The Red Seal
reason every one's searching the room with the seven doors.”
“The room with the seven doors!” echoed Ferguson. “Which is that?”
“Grimes means the library.” McIntyre's tone was short. “I have no idea,
Grimes, what your allegations mean. Be more explicit.”
The butler eyed him in no friendly fashion. “Wasn't Mr. Turnbull
arrested in that very room?” he demanded. “And what was he looking for?”
“Mr. Turnbull's presence has been explained,” replied McIntyre. “He came
here disguised as a burglar on a wager with my daughter, Miss Barbara.”
“Ah, did he now?” Grimes' rising inflection indicated nervous tension.
“Did a man with a bad heart come here in the dead of night for nothing
but that foolishness?” Grimes glared at his three visitors. “You bet he
didn't.”
Ferguson, who had followed the dialogue between McIntyre and his servant
with deep attention, addressed the excited man.
“Why did Mr. Turnbull enter Colonel McIntyre's library on Monday night
disguised as a burglar?” he asked.
Grimes, by a twist of his head, managed to regard the detective out of
the corner of his eye.
“Aye, why did he?” he repeated. “That's what I went to the library last
night to find out.”
“Did you discover anything?” The question shot from McIntyre, and both
Ferguson and Kent watched him as they waited for Grimes' reply. The
butler took his time.
“No, sir.”
McIntyre threw himself back in his chair and his eyebrows rose in
interrogation as he touched his forehead significantly and glanced
at Grimes. That the butler caught his meaning was evident from his
expression, but he said nothing. The detective was the first to speak.
“Did you hear any one break into the house when you were prowling
around, Grimes?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
The detective turned to Colonel McIntyre. “After finding Grimes did you
search the house?” he inquired.
“Yes. The patrolman, O'Ryan, and my new footman, Murray, went with me
through the entire house, and we found all doors and windows to the
front and rear of the house securely locked,” responded McIntyre;
“except the window of the reception room on the ground floor. That was
closed but unlatched.”
Kent wondered if the grimace which twisted the butler's face was meant
for a smile.
“That there window was locked when I went to bed,” Grimes stated with
slow distinctness. “And I was the last person in this house to go to my
room.”
McIntyre started to speak when Ferguson stopped him.
“Just let me handle this case,” he said persuasively. “You have called
in the police,” and as McIntyre commenced some uncomplimentary remark,
he added with sternness. “Don't interfere, sir. Now, Grimes, your
statements imply one of two things--some member of the household either
went downstairs after you had retired, and opened the window in the
reception room to admit the person who afterwards attacked you in
the library, or”--Ferguson paused significantly, “some member of this
household knocked you senseless in the library. Which was it?”
There was a tense silence. McIntyre, by an obvious effort, refrained
from speech as they waited for Grimes' answer.
“I dunno who hit me.” Grimes avoided looking at the three men. “But some
one did, and that window in the reception room was locked when I went
upstairs to my bedroom after every one had retired. I'm telling you
God's truth, sir.”
McIntyre eyed him in wrathful silence, then turned to his companions.
“The blow has knocked Grimes silly,” he commented. “There is certainly
no motive for any of us to attack Grimes, nor has any trace of a weapon
been found such as must have been used against Grimes. O'Ryan and I
looked particularly for it, after removing Grimes from the Venetian
casket, where my daughter Helen, Mrs. Brewster and I discovered him
lying unconscious.”
“What's this Venetian casket like?” asked Ferguson before Kent could
question McIntyre.
“It is a fine sample of carving of the Middle Ages,” replied McIntyre.
“I purchased the pair when in Venice years ago. They are over six feet
in length, about three feet wide, and rest on a carved base. There is
a door at the end through which it was customary in the Middle Ages to
slide the body, after embalming, for the funeral ceremonies, after which
the body was removed, placed in another casket and buried. There is a
square opening or peep hole on the top of the casket through which you
can look at the body; a cleverly concealed door covers this opening. In
fact,” added McIntyre, “the door at the end is not at first discernible,
and is hard to open, unless one has the knack of doing so.”
“Hum! It looks as if whoever put Grimes inside the casket was familiar
with it,” remarked Ferguson dryly, and McIntyre bit his lip. “Guess I'll
go and take a look at the casket. I'll come back, Grimes.”
Kent rose with the others and started to follow them to the door, but
Grimes beckoned him to approach the bed. The butler waited until he
heard McIntyre's heavy tread and the lighter footfall of the detective
recede down the hall before speaking.
“I was only going to say, sir,” he whispered as Kent, at a sign from
him, stooped over the bed, “I got a box of aconitine pills for Mrs.
Brewster on Sunday--the stuff that poisoned Mr. Turnbull,” he paused to
explain.
“Yes, go on,” urged Kent, catching the man's excitement. “You gave it to
Mrs. Brewster--”
“No, sir; I didn't; I left the box on the hall table,” Grimes cleared
his throat nervously. “I dunno who picked up that box o' poison, Mr.
Kent; so help me God, I dunno!”
Kent thought rapidly. “Have you told any one of this?” he asked.
Grimes nodded. “Only one person,” he admitted. “I spoke to Miss Barbara
last night as she was going to bed.” Grimes laid a hot hand on Kent's
and glanced fearfully around the room. “Bend nearer, sir; I don't want
none other to hear me. Just before I got that knockout blow in the
library last night, I heard the swish o' skirts--and Miss Barbara was
the only living person who knew I knew about the poison.”
