CHAPTER XI

BUSHNELL CALLS THE POLICE

The butler hurried stumblingly down the steps to admit Doctor Bushnell, who had been the Gilmore family physician for almost a dozen years; he swung open the door, as the doctor was stepping briskly across the porch.

"You got here in a hurry, doctor," said Bates. "It happened upstairs. Mr. Kirklan is up there now--at the top of the steps. She's dead; I held a mirror to her face and----"

"Yes, so you told me over the telephone," broke in Doctor Bushnell; he was a tall, crisp man, with a pair of gray eyes looking out from behind a pair of rimless spectacles.

"She----" began Bates again.

"This is no time for conversation, my good man," the doctor again interrupted firmly, but not impatiently. "You can talk later." He started swiftly for the stairs.

But Bates was not to be shaken off so easily.

"You didn't give me a chance to finish telling you over the phone," he said, blocking the way. "Mr. Kirklan says she killed herself, but I know better. She was murdered."

Doctor Bushnell abruptly halted. "Murdered?" he repeated.

"See if you don't bear me out, sir," whispered the butler. "I'm not a detective, but I've got common sense enough to know----"

The physician shook loose Bates' fingers. "There'll be time enough for that, Bates. Just now there's a chance--a bare chance--that you are mistaken, and that she is still alive. If there is any chance of saving her, there must be no wasted time."

Surgical kit swinging at his side, the doctor bounded up the stairs, two steps at a time. Kirklan Gilmore was waiting just outside the door of Helen's room. The doctor offered his hand, and they clasped silently for a brief moment, the grasp of the physician warm-hearted, sympathetic.

"Am I too late, Kirklan?"

The novelist bowed his head. "Yes, Doctor Bushnell, you are too late. She is dead--I am sure she is dead. She shot herself with a pistol. She is--there." He pointed to the partly open door. "It--it won't be necessary for me to--to come in there with you?"

The doctor gave a pitying glance at the young husband, whose wife had been taken from him after three weeks of marriage; he saw the haggard, drawn face, the horror-filled eyes, the twitching lips.

"It will not be necessary," he answered quietly. "Perhaps you had better wait downstairs. If I need you I will call."

"Th-thanks," gulped Gilmore.

Doctor Bushnell, after a glance at Victor Sarbella, who, of course, was a stranger, passed on into the room and closed the door behind him. Being a doctor, he was steeled to death, but he was hardly prepared for the sight that shocked his eyes. Despite himself, his nerves reacted with a tingle of horror, and a gasp slipped through his lips.

Quickly he bent over the still form of the beautiful woman; it was the first time that he had seen Kirklan's wife, although gossip of the surprisingly sudden unannounced marriage had reached the near-by village. Little more than a cursory examination was necessary to verify the butler's earlier findings. Helen Gilmore was dead; she had succumbed to that bullet wound which the doctor found in the chest, just a little below the left armpit.

"She was murdered!" The butler's statement came back to Doctor Bushnell with a rush of conviction now. It would have been almost impossible for such a wound to have been self-inflicted. For the woman to have shot herself would have meant the holding of the weapon at a decidedly awkward and unnatural angle. Possible, perhaps, but highly improbable from a medical viewpoint.

Doctor Bushnell's face had become grim. Swiftly he unfastened the surgical kit and found a long, slender probe, with which he might approximate the direction that the bullet had taken. Ranging downward! Still further argument against the wound having been self-inflicted.

"Bates was right!" muttered the physician. "I wonder how he knew." He stepped back and glanced at the gun on the floor. He had, of course, noted that the moment he had entered the room, and he took it at the moment as proof of suicide. The pistol had every appearance of falling from the hand flung out over the edge of the lounge.

"Who could have killed her--this beautiful bride of three weeks?" he said under his breath. As a physician, as a surgeon, he knew the right thing to do at the right time, but now a feeling of helplessness came over him. Obviously something had to be done. What?

As he stood there in the center of the floor, staring down at the dead woman, debating, there came to his ears the sound of a muffled cough in the hall. He took a quick step toward the closed door, more than half suspecting that some one was eavesdropping.

"Oh, it's you, Bates," he grunted, as he saw the butler. "You might as well come in; there are some questions I wanted to ask you, anyhow."

"Yes, sir," murmured Bates, entering the tragedy chamber willingly enough. "Have you discovered anything, doctor?"

