The porcelain mask A detective story

heavyweight was named, was totally bereft of speech, completely hypnotized by the amazing gymnastics of Jimmy Price's ears. "Huh?" he finally gulped. "Whatcha--whatcha say?" "I said: Do you know where Constable Griggs lives?" "Sure--sure thing," gasped Fatty Frederick. "Right--right down this street--third block, second house from the corner. Say, mister, tell a feller somethin'--how did you learn to do it?" Wiggly flushed, as he always did when reminded of his refractory appendages, and he dived swiftly back into the cab, as he gave the chauffeur further directions. The taxi shot forward with a jerk. Less than a minute later they had negotiated the three blocks, and the New York newspaper man was on the sidewalk and at the picket gate of the Griggs cottage. Etta, the constable's daughter, was ambitious, but her ambition was centered upon becoming a playwright and did not, as a rule, extend to early rising. But this morning she was up, fully dressed, and, at the moment of Wiggly Price's ring, pressing her father for further details of the Greenacres murder. For once in her life she was actually taking some pride in the fact that her parent was a constable. And Ham Griggs willingly sacrificed his intended "forty winks" that he might elaborate, none too modestly, on the part he had played; after all, it was something to be a hero to the critical and exacting Etta. "I wouldn't be a lot surprised," he was saying, "that the reporter feller will be wantin' my pitcher to put in the paper. There ain't no use for me to deny, Etty, that I done a purty slick piece of work. I knowed the minute I clapped eyes on the Eyetalian that he was the one that done it. Wouldn't be surprised but what I'd better scoot down to Jess Burnside's pitcher gallery an' have some new pitchers struck; I ain't set for a pitcher since----" He was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Father and daughter had been so absorbed that they had not heard the arrival of the taxi. "I'll answer it, fawther," said Etta, and for once Ham Griggs did not correct the affectation which ordinarily so annoyed him. They had been sitting in the kitchen, and Etta had put on a pot of coffee which, entirely unnoticed, had boiled over. Ham tilted back in a chair, uniform coat thrown open, snapping his suspenders smartly against his chest. Etta frisked through the brief hallway to the front of the cottage. As she opened the door, the upper portion of which was glass, with a frosted design alleged to be artistic, she faced Wiggly Price, who neglected the polite formality of removing his hat. "Constable Griggs live here?" "He does," admitted Etta, one hand resting upon her practically hipless waist, chin slightly tilted. "Who shall I tell fawther is calling, please?" "Price, of _The Morning Star_." "O--oh," gasped Etta, flustered. "Come--come right in; I'll tell him." But there was no need to tell him. Ham Griggs, the intervening doors being open, had heard him and came striding out from the kitchen, morally certain that his prediction was well founded, and that the reporter had come for a photograph. "Come right on in, son," he boomed hospitably. "Etty's just fixin' me up a cup of Java, an' I guess she can scare up a flock of eggs. Guess you ain't had no breakfast, huh? Come right on into the kitchen an' make yourself to home." "Fawther!" cried Etta in embarrassed indignation. "Ain't you--haven't you forgotten your manners? In the kitchen? Why the very idea! I'll set the table in the dining room, and----" "The kitchen for mine! Don't bother, Miss Griggs. I'm in pretty much of a hurry, but I can't turn down a cup of coffee after being up all night." "Sure," the constable nodded complacently and then added: "Guess nothin' new turned up out at Greenacres, huh? I nailed the right man, all right; not a bad piece of work for a hick constable, if I do say so myself." With a laugh he led the way into the kitchen, while the mortified Etta bit her lip in chagrin; but there was no choice in accepting the situation. She recalled a line from her "Social Etiquette" which told her, "When embarrassed by an unexpected caller, the hostess should at once accept the situation in good grace and make her guest feel welcome." But a guest in the kitchen! Her little reference book was mute as to that. "I want to see Sarbella just as quickly as I can," said Wiggly, sitting down and hitching his chair close to the table. He sniffed avidly. "Ah, that coffee does smell good!" "Sure," agreed Ham Griggs. "But whatcha want to see him about? What's happened?" "Nothing's happened--exactly," Wiggly answered cautiously, knowing that the constable would in all probability resent any intimation of Sarbella's possible innocence. Even a seasoned detective, once he has made up his mind, does not relish the idea of being shown that he had been wrong. In Griggs' case, it would be a hard blow to his exuberant vanity. "But, as you may realize, our evidence against the man is so far purely circumstantial." "Oh, don't you worry about that," the constable said complacently; "he'll come through with a confession, after he's had a good taste of jail. Stubborn as a mule he is so far, but he'll break down; they all do." "Isn't it thrilling!" broke in Etta, pouring coffee. "It's what you call a big story, isn't it?" Wiggly gave a smiling nod. "It's about the best murder story I've ever worked on." Etta beamed. "It was I who called up your editor and told him about it," she announced. "The thunder you did!" grunted Ham Griggs. "If it's a scoop," promised Wiggly; "I'll tell the city editor to have the business office mail you a fat little check for the tip." "Oh, no! I didn't do it for any mercenary reasons. But, if the editor wants to say something nice about my play----" "Eh--your play?" "I expect it to be produced