The Luminous Face
The door gave a grudging grunt, and, unwillingly, as it seemed, moved slowly inward.
Doctor Davenport was half way up the first flight of stairs, when a woman’s head appeared through a doorway.
“What do you want?” she inquired, a little crisply.
“Mr McIlvaine’s apartment.”
“That’s it, opposite,” she returned, more affable as she caught sight of the good-looking man. “Mr Gleason’s in there now.”
“Yes, he’s the man I want. Thank you, madame.”
She still stood, watching, as he rang the doorbell of the designated apartment.
There was no answer, nor any sound from inside. The doctor looked apprehensively at the door.
“Your key wouldn’t let me in, I suppose,” he said, turning back to the now frankly curious spectator.
“Oh, Lord, no! We don’t have interchangeable keys! He’s out, I expect. He’s mostly out.”
“But I want to get into his place – ”
“You do! And he not there! You a friend of his?”
“Why – yes; I’m his doctor – and I’m afraid he’s ill.”
“Oh – that. But look here – if you’re his doctor, why didn’t you know which was his place? You’re pretty slick, mister, but it’s a bit fishy – I think.”
She half withdrew back into her own doorway, but curiosity still detained her, and, too, Doctor Davenport’s demeanor impressed her as being quite all right.
“Nothing wrong – is there?” she whispered, coming across the small hall, and peering into the doctor’s face.
“Oh, no – I think not. But he may be helpless, and I must get in. I’ve never been here before, but I’ve been called by him just now. I must get in. Where’s the janitor?”
“Where, indeed? If you can find him, I’ll bless you forever. I’ve wanted him all day.”
“Isn’t he on duty?”
“He doesn’t know the meaning of duty. It’s something he’s never on.”
She smiled at him, and noticing her for the first time, Davenport saw that she was handsome, in a careless, rather blatant way.
Her ash-blonde hair was loosely pinned up, and her dress – negligee or tea-gown – was fussy with lace, and not quite immaculate.
Her wide, light blue eyes returned his scrutiny, and for an instant each studied the other.
“There is something wrong,” she nodded, at last, “What you going to do, Doctor?”
“I’m going to get in. I’ve wasted precious time already.” He ran down the stairs and opening the front door summoned his chauffeur.
“Come up here, Chris,” he ordered, and the two returned together.
“Can we break in that door?” he said, ignoring the woman now.
“My husband’ll help,” she volunteered, but Chris was already delivering effective blows.
However, the lock held, and turning to her, Doctor Davenport said, “Do ask your husband to help us, please. I assure you it’s an emergency. I’m Doctor Ely Davenport.”
“Come here, Jim,” she obeyed orders. “This is Doctor Davenport.”
“I’ve heard of you,” said a big, commonplace looking man, appearing. “I’m Mansfield. What’s up?”
“I have reason to think Mr Gleason is very ill. He just telephoned for me. I must get in. These old doors are strongly built, so I’d like your help.”
Mansfield looked at him sharply, and seeming satisfied, put his shoulder to the door.
United effort succeeded, and the three men entered, the woman hanging back in fear.
Gleason lay on the floor, in a crumpled heap, and the first glance proclaimed him dead.
Stooping quickly, Doctor Davenport felt for his heart, and shook his head as he rose again to his feet.
“He’s dead,” he said, quietly. “Shot through the temple. Suicide, apparently, as the door was locked on the inside. Better take your wife away, Mr Mansfield. She’ll be getting hysterical.”
“No, I won’t,” declared the lady referred to, but she was quite evidently pulling herself together. “Let me come in.”
“No,” forbade Davenport. “You’ve no call in here. Go back home, both of you. I shall send for the police and wait till they come.”
But the doctor hesitated as he was about to touch the telephone.
The matter was mysterious. “Suicide, of course,” he ruminated, as he remembered the message received by Nurse Jordan. “Shot himself, then, still living, cried to me for help. Wish I knew exactly what he said to Jordan. But, anyway, I’m not going to disturb things – there may be trouble ahead. Guess I’ll leave the telephone alone – and everything else.”
“Sit right here, Chris,” he said, “and don’t move or stir. Look around all you like – note anything and everything that strikes you. I’ll be back soon.”
Closing the broken door behind him, he went to the Mansfield’s apartment and asked to use their telephone. On this, he called the police, while the two listened eagerly.
“Why did he do it?” broke out Mrs Mansfield, as the receiver was hung up. “Oh, Doctor, tell us something about it! I’m eaten alive with curiosity.”
