CHAPTER XXVI

BITS OF TALLOW

Presently Tish and Wiggly Price were once more within the room where Helen Gilmore had met death, again seeking from the mute furnishings some vital clew that previous examinations might have overlooked. The newspaper man was all eagerness, but the interest of the detective had already cooled. There was the window with Haskins' finger prints; he had the sort of mind that readily accepts the obvious, and his police experience had taught him that, nine chances to ten, the obvious is the true.

It was a little hard to think of this cheerful bed-chamber as a place of dark deeds. The north windows looked out upon the wide and shimmering bosom of the Hudson; a sailboat clipped daintily over the water, and in its wake the sunlight made the ripples scintillate like diamonds. Across the Tappan Zee the stern ruggedness of the New Jersey Palisades was softened with a verdant touch and splash of summer greenness.

"The answer to it all is here," said Wiggly. "There must be something more for us than just a woman's hairpin."

"Sure," grunted Tish; "my gun and Haskins' finger prints on the glass." He had returned even more positively to the conviction that he had been right in the first place.

"Ah, but what we're after now, Tish, is a clew that will outweigh the finger prints and the gun. There must be something more than that; there's got to be."

"That stuff about there always being a clew is the bunk," said Tish. "I've seen dozens of cases where there wasn't a thing for us cops to go on. But this is different. All the evidence points straight at Haskins. What else have you got? A hairpin and an imagination!"

Wiggly was not discouraged; beginning at the side of the room, he began to walk slowly, bent nearly double, his eyes searching, searching, while Tish watched him in a half-amused, half-contemptuous silence. Again the reporter came upon the shattered pieces of the broken vase which lay on the rug near the little mahogany table, but he had already rejected these fragments as things of no importance; proof, if anything, that some one, probably the murderer, had struck against the table, crashing the vase to the floor. Perhaps it was to his discredit as an investigator that it did not occur to him as strange that the vase should have been broken into as many pieces.

Near the table, however, he did find something that he had overlooked until now; it was a bit of whitish substance which, as he picked it up from where it had been crushed flat into the rug, was moderately soft between his fingers. He frowned over it, puzzled.

"Tallow!" he exclaimed. "The sort of tallow they make candles of."

"Huh!" grunted Tish.

"People seldom use tallow candles these days, except for those decorative candlesticks." His gaze roved swiftly about the room. "No candlestick in this room, either. This piece is too chunky to be candle drip; besides, why should any one have been walking around with a lighted candle last night? If the lights had been out of commission, some one would surely have mentioned it. Wouldn't you consider this just a little queer, Tish?"

"If you're asking me to speak my mind, I'd be more apt to say that you're a little queer, always jumping at little things that don't amount to anything. What if it is a piece of tallow? That don't prove anything--any more than a hairpin does."

Speculatively Wiggly turned the find over in his hand; it was grained with black specks. He looked to the floor again and, some three or four feet away, saw another bit of it.

"No children in the house," he mused. "Children might explain it; when I was a kid I used to take a candle and mold it into odd sorts of shapes--a juvenile attempt at sculpture--human heads, animals, and the like. Yes, Tish, this is queer--darned queer!" Completely baffled in his effort to account for the presence of the tallow, he put it into his pocket along with the black hairpin.

"Something else to think about, anyhow," he told himself and continued his literally inch-by-inch survey of the room. It was at the far end of the chamber that, almost completely hidden in the thick nap of the rug, he found another piece of the broken vase, this one little more than a sliver, and still another bit of the tallow.

"Tish!" he fairly shouted. "Come here! Here's a little mystery all in itself."

"What now?"

Wiggly exhibited the fragment of porcelain and pointed dramatically to the spot on the rug where he had discovered it.

"We've been presuming all along, Tish," he said almost breathlessly, "that the vase was broken when some one bumped into the table. It's a dozen feet from the table to this spot; it isn't reasonable to think that one of the pieces could have shattered for such a distance. As a matter of fact, Tish, there's something that I've been a blockhead not to think of before. This rug is pretty thick; it's only three feet from the top of the table to the floor, and yet that vase is broken into a hundred and one pieces. And here's a bit of it twelve feet away!"