"Did you examine the body, Bates?"

The butler shivered.

"Examine it?" he whispered. "Heaven, no! I held a mirror close to her face; I touched her with my hand; that is all. Why did you ask me that, sir?"

"I wondered what made you so certain that it was murder, Bates, and whether you had observed the nature of the wound which caused her death."

"It wasn't that made me know it was murder; it wasn't anything more than just common sense. The door into the hall was open when we found her."

"The door was open? What significance was there in that?"

"Would you shoot yourself, sir, with a door standing half open?"

Doctor Bushnell stared and, after considering this question for a moment, shook his head. "No," he answered slowly; "since you mention it, I don't suppose I would."

"And you wouldn't scream, doctor, while you were getting ready to pull the trigger," added the deductively inclined butler.

"You mean----"

"I mean, sir, that she screamed horribly. Oh, it was a terrible scream, the kind of a scream that makes a man's blood turn to ice." Bates made no mention of his first impression that the scream might have been that of Miss Joan; he had, in his own mind, entirely rejected that possibility as too absurd for any consideration whatever. "As I take it, sir, she screamed when she knew that she was about to be murdered."

"Humph!" murmured Doctor Bushnell. "You've got quicker wits than I'd given you credit for. You figured that out like--well, like, I imagine, a trained detective might do it."

Despite the situation, Bates gave a faint smile of pleasure at this compliment.

"I have always read a great many detective stories, sir," he said. "I've not only read them, I've studied them. I might say that I am quite a student in a way. Had I not waited so late in life to develop my mental faculties, I hardly think that I should have remained a butler. In fact, I am quite sure that I would not."

"You're a queer fellow," mused the doctor. "What else have you deducted, Bates? Can you manage your tongue?"

"Why do you ask that, doctor? If you mean, can I keep from talking too much, I can be very discreet."

"All right, Bates; then I'll tell you that you were right. This woman has been murdered. The nature of the wound verifies your guess."

Bates looked grieved. "You don't call it guessing?" His tone was protesting.

"Well, no, not guessing," Doctor Bushnell answered slowly. "It had more foundation than a guess. Very logical, Bates, reasoning out that business about the door. What else can you tell about this business?"

"Very little, sir, very little, indeed. Mr. Kirklan and I rushed directly upstairs when the shot was fired and then----"

"Wait a minute. You rushed upstairs? What time was this?"

"A few minutes after half past twelve, very shortly before I had you on the telephone."

Doctor Bushnell gave the man a quick glance. "You had been in bed, hadn't you? I judge from your state of dress----"

"Quite so, doctor; I had retired early. I was sound asleep when I was awakened by the ringing of the doorbell. It was Mr. Gilmore; he had locked himself out and was trying to get in. He had been out at the studio--the old stable, you know, where he does his writing. The poor man was quite badly upset; he was in a terrible way, and asked me to make him a toddy."

The physician looked uneasy. "Good Lord, Bates," he muttered, "you don't think it possible that Kirklan----"

"Oh, certainly not, sir," the butler broke in quickly. "It was quite impossible. I was standing within four feet of him when we both heard the scream and the shot. The glass dropped out of his hand, and he stood there like a man of stone, his hands shaking, his face white as a sheet of paper. He said: 'My God, Bates, what's that?' And while we were both still listening, there came the shot; it must have followed the scream by half a minute, perhaps not so long as that. We both dashed up the stairs, I in front. While we were mounting the steps, sir, we both heard a sound that seemed to be the slamming of a door."

"Ah!" exclaimed the doctor. "The slamming of a door? Then you think that some one in the house----"

"That would be but guessing, doctor. The door of this room was open, the light was burning, and I was the first to see her. It seemed to me--I cannot be sure--that she took her last breath while I was watching her. The bleeding had stopped. Am I right, doctor, in supposing that the flow of blood stops when death takes place?"

Doctor Bushnell nodded. "Yes, when the heart action ceases," he answered. "What else, Bates?"

"The gun was just as you see it now, sir. It was only natural that Mr. Gilmore should be so firm in his belief that she had taken her own life. He was not even convinced when I mentioned the matter of the door and the scream. Poor man, he couldn't be expected to do any thinking at a time like that. He was very much in love with her; he seemed fairly to worship her. It was too bad that she wasn't the right wife for him. Miss Joan is the one he should have married; she's only his stepsister, you know, no blood kin. I guess it nearly broke her heart, poor girl, when----"

"What do you mean by saying she wasn't the right wife for him, Bates?" broke in the doctor, moving toward the bed, where he began removing a sheet with which to cover the body until an undertaker could be summoned.

