The porcelain mask A detective story

"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. CHAPTER XIV THE GIRL IN THE SARBELLA CASE As Doctor Bushnell unlocked the door and snapped on the lights, the constable was close upon his heels, staring at the lounge with its sheet-shrouded burden. From beneath the edge of the white linen covering, where it almost touched the floor, was the automatic pistol. "Do you know anything about finger prints?" asked the physician. "I thought there might be finger prints on the grip of the gun; but I doubt it. The weapon was left behind to give the appearance of suicide; the murderer, being deliberate as that, would hardly have been fool enough to leave his signature behind him." Ham Griggs neither admitted nor denied knowledge of the finger-print science; as a matter of fact, he knew precious little about it, but that did not deter him from stepping promptly forward, with great show of confidence, and picking the pistol up by the barrel. He did have gumption enough for that. Stepping close to the electric light burning from one of the wall brackets, he turned the gun slowly, examining the butt plates at various angles. "Gotta have a smooth surface, doc, to get finger prints," he grunted, tapping the corrugated rubber with his finger. "There ain't any--no, sir, there just natcherally ain't any." Doctor Bushnell nodded. "You're right about that," he agreed. "Guess I better keep this for evidence," said Griggs, handling it gingerly; ignorant of an automatic's mechanism, he did not know just how easily it might be discharged. "Careful there!" warned the doctor. "It's ready for firing; the explosion, you know, ejects the shell and throws back the plunger for another shot. There's a safety catch on the side; I'll attend to it for you." Griggs willingly surrendered the gun and glanced around the room. "Don't look like there'd been no scuffle," he muttered. "None of the chairs is turned over, or nothin' like that. Don't seem like there is any clews." Doctor Bushnell handed back the gun. "I understand that there are always clews, Griggs. No doubt there are plenty of them right here, but our eyes aren't trained for seeing them. We're just overlooking them, that's all, and I am afraid that we shall continue to overlook them. This is a job for a detective--a real detective." Ham Griggs looked resentful. "Just you hold your horses a little while, doc," he growled. "Gimme a chance, can't you? You don't expect me to clear this thing up in the battin' of an eye, do you? Mebbe if I'd been on the ground long as you have, an' talked to all the folks in the house, like you've done, I'd have got somewheres by this time." "Yes--maybe," murmured Doctor Bushnell. "Well, anyhow," retorted the constable, "I allow to ask a heap of questions. I ain't gonna stand here suckin' my thumb. Where's Gilmore?" "I gave him an opiate, Griggs; the poor chap's a nervous wreck--naturally. Give him a chance to pull himself together. It would be rank cruelty to subject him to an inquisition until he's had an opportunity to come out from under the first shock. Remember, he had been married but a few weeks; a terrible blow, Griggs." "Who else did you say was in the house?" "Bates, the butler, the elder Mrs. Gilmore, Miss Joan Sheridan, Mrs. Gilmore's daughter by her first marriage, and a Mr. Sarbella, a guest from New York. Mrs. Gilmore is in a state bordering on nervous prostration, and, as her physician, I should certainly refuse to admit her to be questioned just now." "Seems like to me," grunted the constable, suspicion in his voice, "they don't mebbe want to be questioned. The other three--they got prostrations, too?" "No; there is nothing to prevent your cross-examining the others." "The butler feller, you said he was downstairs with Gilmore when the gun was shot off?" "Yes, that's right." "An' that the two womenfolks an' this--whatcha say his name is?" "Sarbella, Victor Sarbella." "Sounds dago. So you say that Sarbella an' the two women was upstairs?" In his slow-witted, blundering way, Ham Griggs was arriving at the obvious. "That bein' the case, doc, I guess--hum--I reckon we better have a look at this Sarbella. I hope you ain't give him no chance to escape?" "I'll call him," responded Doctor Bushnell, "but do you want to question him here?" "Best place I can think of, doc; if he done it he'll kinda give himself away by bein' in the presence of the victim." "Up to date," imparted the physician, "Sarbella thinks we believe she took her own life." "That's good; we'll spring a surprise on 'im. Go get 'im, doc." When Bushnell had responded to this command, Ham Griggs stepped to the lounge and drew back the edge of the sheet, staring at the beautiful face below him. He was surprised at the woman's beauty. "Sure was a swell looker," he said to himself and drew the sheet back in place. With his stubby, thick fingers clasped behind his back, he took a turn across the room, so intent with his sluggish thoughts that he did not notice the trodding of his heavy shoes upon a bit of dark porcelain that lay upon the rug near the table which stood by the north wall--a bit of porcelain no larger than a silver dollar. It splintered beneath his