"Humph!" grunted Tish.

"What do you make of it anyhow?"

"Maybe the Gilmore woman threw it at Haskins," suggested the detective, puffing out his cheeks and frowning; "maybe she saw what was coming, picked up the vase, and flung it at his head--something like that, huh?"

"Y-yes," Wiggly admitted hesitatingly; "that might explain it being broken into so many pieces, but that doesn't explain the tallow. I've got a feeling that those are the two things that are going to add up to four."

"Oh, forget the tallow!" Tish muttered peevishly. "What's a little tallow got to do with a murder--or a smashed vase, for that matter? You better stick to digging up news and let this Sherlock business alone."

Wiggly shook his head stubbornly.

"It's a puzzle, Tish, but I'm going to stick until these peculiar little things you scoff at are explained." He again took up his search, but further results were nil. Tish was growing impatient.

"I'm going back downstairs," he announced.

"Wonder where this door leads to?" murmured the reporter, as he reached for the knob. It did not yield to his touch, but the key was in the lock; a moment later he was looking within Kirklan Gilmore's sleeping chamber.

"Ah!" he mused. "She had the door locked against her husband. Wonder if that means there was discord in the new love nest?"

Sergeant Tish snorted derisively. "Next," he said with withering sarcasm, "you'll be trying to hang it onto the husband--and him downstairs when the shot was fired."

"Oh, not at all," Wiggly answered without resentment; "that was just an aside." He entered the room, gave it a brief survey, and then, satisfied that it had nothing to offer him, returned, closing the door and relocking it behind him. "Nothing in there that could interest us, Tish. The net result so far seems to be one black hairpin and a few pieces of tallow candle--perhaps a broken vase. I'm not so sure but that you've given a pretty logical explanation of the vase." He sighed in discouragement. "Not much to go on, eh? Wish I could figure out the tallow thing."

"Forget it," advised Tish.

"If we could only get Miss Sheridan to talk. Wish I had the authority to put her through a sprout of questions!"

Tish tenderly massaged the wrist of his injured arm; the bandages interfered with his circulation.

"Well, you haven't got the authority; neither have I. And I wouldn't waste my time quizzing her, if I had. So far as I'm concerned, the case is solved. Haskins did the killing. I've messed around here and let you play at the detective business long enough; me for one of those comfy chairs down in the library. Guess I'll stick around for the inquest. Coming down?"

Wiggly hesitated for a moment and then nodded. "Yes, I suppose I might as well," he agreed; "I think I've exhausted the possibilities here."

The two men went downstairs and into the library, Tish to take what comfort he could in one of the easy-chairs, and the newspaper man to speculate with discouraging futility on the puzzle of the candle tallow. He felt as if he had told the New York detective sergeant that the next move was to question Joan Sheridan. While he had no authority in the matter, he was several times on the verge of taking this course into his own hands.

Doctor Bushnell, he felt very sure, would resent any hint that the girl had a criminal knowledge of the murder; the physician would be prejudiced in her favor and wave aside the suggestion indignantly. It would be his natural inclination to consider Haskins guilty and brush aside any other theory. A cross-examination of Miss Sheridan, in the doctor's hands, was liable to be a perfunctory and negligible proceeding.

"Well, young un, got it figured out yet?" grunted Tish, breaking a considerable silence.

"Not yet," admitted Wiggly, "but I haven't given it up. I'm still struggling with it."

Again silence.

"Where's Gilmore?" asked Tish presently. "I haven't had eyes on the man since I've been here. Wasn't in his room when you opened that door, huh?"

"The doctor put him to bed somewhere here on the ground floor--gave him a shot of dope, I believe, to quiet him. I saw him last night; he was pretty well cut up over it, naturally. He'll get another jolt between the eyes when he's told that the woman wasn't legally married to him. It's pretty tough on a chap, losing illusions of the woman you're in love with."

"Uh-huh," grunted Tish. "A pretty woman sure can stir up a lot of hell for a man--when she's the wrong sort."

Wiggly turned in his chair, as there came to his ears the sound of a step on the stairs outside the archway dividing the library from the reception hall, the tap of a woman's high-heeled shoes.