"She had good looks, but she wasn't his kind," Bates replied. "She'd managed to climb up in the world--most likely from pretty near the bottom. A servant can usually tell, sir, from watching them at table, and a letter came--day before yesterday, I believe it was--a most disreputable-looking letter it was, sir, to be received at Greenacres, all smudgy and dirty. It gave her a shock, too, although she tried to pass it off casual."

"What the servants don't know!" murmured the doctor under his breath, and then added, aloud: "You think there may have been some connection between the letter and the murder?"

"As to that, I couldn't say, Doctor Bushnell, but she was much agitated, it seemed to me. I would say that it must have been written by some very low person, a most peculiar sort of a missive for Mr. Kirklan's wife to be getting."

"All these little scraps of information may prove valuable, Bates," the doctor said meditatively. "You were pretty sharp on naming it murder. Perhaps you have some theory as to who killed her."

Bates looked crestfallen; his slender stock of theory was completely exhausted, and then he brightened.

"Finger prints!" he exclaimed. "Perhaps the murderer's finger prints are on the gun." He made a move to pick up the weapon, but the doctor stopped him with a gesture.

"Better not," he warned. "I understand it's such a simple matter to destroy a delicate thing like a finger print. We'd better leave that for more practiced talents than ours; I'm afraid that all finger prints look alike to both of us."

"It wasn't robbery, sir," offered the butler. "She is still wearing some jewelry."

"Yes, I'd noticed that. There are no back stairs, Bates?"

"There are none."

"In that case, Bates, it hardly seems likely that the slayer could have fled from the second floor without you or Kirklan seeing him. That probably means that the murderer is still in the house. That would not give us a very large list, eh?"

The butler's eyes widened.

"You mean, sir," he whispered tensely, "that you think Mr. Sarbella could----"

"I mentioned no names, Bates. Sarbella--is that the man I saw in the hall when I arrived?"

"Yes, sir, that's him; he's a friend of Mr. Kirklan's, a guest who came out only this afternoon--yesterday afternoon it is now, speaking precise. He's some kind of an artist, I believe. I guess he's an Italian, sir. I don't want to go around accusing any one, Doctor Bushnell, but----"

"But what, Bates? This talk is strictly between ourselves."

"There was a most peculiar attitude at dinner, sir; Mr. Sarbella and her"--pointing toward the sheet-covered lounge--"did not so much as speak once, while I was serving. They were all on edge--even Mr. Kirklan. I didn't understand it; I don't understand it now. After dinner the younger Mrs. Gilmore went very quickly to her room; she was pale and nervous. I don't think I know anything more, doctor."

"Just one more question, Bates. You and Mr. Kirklan were downstairs. Sarbella was upstairs. Who else?"

"The elder Mrs. Gilmore, Miss Joan, and her." Again he pointed to the dead woman.

"What about the other servants?"

"Elizabeth, the maid, went to Yonkers yesterday, sir. She pleaded that her mother was ill, but I doubt it. She don't know what the truth is, that girl; she's always making excuses, and Mrs. Gilmore is that soft-hearted she never refuses her."

"Or doubts her stories," added Doctor Bushnell with a faint smile. "A most credulous woman, Mrs. Gilmore."

"Exactly, sir," agreed the butler. "Mrs. Bogart, the cook, does not sleep at Greenacres; she comes every morning from the village and goes home again at night. And the gardener isn't employed full time--only three days a week."

"To me it looks very much like Mr. Sarbella," murmured the doctor and glanced around the room. For all that the physician knew there might be clews within touching distance, but which he, untrained as he was in such business, would never be able to recognize as clews.

"I am going to lock this door, Bates," he said. "No one must enter it without my express permission. I am going downstairs now. I suppose you might as well go to bed."

"What's the use?" muttered Bates. "Not a wink of sleep would I get after this."

The key was in the lock; Doctor Bushnell removed it and put it in the outside of the door. Then he turned off the lights, stepped into the hall, shot the bolt, put the key in his pocket, and went down the stairs. He found Kirklan Gilmore and Victor Sarbella in the library, the latter sitting in a chair, puffing nervously at a cigarette, while the novelist paced back and forth like a caged beast. At the doctor's step, Gilmore swung around.