this fall. It's nearly finished; I have promised to let a New York producer stage it." "Yes, I see," murmured Wiggly gravely. He had the good sense not to indulge in a smile, but his ears moved faintly. "And I'll certainly speak to the dramatic critic about it--I certainly will." Under his breath he added: "Lord, what the play bug does to people!" Etta was so excited by what she considered the total success of her plan to establish a cordial personal relationship with the press that she tipped a cup, spilling hot coffee over the back of her father's hand. "The murder at Greenacres has given me the inspiration for another play," she said. "It shall be a mystery play; they're so popular in New York." "A good mystery is about the most interesting thing in the world," declared Wiggly, dropping a spoonful of sugar and stirring vigorously. "And the Gilmore tragedy--fawther has just finished telling me all about it--isn't it dramatic?" "It certainly is, Miss Griggs," agreed the reporter, wishing the girl were in Halifax. "And to think," she rushed on, "that Kirklan Gilmore's new wife was such an awful woman. So pretty, too; I saw her only the other day. You know it was such a surprise when he married her. Mrs. Huggins--she's a seamstress and used to sew for the Gilmores--thought it was certain that he would marry Joan; such a sweet girl, Joan." Wiggly's wandering thoughts suddenly became centered upon what the gushing Etta was saying. "Joan?" he murmured. "Young Mr. Gilmore's stepsister, you know. Didn't you see her? Such a sweet girl! Oh, I suppose some people would consider it unusual for a man to marry his stepsister, but Mrs. Huggins thought it would turn out that way. She's got sharp eyes, Mrs. Huggins has, and she said that Joan was simply in love with Mr. Gilmore; she used to help him so much with his work, I understand. And then, while she was away in Europe, he married the other one. It was such a terrible surprise to everybody. And Mrs. Huggins said----" Her gossip broke off into a gasp, as she stared at the reporter's ears which were now wiggling almost violently. So Joan was in love with her stepbrother; she had dark hair; and he had found a black hairpin on the floor beside the slain woman's body! This certainly was food for thought--not only food, but a feast! The Greenacres story gave promise of being a live mystery. And there was the cigarette butt; the husband did not smoke cigarettes; therefore it could not be explained by his dropping it there, and, if it wasn't Sarbella's----There was another angle. During Etta's moment of speechlessness, Wiggly debated these matters swiftly, as he gulped down his coffee, and Constable Griggs embraced the opportunity to get back into the conversation. "Whatcha say you wanted to see Sarbella about?" he demanded. "As I said," answered Wiggly; "there's no proof against him except that he might be considered to have a motive, and that he also had an opportunity to commit the crime. Juries don't send men to the death chair on that sort of evidence. Of course, if he makes a confession or we can trace the murder gun to him, that automatically solves our difficulty; but Sarbella is probably shrewd enough to realize what a weak case you've got against him; if he does realize that, and if he is guilty, he'll have sense enough to keep his mouth shut." "Whatcha hittin' at?" growled Ham Griggs. "After you left Greenacres, Doctor Bushnell and I looked around a little, and we found a half-burned cigarette mashed down into the rug of the room where the woman was killed. Since Gilmore doesn't smoke----" "Sarbella smokes 'em," broke in the constable. "Sure he does; purty near one right after the other. Regular cigarette fiend, the feller is. That clinches the case on him, huh? Is that what you're drivin' at?" "If he smokes the same sort of cigarette as the one Doctor Bushnell found on the rug, I'd say it was pretty much a clincher. It would be evidence that he had been in the room." "Of course it's his cigarette!" exclaimed Ham Griggs, lumbering swiftly to his feet. "I'd bet a hundred dollars on it. Come on, son, we'll get right down to the jail and prove it." "Why, fawther!" came Etta's protest. "Won't you let Mr. Price wait until I have cooked the eggs? I was going to put them on the fire this minute." "Speaking for Mr. Price," said Wiggly, "the coffee is sufficient. Thanks just the same." He pushed back his chair and moved to follow the constable. "Like as not when we face 'im with this," suggested Griggs, "he'll break down an' make a clean breast of it." "Oh, Mr. Price," called Etta, "you won't forget to--to speak to the dramatic critic about my play?" Wiggly promised, without committing himself as to just how he would speak of it; there are some things, from a diplomatic standpoint, best left unsaid. The constable clumped briskly out of the house with the reporter following. As they got into the taxi, Ham Griggs wondered if he were not to be asked for a photograph with which to adorn the first page of _The Star_; already he had visualized the caption: "Figures in Gilmore Murder Case--Local Officer Who Solved Baffling Mystery." "If you want my pitcher for the paper," he suggested, "I'd better see about havin' one struck. Of course I ain't lookin' for no puff, but----" "No use going to that expense," Wiggly broke in; "we'll probably have a staff photographer down during the day, and he can snap you on the scene--examining the murder gun, you know, or something like that. Action pictures always more interesting, Mr. Constable," he ended emphatically. The brief trip was completed, and, as the machine again drew to a halt in front of Borough Hall, the chauffeur entered a protest. "Say, boss," he exclaimed, "you don't expect a guy to sit at the wheel forever, do you? A man's gotta sleep some time. Guess you'd better pay