"Perhaps----" he murmured and leaped to his feet; he was thinking it might be Joan Sheridan, and that he could manufacture some excuse to get her in conversation. His hopeful guess was right; it was Joan. She came slowly down the stairs, her face white and drawn. As the newspaper man, although she had no knowledge of his profession, appeared before her, she paused.

"I am looking for Doctor Bushnell," she murmured; "I am anxious to know----" Her voice trailed off.

"Doctor Bushnell has taken the constable to the hospital," he explained, "but, if there is anything I can do, I am at your service." He stepped aside with a gesture that she was to come into the library and, turning his head, gave Tish an entreating look. Now that the opportunity had presented itself he decided to play a colossal game of bluffing.

"Miss Sheridan, this is Detective Sergeant Tish of the New York police department. Sergeant Tish has been wounded--in the shooting on the third floor, you know."

"I--I am afraid I don't know exactly what has happened; everything has been such a terrible, excited jumble."

"One would hardly think so many things could happen in a quiet country place like this," said Wiggly.

Joan shuddered.

"It's been horrible! The man--the wounded man I saw on the stairs----" Her eyes were upon Tish; perhaps not so much upon Tish as his bandaged shoulder, where brown stains had seeped through the bandages.

"Haskins is dead, ma'am," Tish answered promptly, which was precisely one of the things Wiggly had not wanted him to say--not just yet. "I plugged him when he winged me with the constable's gun, up in the storeroom."

"Doctor Bushnell told me," Joan went on tremulously, "that it was this man who--who killed Kirklan's wife."

Sergeant Tish caught Wiggly's pleading signal, hesitated a moment, and then temporized.

"W-well," he answered slowly, "I guess there's what you'd call a division of opinion on that. Our newspaper friend don't think so." Wiggly could have choked him. Why did he have to tell her that he was a reporter! And why couldn't Tish have given him a square show? Under his breath he cursed the headquarters man's stubbornness.

"Oh!" exclaimed Joan. "So he's a newspaper reporter. I thought he must be a detective, too."

"Give 'im credit," grunted Tish; "he's trying hard enough to be one." He chuckled at his little joke.

"This--this man," pressed Joan Sheridan, now ignoring Wiggly entirely, "what was he doing in the house--in the storeroom? Was he a--a burglar?"

"As a matter of fact, Miss Sheridan, Haskins was the woman's husband."

Joan gasped.

"You don't mean--you can't mean Helen?"

"That's it, ma'am; seems that she had not taken the trouble to get herself a divorce before she married Gilmore." Briefly he recounted Haskins' trouble with the New York police, his criminal record, his flight from Eighth Avenue Annie's with the automatic, his coming to Greenacres, and his method of gaining entrance to the house.

Joan, leaning forward tensely, listened with wide eyes and parted lips.

"It was the gun--the gun that this criminal took away from you in New York that killed Helen?" she demanded breathlessly. Tish nodded.

"Then," she rushed on, her voice sinking to a whisper, "there--there doesn't seem to be much doubt that the man--Haskins--her--her legal husband--killed her? Did he say anything before he died?"

Wiggly Price leaped forward and stood in front of her, lest Tish spoil whatever chance might be left.

"Let me ask you something," he snapped out. "What made you so positive, hours before any one else in the house knew that such a person as Haskins existed, that Victor Sarbella was innocent of the murder?"

Joan naturally was startled by this sudden verbal attack; all the blood had drained from her already pale face, leaving her features ghastly. Her eyes met his for a moment and then lowered.

"Why--why, what a strange question!" she exclaimed, but there was a noticeable nervous catch in her voice. "I--I never doubted Mr. Sarbella's innocence."

"I know you didn't, but what I want to know is--why?"

Joan's head went still lower, but Wiggly could see that her lips were quivering.

"I--I just knew it."

"Intuition, eh?"

"Call it anything you like."

"Was it intuition or knowledge?" Wiggly demanded sharply. The girl gave a suppressed start, which Sergeant Tish missed entirely; in fact, Tish had not quite recovered from his surprise at the way the newspaper man had plunged in with these rapid-fire questions of his. Wiggly had a thrill of elation; his hunch had been right, and the girl knew something.

