The seventh shot A detective story

The inspector looked at him rather more directly than was his wont, and also longer. At last he allowed himself to smile, and though he was known to be a hard man with even possible criminals, the smile was singularly pleasant just then. “Bless you,” he remarked tranquilly, “that’s all a matter for our medical friends to settle! If the bullet entered the body at a certain angle and a certain range, it will let you out.” “Then all this,” exclaimed Crane angrily—it was so like a boy to be most enraged when most relieved—“all this is waste of time—pure theatrics?” But at this point Willie Coster interfered. “Say, Mr. Inspector,” he said, awkwardly but determinedly, “I’m not crazy about a spotlight on myself, but just here there’s something I ought to say. I was pretty close by, myself, you understand.” “Exactly where you are now?” “Yes. And until the lantern was broken in the scrap scene, there was a little light shining through that door from the stage. See?” “Yes!” It was not only the representatives of the law who listened eagerly now. “Go on, man, go on!” “Well”—Willie hesitated, gulped, and plunged ahead—“I saw a woman’s shadow on the wall, and she had something in her hand. That’s all I wanted to say.” “Something in her——A revolver?” “I don’t know.” “Would you be prepared to—ah—say that you recognized the shadow?” “I would not. One woman’s shadow’s much like another, so far as I can see; and the women, too, for that matter! I never troubled to tell ’em apart!” “And you won’t even express a—ah—an impression as to whether what this shadow woman held was a weapon or not?” “No!” snapped Willie impatiently. “Why should I? I didn’t think about it at the time. I was waiting to time those shots. All I know is that it was a woman, and that she was holding something. She had something in her hand.” “I’d give something if I had it in mine!” muttered the inspector fervently, more fervently than he usually permitted himself to speak when on a case. Barrison put his hand in his pocket and drew out the thing which he had found in the shadow of the miniature stairway. He thought it the proper time to hand it over, and he said: “I think you have it now, Lowry! The barrel was still warm when I picked it up a few minutes after the murder.” CHAPTER X FACTS AND FANCIES A short while later the inspector addressed them mildly: “I very often get a great deal of blame because I won’t do things in a regulation way. But, even while I get the blame, I also get the results—sometimes, not always.” The inspector looked around him thoughtfully, and repeated: “Not always. As most people know, the first thing we must do in locating a crime is to find out who could have done it; next, who wanted to do it. The opportunity is valueless without the wish; the wish is not enough without the opportunity. But, of the two essential points, the opportunity is the big thing. For instance, some one standing in Miss Merivale’s position—I mean, of course, her physical position—might have that opportunity. It also seems to me that some one standing on the stage level, on the right of the steps, and reaching upward, would have practically the same opportunity.” He took the little pistol and balanced it lightly in his big hand. Then he walked over to the point at which the weapon had been found at the side of the steps which was farthest from the front. He raised his arm and pointed at Barrison, who still stood where Mortimer had been standing. “You see,” he said, “it could have been done this way. The bullet would have entered the body under the right arm as he picked Miss Merivale up, supposing her story to have been true.” “Then,” exclaimed Norman Crane eagerly, “that eliminates both Miss Merivale and myself from the suspects!” “It surely eliminates you,” rejoined the police officer calmly, “because you couldn’t have thrown this gun through the door so that it fell where it did fall, unless you were a particularly skillful baseball pitcher; and then you couldn’t! But, as for Miss Merivale—Miss Merivale, we will suppose that you are going to shoot this man; please consider Mr. Barrison in that light. He is taller than you; the weapon you use may be held close to your side to avoid detection.” “I had no weapon!” she flashed. “Naturally not, naturally not!” agreed the inspector, with a pacific wave of his hand. “But you might have had, you know——” “How could——” “Pouf, pouf, my dear Miss Merivale! How you carried it—or, rather, could have carried it, is a secondary matter. I never saw a woman’s costume yet in which she could not secrete anything she wanted. Your dress is one of the very modern, extra loose coat affairs; there are a hundred ways in which you _could_ have secreted anything you wished. I didn’t say you had; I merely said that you were foolish to say it was impossible. As I was saying, if you did happen to have a pistol and did happen to shoot it off at Mr. Mortimer, the angle would be very much the same as that taken by the bullet of some one standing somewhat below and reaching upward as far as they could.” “Oh!” cried Sybil breathlessly. “You forget—he would have been shot squarely in front, if I had done it—or Norman!” “Yes?” said Lowry, pleasantly attentive. “Why, yes!” she reminded him. “He was facing me.” “We have only your word,” said the officer gently. “I——” began Norman Crane impulsively, then stopped in discomfort. He recalled that he had sworn not to have seen anything through the open door. Lowry, on the other hand, restrained himself from reminding him that his testimony under the circumstances would be rather worse than nothing. To cover up any awkwardness, he went on: “Without any discourtesy to you, we are bound to consider any and all possibilities.” “But,” protested