Her big blue eyes shone with excitement, which her husband tried to suppress.
“Now, be quiet, Dottie,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder.
“I won’t be quiet,” and she shook off the hand. “Here’s a great big mystery right in my own house – on my own floor – and you say, ‘be quiet!’ I’ve got a right to know all about it, and I’m going to! I’m going up now, to tell Mrs Conway!”
Her husband held her back forcibly, but Doctor Davenport said, “Of course, it must become known, and if Mrs Mansfield enjoys spreading the news, I suppose she has a right to do so. No one may enter the Gleason rooms, though – understand that.”
“Go on, then, Dottie,” Mansfield said; “maybe you’d better.”
“She’s very excitable,” he sighed, as his wife ran up the stairs.
“She’s better off, unburdening her news, than being thwarted,” said the doctor, indifferently. “Let her do what she likes. What can you tell me, Mr Mansfield, of your neighbor, Gleason?”
“Not much, Doctor. He kept to himself, as far as the people in this house were concerned. We didn’t know him socially – no one in the house did – and though he said good-day, if we met in the halls, it was with a short and unsocial manner.”
“Nobody actively disliked him?”
“Nobody knew him well enough for that – unless – well, no, I may say none of us knew him.”
“Yet you hesitated,” the doctor looked at him keenly; “why did you?”
“A mere passing thought – better left unspoken.”
“All right, Mr Mansfield – perhaps you are wise. But, if asked to, you’d better speak your thought to the police.”
“Oh, sure. I’m a law-abiding citizen – I hope. Will they be here soon?”
“Nothing happens soon in matters like this. It’s delay, linger and wait on the part of everybody. I’m bothered – I’ve important affairs on hand – but here I must stick, till the arm of the law gets ready to strike.”
Davenport returned to Gleason’s apartment, where the stolid Chris kept guard.
“Well?” said the doctor, glancing at his man.
“Looks like a suicide to me, sir. Looks like he shot himself – there’s the revolver – I haven’t touched it. And then he fell over all in a heap.”
“It seems he telephoned after he shot – ”
“He did? How could he?”
“Look again at his position. Near the desk, on which the telephone sits. He might have shot, and then – ”
“Not that shot in his temple!”
“No; but there may be another. I haven’t looked carefully yet. Ah, yes – see, Chris, here’s another bullet hole, in his left shoulder. Say, he fired that shot, then, getting cold feet, called off the suicide idea and telephoned for me. Then, getting desperate again, fired a second shot through his temple, which, of course, did for him – oh, a fanciful tale, I know – but, you see, the detective work isn’t up to me. When the police come they’ll look after that and I can go.”
But the police, arriving, were very much interested in this theory of Doctor Davenport’s.
Prescott, an alert young detective, who came with the inspector especially interested the physician by his keen-witted and clearly put questions.
“Did you know this man?” he asked among his first queries.
“Yes,” returned Davenport, “but not well. I’ve never been here before. He’s Robert Gleason, a very rich man, from Seattle. Staying here this winter, in this apartment which belongs to McIlvaine, a friend of Gleason’s.”
“Where’s McIlvaine?”
“In California. Gleason took over the place, furnished and all, for the winter months.”
“Any relatives?”
“Yes”; Davenport hated to drag in the Lindsays, but it had to be done. “His sister, Mrs Lindsay, lives in upper Park Avenue.”
“Have you called her up?”
“No; I thought wiser to do nothing, until you people came. Also, I’m a very busy man, and outside my actual duty here, I can’t afford to spend much time.”
“I see. Then the sister is the only relative in New York?”
“I think so. There are two Lindsay children, but they’re not hers. She married a widower.”
“I see. And the address?”
Doctor Davenport gave it, and then started to go.
“Wait a minute, please,” urged Prescott. “Had the dead man any friends, that you know of?”
“Oh, yes. Many of them. He was put up at the Camberwell Club, by McIlvaine himself. And he had many friends among the members.”
“Names?”
Doctor Davenport thought quickly, and decided to give no names of the group that had been with Gleason that same afternoon.
He gave the names of three other Club members, and sending Chris down ahead, again endeavored to depart himself.
Again Prescott detained him.
“Sorry, Doc,” he said, pleasantly, “but you’re here now, and something tells me it’ll be hard to get hold of you again, once I lose you. Inspector Gale, here, is putting through the necessary red tape and all that, and he’ll see to notifying relatives and friends, and he’ll take charge of the premises – but – well, I’ve a hunch, this isn’t a suicide.”