weight, with a faintly crunching sound. In his preoccupation he did not hear it. A moment later Doctor Bushnell had returned with Victor Sarbella. Ham Griggs turned and stared intently at the guest of Greenacres, who had himself well under control. "The doctor tells me that you wish to see me," murmured Sarbella. "I am at your service." "You betcha I want to see you," grunted the constable, motioning to a chair that faced the sheet-covered lounge. "What do you know about this case?" Sarbella let himself into the indicated chair, facing the shrouded body without flinching. "Nothing," he answered steadily. Griggs whipped the automatic from his pocket and thrust it before the man's eyes with what might have been considered an accusing gesture. "Ever see this before?" he demanded, and, when Sarbella nodded, he went on with a triumphant exclamation: "Oh, you admit it, do you?" "Yes," answered the artist, "I saw it on the floor, where it must have fallen from her hand, after she shot herself." "She didn't do no such thing," the constable retorted belligerently. "It was murder." Sarbella's head jerked up, and his hands suddenly froze rigidly about the arms of the chair. Into his intense black eyes there came a startled, narrow-lidded gleam that Doctor Bushnell, watching him closely, decided could have been guilt. But he recovered himself quickly. "I don't believe it," he said flatly. "I begin to understand. You are hinting that I----" "Matter of fact, now, ain't this your gun?" broke in Ham Griggs. "No use lyin'; we can trace it easy enough." Sarbella did not become angry; he did not bluster. "I do not know what has given you this ridiculous idea," he said quietly, "but I shall make a statement that, in so far as I am concerned, covers everything. The gun is not mine; I have never seen the gun until, aroused by the pistol shot, I saw Gilmore's wife dead. Never in my life had I ever seen the woman until I was introduced to her before dinner last evening. It did not for a moment enter my mind that it was other than suicide. If, as you claim, it is murder, I did not do it, and I do not know who did, or why. That is all I have to say." His tone had a firm finality that was discouraging to further questioning; over the room there fell a silence, a silence so tense and absorbed that none of the three men heard the automobile that sped into the Greenacres driveway and came to a halt beneath the portico. Constable Griggs reached behind him and drew the sheet from the dead woman's face. Even the bosom of her crimson-stained silk robe was exposed to view. But no cry of guilty horror came from Sarbella; in fact, he seemed a little contemptuous of this dramatic play. His face was stonily hard. Below, the taxicab bearing Wiggly, otherwise Jimmy Price, had arrived at Greenacres, and Wiggly, bidding the driver wait, leaped across the porch to the entrance. His finger pressed the bell button with one brief, curt ring. He waited grimly. Now, Wiggly Price was wise in the ways of his craft; he knew that in a case like this, among such people, a reporter is emphatically unwelcome. From countless previous experiences he had learned that the big thing is to keep the door from being slammed in one's face. There was an old trick that he had used with success before; possibly it was chicanery, but the good reporter must get the story to hold his job. There are times when the exigency of the situation demands a blind eye toward strict ethics, and he knew that, unless he made good on the Gilmore murder yarn, Scoggins would complete the fatefully interrupted business of firing him. There had been a day when New York newspaper men were given neat nickeled and numbered badges, issued by the police department to identify them in getting past the police lines at fires, parades, and the like. They looked official, these badges, and, although they had long since been withdrawn by the department, Wiggly Price had retained his; that word "Police" stamped upon the metal in much larger lettering than "Press" had more than once been the open sesame for him. So when Bates, the Gilmore butler, opened the door in answer to the ring, Wiggly Price flipped back the lapel of his coat so that the servant might be misled by the brief flash and glisten of the metal. "I'm here on the case," Wiggly announced briskly, knowing full well that if he revealed his true identity he would get about so far as "I am a reporter." Then the door would have closed in his face. Bates readily admitted him. "Doctor Bushnell is expecting you?" Wiggly, having no notion of committing himself, evaded the question. "Hum!" he said. "Bad business, I understand. How long since it happened? I'll hear what you know about it before I see Doctor Bushnell." Thus Bates, who would have let his tongue be cut out before he would have divulged so much as a grain of information to a reporter, was misled into telling all he knew. Thinking he was talking to a detective summoned by the doctor, he pridefully told of his own deductions of murder; he omitted nothing, and Jimmy Price's animated ears wiggled delightedly, as he realized how lucky he was. "Fine!" he murmured. "You're a pretty good detective yourself. Now just