"You found her dead, of course?" he muttered thickly.

"Yes, Kirklan, I found her beyond all help." Doctor Bushnell gave a quick glance at Sarbella, who returned it steadily for a moment with his intense black eyes. "I would like to talk with you, Kirklan, privately if I may. Suppose we go across the hall into the den."

Sarbella inhaled deeply at his cigarette and got to his feet.

"I am going to my room," he announced; "if you need me for anything, I shall be at your service." He moved perhaps three paces toward the stairs and then turned; his face was in the shadows, so that it was impossible to see any expression that may have been on his features, as he asked: "You discovered that it was self-destruction?"

"So it would appear," answered the doctor, deliberately indulging in a deceiving play on words. With suspicion pointing toward Sarbella, it was perhaps best that the man not know too much--just yet. If the artist were guilty, there might be something gained by keeping him in ignorance that the suicide sham had fooled no one. Sarbella moved on up the stairs; Doctor Bushnell would have given a pretty penny to have had a good look at his face, wondering if he might not see there a look of relieved suspense.

Kirklan Gilmore's hands fidgeted restlessly in his pockets. "You say that you want to talk with me privately?"

"Yes, suppose we go into the den."

"That isn't necessary now, is it? Sarbella has accommodatingly gone upstairs to his room."

"The den, if you don't mind," insisted Doctor Bushnell. "I'd prefer taking no chances of being overheard."

Gilmore's head jerked up. "I can't understand the reason for all this secrecy," he muttered; nevertheless he led the way across the hall to the room known as the den. It had in former days been his father's favorite room. The physician followed and gently closed the door.

"Sit down, Kirklan," he murmured. "I dislike to add to your strain, but there is something that I must tell you. Your wife did not kill herself."

The novelist winced.

"You mean----"

"Kirklan, it's murder."

Gilmore staggered and dropped limply into one of the big leather chairs, face buried in his hands. "But, Doctor Bushnell, it--it can't be that. There--there was the gun beside her. That is proof----"

"Only proof of an effort to make murder appear suicide," broke in the physician. "The nature of the wound is such as to preclude any reasonable thought of self-infliction."

"Murder?" Gilmore whispered dully. "Bates was right, after all, then? I can't understand it. Who would have killed her?"

"Ah, that is what remains in front of us. I am in a very peculiar position, Kirklan. I am your family physician, but at the same time I am a deputy coroner; I accepted the appointment only last month. It is my official duty to do everything in my power that the law may take its proper course. I don't suppose you know whom the gun belongs to?"

"I do not know."

"It is a heavy gun, Kirklan; not at all the sort of weapon that would belong to a woman, or that a woman would use if it were left to her own choice. I have not examined it; I have not so much as touched it. I was afraid that I might destroy possible finger prints; I thought it best to wait."

"Wound or no wound," muttered Gilmore, "I can't believe that it was murder. Why would any one have killed her?"

"Kirklan, I am going to put a frank question. How well do you know this guest of yours, the man Sarbella?"

"Great Lord, doctor, you don't think that he----"

"I'm afraid I don't think anything yet. I'm just stabbing around in the dark. Was Sarbella previously acquainted with your wife?"

"See here, I don't want any insinuations of that sort."

"I am not insinuating, only asking a question. Bates thought he noticed a peculiar, strained situation at the dinner table. Since you and Bates rushed directly upstairs, and since that is the only means of reaching the second floor, it seems quite certain that she was killed by some one who is still in the house. There is no evidence of robbery. There were but five persons in the house--Sarbella, your stepmother, Joan Sheridan, Bates, and yourself. Unless we want to suspect Mrs. Gilmore or Joan----"

"Oh, that's too absurd for words," broke in Gilmore, making no mention of having heard Joan's sobbing.

"And that leaves Sarbella."

The novelist beat his clenched hands against his knees. "Doctor, I tell you that you're wrong--wrong!" he cried. "Helen killed herself; there is no other explanation--none! I must tell you something; my wife asked me for a thousand dollars. She must have needed it desperately. Because I did not give it to her----What are you doing with that telephone?"

Doctor Bushnell had picked up the instrument from the desk and lifted the receiver from the hook.

"I am doing what I must do, Kirklan," he answered with quiet firmness. "I am calling the village police."