Kent stared in stupefaction at the butler. He was aroused by a cold
voice from the doorway.
“We are waiting for you, Kent,” and Colonel McIntyre stood aside to let
him pass from the room ahead of him, then without a backward glance at
the injured butler, he closed and locked the bedroom door.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE FATAL PERIOD
As Kent walked into the library he found Colonel McIntyre by his side;
the latter's even breathing gave no indication of the haste he had made
down the staircase to catch up with Kent.
Detective Ferguson hardly noted their arrival, his attention being given
wholly to the examination of the Venetian casket which had played such
an important part in the drama of the night before. The casket and its
companion piece stood on either side of the room near a window recess.
The long straight shape of the high boxes on their graceful base gave
no indication of the use to which they had been put in ancient days, but
made attractive as well as unique pieces of furniture.
Kent crossed the library and, after looking inside the casket, examined
the exterior with care.
“Don't touch that crest,” cautioned Ferguson, observing that Kent's
glance remained focused on the blood-stained, raised letter “B” and the
carving back of it. “In fact, don't touch any part of the casket, I'm
trying to get finger prints.”
Kent barely heard the warning as he turned to McIntyre.
“Haven't I seen that letter 'B' design on your stationery, Colonel?” he
asked.
“Barbara uses it,” was the reply. “She fancied the antique lettering,
and copied the 'B' for the engraver; she is handy with her pen, you
know.”
“Did she wish the 'B' for a seal?” inquired Kent.
“Yes, she had a seal made like it also.” McIntyre moved closer to the
casket. “Found anything, Ferguson?”
The detective withdrew his head from the opening at the end of the
casket, and regarded the furniture vexedly.
“Not a thing,” he acknowledged. “Except I am convinced that it required
dexterity to slip Grimes inside the casket. The butler is small and
slight, but he must have been unconscious from that tap on the forehead
and, therefore, a dead weight. Whoever picked him up must have been
some athlete, and”--running his eyes up and down Colonel McIntyre's
well-knit, erect frame--“pretty familiar with the workings of this
casket.”
“Pooh! It's not so difficult a feat,” McIntyre shrugged his shoulders
disdainfully. “My daughters, as children, used to play hide and seek
inside the casket with each new governess.”
Ferguson stepped forward briskly. “Mr. Kent, let me see if I can lift
you inside the casket; make yourself limp--that's it!” as Kent, entering
into the investigation heart and soul, relaxed his muscles and fell back
against the detective.
A moment later he was swung upward and pushed head-first inside the
casket and the door closed. The air, though close, was not unpleasant
and Kent, his eyes growing gradually accustomed to the dark interior,
tried to discover the trap door at the top of the box but without
success. Putting out his hands he felt along the top. The height of the
casket did not permit him to sit up, so he was obliged to slide his
body down toward his feet to feel along the sides of the casket. This
maneuver soon brought his knees in violent contact with the top, and at
the sound Ferguson opened the door and assisted him out.
“Had enough of it?” he asked, viewing Kent's reddened cheeks with faint
amusement. “I wonder if Grimes could breathe in there for any lengthy
period. If so, it would help establish the time which elapsed between
his being incarcerated and your finding him, Colonel.”
“How so?” demanded McIntyre.
“Well, if he couldn't get air and you hadn't discovered him at once,
he'd have died,” explained Ferguson. “If you did find him immediately
the person who knocked him down must have made a lightning escape.”
“Air does get in the casket in some way,” broke in Kent. “It wasn't so
bad inside. Colonel McIntyre,” Kent stopped a moment to remove a piece
of red sealing wax clinging to the cuff of his suit. It had not been
there when he entered the casket. Kent dropped the wax in his vest
pocket as he again addressed his host. “Who first discovered Grimes in
the casket?”
“Mrs. Brewster.”
“And what was Mrs. Brewster doing in the library at that hour?” glancing
keenly at McIntyre as he put the question.
“She could not sleep and came down for a book,” explained the Colonel.
Ferguson, who had walked several times around the library, looking
behind first one and then the other of the seven doors, paused to ask:
“What attracted Mrs. Brewster's attention to the casket?”
“The blood stain on its side,” McIntyre answered.
“What--that!” Ferguson eyed McIntyre incredulously. “Come, sir, do you
mean to tell me she noticed that little bit of a stain in a dark room?”
“She had an electric torch,” shortly.
“But why should she turn the torch on this casket?” persisted the
detective. “She came to the library for a book, and the bookcases are in
another part of the room.”
“Quite so, but the book she wished was lying on the top of this casket,”
replied McIntyre, meeting their level looks with one equally steadfast.
“I know because I left the book there.”
Ferguson glanced from McIntyre to Kent and back again at the Colonel in
non-plussed silence. The explanation was pat.
“I'd like to talk with Mrs. Brewster,” he remarked dryly.
“Certainly.” McIntyre pressed an electric button. The summons was
answered immediately by the new servant, Murray. “Ask Mrs. Brewster
if she can see Detective Ferguson in the library, Murray,” McIntyre
directed.
“Beg pardon, sir, but Mrs. Brewster has just gone out,” and with a bow
Murray withdrew.
Kent, who had drawn forward a chair preparatory to sitting down and