CHAPTER XIII

WHAT DID JOAN KNOW?

Awaiting the arrival of the constable, Doctor Bushnell was still in the den of the Greenacres house, while across from him Kirklan Gilmore sat, like a man dazed, in one of the great leather chairs, staring vacantly into space. He had not spoken for almost five minutes.

"So you had to call in the police," he muttered bitterly, breaking the silence. "They've got to come, snooping through the house, prying into things, asking questions, badgering, bullying----"

"You're taking the wrong attitude, Kirklan," the doctor broke in gently. "I know how you feel, of course; you abhor the legal procedure, but a crime has been committed, and the law must function. You would not want your wife's murderer to escape, would you, no matter what the price?"

"I can't believe yet, doctor, that it was what you claim--murder," protested the novelist with a shudder. "Your opinion is based on--just exactly what?"

"The nature of the wound, Kirklan. Look, here is my pipe." He produced from his pocket a straight-stemmed brier, holding it by the bowl. "Let us suppose that this is the pistol. Your wife is right-handed? Yes, I supposed as much; imagine any person holding a gun in the right hand and reaching halfway around their body and shooting themselves under the left armpit. You can see how absurd that is; even supposing she might have been left-handed, it is almost as ridiculous."

Gilmore debated this a moment.

"I suppose you consider that incontrovertible--medically," he argued, "but I've got a theory to suggest. I've had to study things a bit along such lines--the material for my books, you know. My last was a mystery story."

"Helen was lying on the lounge. The gun was heavy, hard for a woman to handle, as you have said. Suppose she used _both_ hands in firing the pistol; one to support it in range, and the other to press the trigger?"

Doctor Bushnell toyed with his pipe for a moment; absently he filled it from a chamois pouch and struck a match.

"It's possible," he admitted, and then he shook his head, adding, "but improbable. I did work at Bellevue in New York, while I was at medical school. Naturally we had some suicide cases. It's a queer thing, but most of the men shot themselves through the head, while the women aimed for their heart--perhaps a natural horror of disfiguring their faces. But, looking back, none of them tried to reach the heart from so far around at the side. Always in front. Adding weight to the medical aspect of it, there are those very significant points that Bates raised. Quite an intelligent fellow, that butler of yours. He's been in the family a long time, hasn't he?"

"More than twenty years, I think; he was much attached to my father."

"It is significant, Kirklan, that you and Bates found the door standing open. And the scream--ah, there's the big point! Why did she scream? Not because she had reached a decision to end her life. As I consider the matter, this man Sarbella----"

"No!"

"Is your friendship for him so blind as that, Kirklan? Stop and think things over, man; on the second floor, when the shot was fired, were only your stepmother, your stepsister, and Sarbella. It must have been one of the three; there is no other explanation!"

As his voice came to a dramatic pause, there was a rap at the door.

"Doctor Bushnell," came the voice of the butler from the other side of the panel, "will you answer the telephone? There is a call for you."

The doctor looked puzzled. "There was no ring," he said.

"That is an extension," explained Gilmore. "There is no bell in this room."

"Oh, I see," murmured the physician, and, leaning across the table, he pulled the telephone toward him.

"Yes, Doctor Bushnell speaking," he said. "Who--what? Where did you get that information?" A pause. "Yes, that is true, but there will be no further information--positively none. You are quite wasting your time in pressing these questions." He cut the conversation short by clicking down the receiver.

Gilmore lifted his haggard face in a glance of curiosity. "Who was it?" he wanted to know.

"_The Star._ It is really quite amazing how quickly the newspapers get hold of a thing like this. Probably the telephone girl at the village gave them the tip."

"The newspapers!" groaned Gilmore. "The scandal they will make of it. Did--did you tell them that it was murder?"

The doctor nodded.

"They were already in possession of that report, and I verified it. There's no use kicking against the pricks, Kirklan; the best that could have been done was to keep it out of the papers for a few brief hours. There will have to be an inquest, you know; that is a public hearing. It's an ugly situation, but there's no escaping it."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," muttered the novelist, "but I want it expressly understood that no reporters are to be admitted to my house."