Norman Crane, “you said all that would be settled by the doctors!” “I said your part of it would be; not, necessarily, Miss Merivale’s. Doctor Colton?” The little man with spectacles stepped forward, and, after a brief interchange of words with the inspector, bent over the body of Mortimer. Lowry turned to Dukane. “I should like to have the murdered man carried in somewhere, just as soon as the medical examiner arrives and sees it. The dressing room? Is that the closest? Quite so—quite so! That will do excellently. Very near, isn’t it? Quite convenient.” His eye measured the distance between the door of the room and the spot where the murder had taken place. “Just a moment first, though. I want to——Oh, here’s the medical examiner now. In a minute I think you may dismiss your people, most of them, that is. We shall know where to reach them, if necessary, eh?” “Of course—at any time.” “Then they may all go—except Miss Merivale, and—let me see—the man who was on guard at the door between the front and back. And your stage door keeper; I shall want to speak to him a bit later. But the rest—what do you call them—supers?” “Extras. I may dismiss the extras?” “I think so. They were all on the stage, or upstairs in the upper tier of rooms, weren’t they?” “Yes.” “Then I doubt if we want them——” Barrison, though unwillingly, was obliged to whisper that Claire McAllister should be held. He knew that she was bound to talk sooner or later about Sybil’s attitude toward the dead man, and he felt that it might as well be sooner as later. Barrison, looking toward the star dressing room, saw that the door was a little open, and that old Wrenn was standing in the aperture, with an expression of intense agitation upon his wrinkled face. Whether the look was horror, grief, or fear, it would be impossible at that juncture to say. Barrison rather believed it was the latter. Though of what could that old man be so acutely afraid? There was another person who was taking an exceptional interest in the proceedings, the uniformed guard who had been placed on duty at the communicating door, the young man whom the inspector had said he wished to question later. Lowry suddenly turned upon him. “Is that where you stood at the time of the shooting?” he demanded. The young man started and flushed. “N-no, sir,” he stammered; “I was over there by the door.” “Then go back there over by the door, and stay there until you are told to move.” The man retreated hastily, looking crestfallen, and muttering something under his breath. Somehow, although the extras had been dismissed, and the body was to be removed, Barrison felt that Lowry had not yet quite finished with his reconstruction work, so scornfully stigmatized by young Crane as “theatrics.” His instinct was not at fault. The inspector wheeled very suddenly toward Sybil Merivale. “Miss Merivale,” he said, “you have already given us some testimony which doubtless was unpleasant to give. I am going to beg you to be even more generous. You have said that you stood there at the head of the steps, waiting for your cue. I should like you now to be more detailed. You are relating, remember, what occurred within the last two minutes of Alan Mortimer’s life. There could scarcely be two minutes more important, and I must ask you as solemnly and urgently as I can to omit nothing that could possibly throw any light upon the problem of how he met his death. Will you repeat what you said before, with any additions that come to you as you strain your memory?” “I don’t understand,” she faltered wearily. “What more is there to tell?” “Try to remember!” said the inspector. Barrison was convinced that he was bluffing, and that he had no idea of anything further that the girl could tell, but to his surprise Sybil flushed painfully and looked away. The younger detective shook his head in silent admiration. The inspector might be old-fashioned, but he had his inspirations. “I was waiting for my cue,” she began, in a low voice, “and looking at the stage through the open door. I have told you that.” “What was your cue, Miss Merivale?” “But you know that—after the lantern was broken, there were to be six shots, and he”—she would not mention his name—“was to carry me on in his arms.” “Well, go on,” said the inspector gently enough. “It is true that we have heard this before, Miss Merivale, but in my experience even the most honest witness—even the most honest witness”—he repeated the words with faint emphasis—“seldom tells a story precisely the same twice. You were standing there——” “I was standing there, and I heard him come up behind me.” “How did you know it was Mr. Mortimer if you were not looking in his direction?” “I heard him speak.” “What did he say?” “I don’t know. He was muttering to himself. He seemed horribly angry—upset. I thought——” She checked herself. “What did you think?” “That—he had been drinking. He—he was—very much excited. He kept muttering things under his breath, and once he stumbled.” Dukane interposed. “Mortimer—drank—occasionally; but he was cold sober to-night. I know.” “Ah!” The inspector nodded dreamily. “Then it was something else which had upset him; quite so. You see, one gets more from the second telling than the first. Go on, if you please, Miss Merivale. You knew from his voice that he was excited. Did he come up onto the steps at once?” “I—I don’t know.” She looked at him appealingly; she seemed honestly confused. “When he spoke to me—I should think perhaps he had taken a step or so up—I don’t know. I didn’t turn round at once.” “Ah, he spoke to you. And said—what?” “Do I have to tell that?” She flushed and then paled. “It hasn’t—truly, it hasn’t—anything to do with—all this!” she pleaded. “I’m afraid we will have to be the judge of that,” Lowry said, quite