“What, murder?” cried the doctor, his quick acceptance of the suggestion proving the thought had been in his own mind.
“Well, you never can tell. And I want to get all the sidelight on the case I can. Was Mr Gleason happy – and all that?”
“Yes; so far as I know. I tell you I was not an intimate – scarcely enough to be called a friend – merely an acquaintance.”
“I see. Had the man any enemies?”
The direct glance that accompanied these words discomfited Davenport a little.
“Why do you ask me that?” he said, shortly. “How should I know?”
“Oh, it’s a thing anybody might know – even a mere acquaintance. And your desperate hurry to get away makes me think you don’t take kindly to this catechism.”
“Rubbish! I’m a busy man – a doctor sometimes is. I’ve numerous and important engagements for the evening. Now, if that’s incriminating, make the most of it!”
“Fie, fie, don’t get peeved! Now, tell me once again, what the injured man said to your nurse and I’ll let you go.”
“I don’t know the exact words. I’ve not seen her. But he called my office, said he was shot, and for me to come right here and quickly. That’s all I know of the message. Now as to my report – it’s that the man received two shots – whether by his own hand or another’s. One, in his left shoulder – and another – the fatal one – through his temple, producing instant death. You can get me at any time – if necessary. But I don’t want to be hauled over here, or summoned to headquarters to repeat these facts. I’ll send a typed report, and I’ll do anything in reason – but I know how you detectives mull over things, and how your slow processes eat up time – which though it seems of little account to you, is mighty valuable to me.”
“Yes, sir – yes, sir. Now if you’ll speak to Inspector Gale a minute, you can go.”
Grunting an assent, Davenport waited for the Inspector to finish writing a bit of memorandum on which he was busily engaged.
The doctor was sitting in a big easy chair, and as he squirmed impatiently, he felt something soft beneath his heavy frame.
Feeling about the chair cushions, he found it was fur, and a fleeting thought that he had sat on a cat passed through his mind.
A second later he knew it was a fur strip, probably a neck piece, doubtless belonging to some woman.
Now, the doctor had a very soft place in his heart for the feminine sex in general, and his mind leaped to the idea of this fur, left there by some indiscreet girl visitor, and the possibility of its getting the doubtless innocent young lady into a moil of trouble.
Also, he had a dim, indistinct notion that he recognized the fur, at which he had stolen a furtive look.
At any rate, unseen by the Inspector or either of his two colleagues present, Davenport adroitly slipped the small fur collar into his capacious overcoat pocket, and sat, looking as innocent of duplicity as a canary-fed cat.
“Now, Doctor,” and Inspector Gale frowned importantly, “this may be a simple case of suicide, and again it may not. So, I want your opinion as to whether it is possible that both those shots were fired by Mr Gleason himself.”
“Quite possible, Inspector, and, it seems to me, decidedly probable, as I cannot see how the victim could have telephoned, with a murderer in the room.”
“That’s apparently true, but we have to think of even the remotest possibilities. If the murderer – granting there was one – had been merely intending to frighten his victim, maybe a robber, he might have been – and if after that call for help, the intruder finished off his victim – oh, well, all these ideas must be looked into, you know. The case is not entirely clear to me.”
“Nor to me,” returned Davenport, “but I cannot feel that I can help you in your deductions. Answering your questions, I say it would have been quite possible for Mr Gleason to have fired those two shots himself. You see the first one hit his left shoulder, leaving his right arm available to fire the second shot.”
“Why did he merely maim himself first?”
“Heavens, man! I don’t know. Missed aim, perhaps – or, just shooting for practice! Such questions make me mad! If you want any more medical statements, say so – if not, for goodness’ sake, let me go!”
“For goodness’ sake, let him go,” repeated Prescott, and Dr Davenport went.
“Some mess,” Prescott said, after the doctor’s angry footsteps tramped down the stairs.
CHAPTER III – The Lindsays
“You’re sure no one in this building knew Mr Gleason any better than you two did?” Prescott asked of the Mansfields, as he put them through a course of questioning.
“Oh, no,” Mrs Mansfield informed him, volubly, “and we didn’t know him much, but being on the same floor – there are only two apartments on each floor, we saw him once in a while, going in or out, and he would bow distantly, and mumble ‘good-morning,’ but that’s all.”
“You heard no noise from his apartment, during the last hour?”
“No; but I wasn’t noticing. It’s across the hall, you know, and the walls are thick in these old houses.”