"They won't bother you until daylight, I suppose," said Doctor Bushnell, little thinking that already a madly speeding taxi was bearing Wiggly Price toward Greenacres. "They'll descend upon you in droves with morning, and they're a persistent lot, those chaps."

The two men in the den again lapsed into silence; Gilmore's muscles twitched spasmodically. It looked as if he were about to crack under the strain.

"I think I will give you an opiate of some sort and then get you in bed," the physician said gently. "You've about gone your limit, I'm afraid."

"That reminds me of something," Gilmore told him. "My stepmother fainted; I promised to send you to her when you came. And as for my going to bed--my room is next to Helen's. You couldn't expect me to spend the rest of the night there. But I will let you give me something, doctor; I feel as if my body were about to separate into atoms. Yes, give me something that will let me forget--for just a few hours."

Doctor Bushnell reached for a compact pocket medicine case and selected a vial containing some small white pellets.

"The constable ought to be here any moment now," he said. "Not that I expect Ham Griggs is going to be of very much help to us; catching speeders is about the limit of his abilities. But he had to be notified, and in the morning we'll notify the district attorney's office. We may get an intelligent investigation from that source. Ah, that must be Griggs now."

There had reached his ears the sound of the constable's approaching motor cycle.

"I'll have Bates let him in and keep him waiting downstairs until I have a look at Mrs. Gilmore. One of these pellets, Kirklan, and you'll be falling asleep in no time."

The doctor left the den and went upstairs, after pausing in the hall to instruct Bates that Ham Griggs should wait; passing the tragedy chamber, he tested the door and found it, as he had left it, locked. Then he made his way around the hall toward the room which, from previous professional calls, he knew to be the elder Mrs. Gilmore's. Kirklan had neglected to tell him that she had been taken to Joan's part of the house.

Ahead a gleam of light sliced out into the hall from a half-open door, the room occupied by Sarbella. The doctor's footsteps were audible, and the guest of Greenacres appeared at the opening.

"You were looking for me?" he inquired.

Doctor Bushnell paused, wondering if Sarbella had left the door open in an effort to keep in touch with what was going on; a guilty man, it was reasonable to presume, would be nervously anxious to know the progress of the investigation, to be forewarned of any suspicion turning in his direction.

"No, Mr. Sarbella, I am on my way to Mrs. Gilmore's room. Kirklan has just told me that she fainted some time since."

"Oh, but you're in the wrong part of the house, doctor; Gilmore and I took his stepmother to Miss Sheridan's room." He paused for a moment, and then added: "It has been a terrible night for all of us."

"It is a very puzzling business," murmured Doctor Bushnell.

"Very," nodded Sarbella.

"How long have you known the--ah--the dead woman?"

The artist hesitated briefly, and when he did reply gave the shrewd doctor the impression of carefully chosen words.

"I met her last evening for the first time," he said. "I had never met her before."

"During the dinner," pursued the physician, watching the man's face closely, "did you notice anything strange?"

Sarbella shot him a quick glance. "She may have been depressed," he answered evasively. "Other than that I can tell you nothing--absolutely nothing. Please do not let me keep you from attending Mrs. Gilmore."

The doctor had the baffled feeling that something was being hidden, that Sarbella knew a great deal more than he was willing to tell. Yet he felt that this was the wrong time to ply questions, that he would only muddle things until he was better fortified for a cross-examination. So he turned and retraced his steps around the hall to Joan's room.

Even before he rapped, he heard the sound of moans, punctuated by a hysterical rambling of speech. His knuckles descended upon the panel, and Joan promptly admitted him. Mrs. Gilmore tossed upon the bed like a woman in physical pain.

"I am glad you have come, Doctor Bushnell," murmured Joan. "Mother is almost beside herself with the horror of it."

"Kirklan was so upset that he didn't tell me until just a moment ago. Your mother fainted, I believe."

"Yes, she was awakened by the shot and went to investigate. She saw--her."

