collect herself, for he felt sure there would be some further disclosure.

Meantime Barry had taken an envelope from his pocket, and was rapidly sketching on it. A very few lines gave a distinct picture of a young man.

“Does that look like the man you saw?” he asked, holding it so that Miss Adams could see it, but Prescott could not.

“That’s the man himself!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with astonishment.

CHAPTER XII – Louis’ Confession

Before Prescott could snatch at the paper picture to do so, Barry had torn the paper into bits and thrown them into the fire in the old-fashioned grate.

He laughed at the detective’s chagrin, and said, “Nothing doing, Prescott. If the man I sketched is the criminal, you must find it out for yourself. If not, I’d be mighty sorry to drag his name into it.”

“I deduce, then, that his name is not already in it,” Prescott returned; “in that case, I can guess who it is.”

“Guess away,” Barry said, not believing the statement. “I’ll only tell you the man I drew on that paper bore no ill will toward Gleason, so far as I know. And, moreover, the fact of his coming here, and running upstairs, doesn’t necessarily prove him a murderer.”

“Tell me more of his appearance, Miss Adams,” urged Prescott, hoping Barry’s sketch had refreshed her memory.

For Philip Barry had a knack of characterization, and with a few lines could give an unmistakable likeness.

But the spinster could tell no more in words than she had already done and Prescott was forced to be content with a vague idea of a young man who ran lightly upstairs.

“Was it Louis Lindsay?” he asked, suddenly, but the non-committal smile on Barry’s face gave him an impression that this was a wrong assumption.

At Prescott’s request, Barry accompanied him to Gleason’s rooms.

The detective had a key and they went in. Except for some tidying up, nothing had been disturbed since the day of the crime. The rather commonplace furnishings were in direct contrast to the personal belongings which were still in evidence.

There were pictures and ornaments, books and smoking paraphernalia that had been selected with taste and good judgment.

The desk, too, was a valuable piece of furniture, and fitted with the best of writing appointments.

“Any more letters from you here?” Prescott said, as if casually, while he took a bundle of papers.

“Probably,” Barry returned, shortly; “if one could be forged, more could be.”

“Look here, Mr Barry,” the detective said, seriously, “just explain, will you, how that letter could have been forged? Experts have concluded that the signature is yours. They say it is impossible that your very distinctive autograph could have been written freehand, as it evidently is, by any one but yourself. If it were traced or copied, some deviation would appear. Now, granting that, there is still a possibility that some one, evilly disposed, might have written the typed message above your signature. But how do you explain that? Did you ever sign a blank sheet of paper? Club paper?”

“Never!” Barry declared. “Why should I do such a thing?”

“Why, indeed! Yet, if you didn’t, the letter must be all yours. Why not admit it? The admission, to my mind, would be less incriminating than the denial.”

“But I didn’t write it,” Barry insisted. “I didn’t type it, or sign it.”

“Then the murderer did,” Prescott nodded his head, sagaciously. “Can you make it out? I mean, can you suggest how it could be done? If you had ever signed a blank sheet, it would be easy for him to write on it, you see – ”

“Of course I never did! If I had done such an inexplicable thing I should remember it! No; I can’t suggest how it was done. It is to me an insoluble problem, and I admit I’m curious. But I never saw that letter until you showed it to me.”

Barry’s straightforward gaze went far toward convincing Prescott of his truthfulness, but he only said:

“If you’re the criminal, you’d be smart enough to throw that very bluff. I don’t believe you are – but – I don’t know. You see, if you’d admit the letter, you could more easily establish your innocence – ”

“No; Prescott, I couldn’t establish my innocence by telling a lie. I am innocent, and I know nothing about that letter. Now, work from those facts and see where you come out.”

“Just here,” and Prescott faced him. “If those are facts, then the murderer forged that letter to hang the crime on you. Never mind now, how he forged it, merely assume he did so. Then, we must infer, the murderer is one who has access to the Club typewriter – ”

“Well,” Barry was thinking quickly, “here’s a suggestion – if, as you say, the impossible was accomplished, and that letter was forged by some one with Club privileges, why not Gleason himself?”

Prescott stared. “Robert Gleason? Forge the letter?”

“As well as any one else. He hated me – suppose it was suicide – ”

“Oh, bah! it wasn’t suicide! That man had all there is of it to live for! He had wealth, and he hoped to win Miss Lindsay for his bride. Don’t tell me he thought of suicide! Absurd!”

“That’s so,” and Barry dismissed the idea, “But say he knew he was doomed and wrote the letter to get me in bad.”

“Flubdub! Though, wait – if Mr Pollard’s idea is correct, and the murderer should be some Western friend – or foe – and, just suppose, say, that he threatened Gleason’s life so definitely that Gleason knew he was doomed, and so – ”

“And so he manufactured evidence that he hoped would incriminate me?” Barry spoke thoughtfully. “Ingenious, on your part, Prescott, but I can’t think it. The letter is too elaborate, too difficult of achievement. In fact, I can’t see how anybody did it!”