“Was he going out, do you think?” asked Jim Mansfield, thoughtfully. “He always went out to dinner.”
“Probably he was, then. It’s evident he was dressing – he was in his shirtsleeves – his day shirt – and his evening clothes were laid out on the bed.”
“When did it happen?”
“As nearly as I can make out, he telephoned for the doctor about quarter before seven. He must have expired shortly after. As I figure it – oh, well, the medical examiner is in there now, and I don’t want to discuss the details until he gets through his examination. It’s an interesting case, but I’m only out for side evidence. What about Gleason’s visitors? Did he have many?”
“No,” offered Mrs Mansfield, “but he had some. I’ve heard – well, people go in there, and he was mighty glad to see them, judging by the gay laughter and chatter.”
“Oh – lady friends?”
Mrs Mansfield smiled, but her husband said quickly, “Shut up, Dottie! You talk too much! You’ll get us involved in this case, and make a lot of trouble. He had callers occasionally, Mr Prescott, but we never knew who they were and we’ve no call to remark on them.”
“Well, I give you the call. Don’t you see, man, your information may be vitally necessary – ”
Here Prescott was recalled to the Gleason apartment.
The medical examiner had concluded his task. He agreed with Doctor Davenport that the shots could have been fired by Gleason himself, though, but for the locked door, he should have thought them the acts of another person. The presence of powder stains proved that the shots were fired at close range, but not necessarily by the dead man himself.
Still, the door being locked on the inside, it looked like suicide.
“No,” Prescott disagreed, “that doesn’t cut any ice. You see, it’s a spring catch. It fastens itself when closed. If an intruder was here and went out again, closing that door behind him, it would have locked itself.”
“That’s right,” assented Gale. “So, it may be suicide or murder. But we’ll find out which. We’ve hardly begun to investigate yet. Now, we must let his sister know.”
“It’s pretty awful to spring it on her over the telephone,” demurred Prescott, as Gale started for the desk.
“Got to be done,” Inspector Gale declared, “I mean we’ve got to tell somebody who knew him. How about those men at the Club?”
“That’s better,” consented Prescott. “Just call the Camberwell Club, and get any one of those Davenport mentioned. But, I say, Gale, use the Mansfields’ telephone. I’m saving up this one for fingerprint work.”
“Oh, you and your fingerprint work!” Gale grumbled. “You attach too much importance to that, Prescott.”
“All right, but you let the telephone alone. And the revolver, too. Why, I wouldn’t have those touched for anything! I’ll get them photographed to-morrow. Shall I call the Club?”
“Yes,” grunted Gale, and Prescott went back to the opposite apartment.
“Sorry to trouble you people,” he said, with his winning smile, “but if you object, say so, and I’ll run out to a drug store.”
“None around here,” vouchsafed Mansfield, looking a little annoyed at the intrusion, however. “Isn’t there a telephone in the Gleason rooms?”
“Yes; but I don’t want to use that.” Prescott had already taken up the Mansfield receiver. “Please let me have this one,” and a bright smile at Dottie Mansfield made her his ally.
Getting the Club, Prescott asked for the names Davenport had supplied. Only one man was available, and Mr Harper was finally connected.
“What is it?” he asked, curtly.
“Mr Robert Gleason has been found dead in his home,” Prescott stated; “and as you’re said to be a friend of his, I’m asking you to inform his sister, or – ”
“Indeed I won’t! Why should I be asked to do such an unpleasant errand? I’ve merely a nodding acquaintance with Mr Gleason. Dead, you say? Apoplexy?”
“No; shot.”
“Good God! Murdered?”
“We don’t know. Murder or suicide. I’m Detective Prescott. I want you to tell his sister, or advise me how best to break the news to her. She’s Mrs Lindsay – ”
“Yes, yes – I know. Well, now, let me see. Dead! Why, the man was here this afternoon.”
“Yes; apparently he returned home safely, and while dressing for dinner, either shot himself or was shot by some one else.”
“Never shot himself in the world! Robert Gleason? No, never shot himself. Well, let me see – let me see. Suppose you call up some closer friend of his. Really, I knew him but slightly.”
“All right. Who was his nearest friend?”
“Humph – I don’t know. He wasn’t long on intimate friends!”
“Little liked?”
“I wouldn’t say that – but close friends, now – let me see; he was talking this afternoon with a bunch – Doctor Davenport, Phil Barry, Dean Monroe, Manning Pollard – oh, yes, Fred Lane. And maybe others. But I know I saw him in the group I’ve just mentioned. Call up Davenport.”