"I knew something was going to happen!" moaned Mrs. Gilmore. "It was in the air. I felt it--impending disaster. Every one acted so strange." There she broke off into wild weeping. The doctor reached for Mrs. Gilmore's wrist and took her pulse. He decided that it was safe enough to administer a soothing hypodermic. When this had been done, and the morphia had taken effect, Bushnell turned to Joan.

"What does she mean by saying that she felt something was going to happen?" he asked. "Did you notice anything peculiar in the behavior of Kirklan's wife last night?"

Joan hesitated, twisting her fingers and biting her lip. "I--I don't think she was quite herself," she answered, her voice very low. "She seemed greatly worried."

"And the guest, Mr. Sarbella?"

A gasp escaped the girl's lips, as she gave the physician a startled, wide-eyed stare. "Why--why do you ask about him?" she whispered.

"Joan, you are holding back something, and you have no right to do that. This atmosphere of secrecy, concealment--what does it mean? You are a sensible girl, and I feel that I can tell you something confidentially. Kirklan's wife did not end her own life."

Standing near the foot of the bed, one of the girl's hands clutched at the rail.

"Kirklan said that--that she had--killed herself. So you think that she was shot by some one else? What makes you think that?"

"Without going into the unpleasant details, it would have been practically impossible for her to have shot herself in such a manner. And there was her scream. You didn't hear it?"

Joan's face was white.

"N-no," she stammered. "I--I did not hear Helen scream."

"Scream she did--a terrible scream of terror, according to Bates. Added to that, the door of her room was found open, and--it was Bates who suggested it--people do not scream when they are about to kill themselves."

The girl's lips moved soundlessly as if she were trying to speak but could not find the words.

Her eyes refused to meet his, and the physician had a baffled, apprehensive feeling that she knew something she was very unwilling to tell. Her attitude was one of terrified concealment. Was she trying to protect some one? Or was she trying to protect herself? What did Joan know?

"But," she said, after this tense pause, "you--you don't think that Mr. Sarbella----"

Doctor Bushnell lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "I don't know what to think," he replied. "From what I have gathered there is something under the surface and----"

Before he could complete the sentence Ham Griggs' voice bawled from down the hall:

"Hey, doc! Where are you?"

The constable was not disposed to bide his time downstairs; officially important, he had brushed the butler aside and mounted the stairs in search of the physician. Joan drew a breath of relief and Doctor Bushnell frowned.

"That's Constable Griggs," he said; "he's looking for me. Isn't there something you can tell me, Joan, that will throw some light on the tragedy?"

"Nothing," she answered faintly, "absolutely nothing. Only--I feel very positive that Mr. Sarbella did not do it."

"Doc! Where the thunder are you, anyhow?" Again Ham Griggs' raucous bellow, edged with impatience, boomed through the upper hall. The physician turned toward the door, having no choice but to respond. Joan's attitude troubled him. Why did she express such a positive conviction of Sarbella's innocence, the most obvious suspect?

He found Griggs around the turn in the hall, stern and grim.

"This is a fine howdy-do," Griggs rumbled, "keepin' an officer of the law coolin' his heels, when there's murder been done, an' there's a murderer to be put under arrest." His hand moved in his pocket, jingling a pair of handcuffs. "Who done it, doc?"

Doctor Bushnell sighed wearily, realizing that the constable was going to be a difficult person to deal with. There is nothing more trying than official bigotry.

"That's the job in front of us--to ferret that out," he answered.

"Reckon Gilmore----"

"No, Gilmore was downstairs talking to the butler when the shot was fired," broke in the doctor. Briefly he related the facts, as he had found them, but he confined himself strictly to facts, and indulged in no theories or suspicions; he was afraid to trust Ham Griggs with theories.

The constable listened, rocking his heavy body on his heels and frowning sternly.

"Hum!" he grunted when the other paused. "Where's the body?"

"I'll take you there," the latter answered. "I locked the room--didn't want anything disturbed, of course." He took the key from his pocket and led the way to the tragedy chamber.

For all of his outward bluster, Ham Griggs was inwardly nervous and uncertain, for this was his first murder case.