The Luminous Face - Carolyn Wells

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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.

       Table of Contents

      “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

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