“Tell me the next best one to call.”
“Barry – but wait – they had a quarrel recently. Try Lane or Pollard.”
“Addresses?”
These were given and as soon as he could get connection, Prescott called Pollard.
But he was out, and Philip Barry was also.
“Can’t expect to get anybody at the dinner hour,” Prescott said, and looked at his watch. “After eight, already. One more throw, and then I make straight for the sister.”
Fred Lane proved available.
“No!” he exclaimed at the news Prescott told. “You don’t mean it! Why I was talking with him yesterday. And only to-night I heard – Oh, I say,” he pulled himself together. “Tell me the details. Can I do anything?”
“You sure can. Break it to Mrs Lindsay, Gleason’s sister.”
“Oh, not that! Don’t ask me to. I’m – I’m no good at that sort of thing. I say – let me off it. Get somebody else – ”
“I’ve been trying to, and I can’t. If you won’t do it, I’ll have to call up the lady and tell her myself – or go there.”
“That’s it. Go there. And, I say, get her son – her stepson, you know – young Lindsay. He’s not related to Gleason – and so – ”
“That’s it! Fine idea. I’ll see the young man. What’s his name?”
“Louis Lindsay. There’s a girl, too. Miss Phyllis. She’s more of a man than her brother – oh, not a masculine type at all – I don’t mean that, but she’s a whole lot stronger character than the chappie. It might be better to tell her. But do as you like.”
“Thank you for the information, Mr Lane. Good-by.”
“Oh, wait a minute. Do you think Gleason killed himself?”
“Dunno yet. Lots of things to be looked into. I don’t think it will be a difficult case to handle, yet it has its queer points. Did you say you heard something – ”
“Oh, no – no.”
“Out with it, man. Better tell anything you know.”
“Don’t know anything. You going to the Lindsays’ now?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Well, there’s a dinner party on there. A big one – followed by a dance. I mean it was to have been followed by a dance. Your news will change their plans!”
“You’re rather unconcerned yourself! Didn’t you like Gleason?”
“Not overly. Yet he was a big man in many ways. But, come now, wasn’t he bumped off?”
“By whom?”
“I’m not saying. But while you’re at the Lindsays’, look out Dean Monroe – and ask him what he knows about it!”
“Dean Monroe! The artist?”
“Yes. Oh, he isn’t the criminal – if there is a criminal. But maybe he can give you a tip. I’m mighty interested. How can I hear the result of your investigations?”
“Guess it’ll be in the morning papers. Anyway, I may want to see you.”
“All right; call me up or call on me whenever you like. I’m interested – a whole lot!”
“Guess I’d better go right to the Lindsay house,” Prescott said, going back to the Gleason apartment. “There’s a big party on there, and it ought to be stopped. It’s an awkward situation. You see, Mrs Lindsay, Gleason’s sister, has two step-children – they’re having the party, as I make it out. But they’ve got to be told.”
“Yes,” agreed Gale; “go along, Prescott. And you’d better have somebody with you.”
“Not at first. Let me handle it alone, and I can call Briggs if I want him.”
“Go on, then. The sooner we start something the better. I incline more and more to the murder theory, but if the sister thinks there was any reason for suicide – well, run along, Prescott.”
Prescott ran along, and reached the Lindsay home, on upper Park Avenue, shortly after nine o’clock.
He was admitted by a smiling maid, and he asked for Mr Lindsay.
“He’s still at dinner,” she returned, doubtfully, glancing at Prescott’s informal dress. “Can you come some other time?”
“No; the matter is urgent. You must ask him to leave the table and come to me here.”
His manner was imperative, and the maid went on her errand.
In a moment Louis Lindsay came to Prescott, where the detective waited, in the reception hall.
“What is it, my man?” said Lindsay, looking superciliously at his visitor. “I can’t see you now.”
“Just a moment, Mr Lindsay. Listen, please.”
Noting the grave face and serious voice of the speaker, young Lindsay seemed to become panic-stricken.
“What is it?” he said, in a gasping whisper. “Oh, what is it?”
“Why do you look like that?” Prescott said quickly. “What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know – I’m sure! Tell me!”
The boy, for he was little more than a boy, was ghastly white, his hands trembled and his lips quivered. He took hold of a chair back to steady himself, and Prescott, remembering what he had been told of Miss Lindsay, was tempted to ask for her. But he somehow felt he must go on with this scene.
“It’s about your uncle – or rather your step-uncle – Mr Gleason.”