The porcelain mask A detective story
"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?"