His hand slid into his pocket, and his fingers closed about the bit of tallow that he had found on the floor of Helen Gilmore's bedroom.

"Look at this!" he commanded. Joan's head raised at the compelling tone, but her gaze, as she stared at the misshapen, somewhat soiled lump of white, was merely blankly inquiring. It was quite clear, even to the suspicious reporter, that this meant nothing to her. Again his hand went to his pocket.

"And look at this!" he ordered again, opening his fingers, revealing the black hairpin in his palm. "Look at it closely, Miss Sheridan, and tell if it doesn't belong to you."

"How--how could I know that?" she stammered. "All hairpins are so much alike. What--what right have you to ask me all these questions in that tone?" She turned appealingly to Sergeant Tish. "Has this newspaper reporter a right to ask me these questions?"

"I guess that's a reporter's main business, asking questions," grunted Tish, with a slow grin; quite evidently he wasn't taking Wiggly's cross-examination with any seriousness. "Might as well answer 'em, Miss Sheridan; no harm in that."

"This hairpin," went on Wiggly, "was found on the floor beside Helen Gilmore's chaise longue. She didn't use black hairpins, and you do. Do you deny, Miss Sheridan, that you were in the woman's sleeping room last night?"

For a moment, the barest instant, Joan hesitated. "Yes," she answered slowly, "I do deny it."

"Evidently you do not know," Wiggly went on mercilessly, resorting to a trick in an effort to force the truth from her, "that just before Haskins died he made a statement. He told us that Helen managed to get the automatic out of his pocket before she sent him into hiding on the third floor. He was in the storeroom when he realized that she had got the gun away from him. He came back down the stairs with the intention of forcing her to return it to him. He was in the hall when he heard the scream and the shot.

"The door was open, the light was burning inside, and Haskins saw the person who came out of that room!" This much, of course, was true, and for his purpose he did not consider it an unfair advantage, this failure to add that Haskins had refused to tell more.

Joan Sheridan's hands were frozen tightly about the arms of the chair; her eyes met Wiggly's with a hunted, terrified look. She realized what he meant--that he was virtually accusing her of the murder. But she was a quick-witted girl, Joan Sheridan; she knew that Sergeant Tish's attitude would not have been so jovially casual if he too had suspected her of the shooting. She mastered herself wonderfully.

"Why don't you proceed and say exactly what you mean?" she asked. "What you mean is that you think I----"

"Didn't you?" whipped out Wiggly, leaning slightly forward until their eyes were level. This time her gaze did not falter; it met his without flinching.

"No!" she answered firmly. "I deny everything you have said and intimated. If you have finished with your inquisition----"

Price, realizing that his strategy had failed, offered no objection, as she moved to leave the room. But when her steps had receded up the stairs, he turned angrily upon Tish.

"A nice mess you made of things!" he exclaimed hotly. "Why did you have to tell her that I am a newspaper man?"

"Well, ain't you?"

"You didn't give me a square shake. You queered any chance that I might have had to make her talk. You belittled me, and that took all the wind out of my sails. If you'd backed me up a little, we'd have had her dead to rights. If we could have made her believe that it was she whom Haskins saw coming out of the room after the shot was fired----"

"Aw, forget it," growled Tish; "she didn't croak the woman any more than you did."

"Probably not premeditatively, but there's one thing sure in my mind, and you'll never convince me any different: Either Joan Sheridan did the shooting, or she knows who did--and she knows it wasn't Haskins. She was on the edge of a breakdown, but you braced her right up. And you're called a detective!"

Sergeant Tish's face flushed. "See here, I'm not going to have any newspaper scribbler talk that way to me! If I'd have let you have your way, you'd have made a fool out of me as well as yourself. Hairpins, tallow! Bah! I guess you think you are a detective--a real detective. That's the way with you newspaper guys--always hunting for a chance to make the police wrong, trying to make monkeys of the police department. You make me sick!"

Wiggly's ears moved violently.

"You wait and see!" he retorted. "Sneer at hairpins and tallow, but I know I'm on the right trail, and I'm going to stick on this job until I've followed it to the end."