“Nor can I!” Prescott turned on him. “And nobody could do it, Mr Barry, except yourself. You’ve overreached the mark in denying it. The forgery of that letter is an impossibility! Therefore, you wrote it.”

“Does that argue me the criminal?”

“Not positively. But your denial of the letter helps to do so! If you wrote it, and denied it at first, through fear, you are now, of course, obliged to stick to your denial. But, criminal or not, that letter was written and sent by yourself.”

“You’re wrong, Mr Prescott; but as I can’t even imagine who did it or who could have done it, there’s small use in our arguing the subject.”

And there was something in his tone of finality that helped to convince Prescott of his entire innocence.

The poor detective was at his wits’ end. Every way he looked, he seemed to be peering into a blind alley. Conferences with his colleagues or his superiors helped him not at all. Lack of evidence brought all their theories to naught. Unless something more could be discovered the case seemed likely to go unsolved. Or, and this troubled Prescott, unless something was discovered soon, the impulsive and impatient Mrs Lindsay would employ a private detective. And that would be small credit to the work of the force. So Prescott worked away at his job. He went over the letters and papers in the desk, but these gave him no further clew. There was no other communication from Barry, though that, in itself, proved nothing. Yet had there been another it would have been edifying to compare the two.

“No clews,” Prescott lamented, looking hopelessly about the room.

“No,” Barry agreed. “This detective work is queer, isn’t it? – Now in story-books, the obliging criminals leave all sorts of interesting bits of evidence or indications of their presence.”

“Yes, but real criminals are too canny for that. Not even a fingerprint on the telephone or revolver, except Gleason’s own. And that, though meant to indicate a suicide, proved only a diabolically clever criminal!”

“How do you explain the telephone call after the man was fatally shot?”

Prescott grunted. “An impossibility like that can be explained only by the discovery of facts not yet known. Maybe the doctors diagnosed wrong – ”

“No, not Ely Davenport!” Barry declared.

“Well, then, maybe the man telephoned before he was shot, but was positive the shot was coming.”

“Telephoned in the presence of the murderer?”

“Oh, I don’t know! Didn’t I tell you nothing could explain that but to discover some new facts? I haven’t got ’em yet!”

“Do you expect to?”

“Honest, Mr Barry, I don’t know. A case like this – so full of queer and unexplainable conditions may suddenly become clear – or, it may never do so!”

“Isn’t that true of every case?”

“Well, I mean some unexpected clew may drop from the skies and clear it all up at once, or it may never be solved at all. Most cases can be worked out piece by piece, and require only patience and perseverance; but when you strike the work of a super-criminal, as this certainly is, then you have to wait for chance to help you. And that’s mighty uncertain!”

“Well, I’ll help you, Prescott, to this extent. I won’t leave town and I’ll always be where you can find me. If you believe me, you can call off your shadowers – if you don’t, let them keep on my trail. But as to any startling clew or evidence I can’t promise to give you any.”

“Even if you get it yourself?” said the detective, quickly.

“You have uncanny intuition!” exclaimed Barry. “I didn’t say that.”

“Be careful about compounding a felony, sir.”

“Be careful about suspecting an innocent man,” returned Barry, and went away.

The artist went to the Lindsay home, but not finding Louis there, followed his trail to the Club.

Getting him into a secluded corner, Barry asked him abruptly: “Were you at Gleason’s the afternoon of the murder?”

“No; why?” was the reply, but the nervous agitation the boy showed seemed not to corroborate his statement.

“Because I’ve been told you were. Come across, Louis. Take my advice – there’s nothing to be gained from falsification. Own up, now. You were there.”

“Yes, Phil, I was. But don’t let it be known – for I didn’t do for old Gleason – truly I didn’t! Any more than you did!”

“Of course, Louis – neither of us killed that man. But I tell you it’s better to tell the truth.”

“But I won’t be believed – ” Louis whimpered like a child. “Don’t tell on me, Phil. Who said I was there?”

“You were seen to go in.”

“By whom?”

“A tenant on another floor. Better come clean, boy. What were you there for?”

“The old reason. I wanted money.” Louis spoke sullenly, and his dark eyes showed a smoldering fire. “I was in bad – ”

“Oh, Louis, gambling again?”

“Quit that tone, Barry. You’re not my father confessor!”

“You’d better have one. Don’t you see you’re ruining your life – and breaking your sister’s heart – not that you’d care! You are a selfish little beast, Louis! I’ve no use for you! But, listen, unless you tell the truth when you’re questioned, I warn you, it’ll go hard with you. Promise me this; if you’re asked, admit you were there. If you’re not asked, do as you like about withholding the information.”