The seventh shot A detective story
the murderer was hiding there, and just waiting for a chance to get in?”
“And how long, altogether, were you away?” Lowry spoke for the first
time.
“That’s easy, sir. I went out a few minutes after Mrs. Parry told me to
send for the taxi, and I had just come back when Mr. Barrison here came
out to ask me if I’d seen any one pass.”
“That was just before the shooting,” Barrison said.
“_Before_ the shooting. And you’re prepared to swear, Roberts, that no
one came out of the theater after that?”
“I am, sir!” The old man’s eyes, dim as they were, left no room for
doubt; he was speaking the truth.
“All right, Roberts. I’m sure you’ve told the truth, and Mr. Dukane
shall be told so. I don’t believe you’ll lose your job. Just the same,
I wish you hadn’t gone to hunt taxicabs at that particular moment.”
As the two detectives walked away, Lowry said under his breath:
“We’ve proved that no one left the theater by the stage door after
the shooting, but we’ve proved that they might have done so by the
communicating door. We’ve proved that Lynch was at his post for the
whole evening up to the shooting, so that no one could have come in
by that way before then; but, since he left it afterward, there is no
reason to suppose that that some one could not have made their exit
that way after the crime. In other words, my dear friend and colleague,
while we can’t prove it, we can find a perfectly possible way for the
murderer to have entered and an equally possible way for him, or her,
to have departed.”
“You think that—whoever it was—came in while Roberts was blundering up
or down the alley?”
“I see no other explanation. Barrison, you are not officially under me,
but I respect your judgment, and I like your work. I should be obliged
if you would take on such branches of this case as seem to lie in your
way. You have been in it since—so to speak—its inception. You should
have a line on many aspects of it that I couldn’t possibly get, coming
into it as I must, from a purely and coldly official standpoint. I’ll
expect you to do your darnedest on it, and help me in every way you
can. Right?”
“Right, sir.” The young detective’s tone was full of ardor.
“Then good night to you. One moment. Did you notice the initial on this
pistol, the one you picked up?”
He produced it as he spoke.
“No,” said Jim. “I didn’t want any one to see it, so tucked it away
without a look.”
“Take it along with you,” said Lowry unexpectedly. “You may be able to
spot the owner.”
Barrison seized the tiny weapon with avidity; it was too dark where
they stood for him to see clearly, and he said, with open eagerness:
“What is the initial? That of any of the principals in the case?”
“Of two of them,” said the inspector, as he turned to round a corner.
“It’s M. Good night.”
CHAPTER XIII
THE INITIAL
The inspector’s announcement gave Jim Barrison food for thought.
Then why had Lowry let Sybil go with no further examination? They would
have to establish next her possession of a weapon, and the fact that
she was sufficiently practiced in the use of firearms to have hers
marked with her initial, and——
But just then he discovered that it had begun to rain at last; big
drops heralded the storm that had been threatening all the evening.
Under the circumstances, his library at home would be a pleasanter
place for speculation than the corner of a street. He turned up his
coat collar and ran for a Sixth Avenue car. As he passed the clock
outside a jeweler’s shop, he saw that it was ten minutes past one
o’clock, and suddenly he was conscious that he was tired. The evening
had been a long one, and hard on the nerves.
He stood on the back platform, and let the rainy winds blow about him.
His dinner coat was getting noticeably wet, but he wanted to think
and breathe. How hot the theater had been! The smell of a singularly
vile cigarette close beside him made him turn in a disgusted sort of
curiosity to see what manner of man could smoke it. It turned out to
be Willie Coster, who had boarded the car when he did.
“Hello!” said Jim. “Didn’t see you before. I thought you left the
theater before we did.”
“I had,” said Willie, puffing deeply on his rank weed. “I stopped at
the corner to get this.”
Unblushingly he indicated an object done up in brown paper, which he
carried under his arm. There was not the slightest doubt that it was a
bottle of quart dimensions. Barrison recalled the legend that Coster
always got drunk after a first night. He could not help smiling at the
serious deliberation with which he was going about it.
“I see!” he said. “Well, it’s been a pretty trying time for you, a
thing like this, coming on top of all your hard work on the piece. I
dare say you feel the need of something to brace you.”
Willie shook his head. “That’s a nice way of putting it,” he said
soberly; “but it won’t wash. No, sir; the fact is, I mean to get drunk
to-night. I never touch anything while I’m working, and when my work’s
done, I consider I’m entitled to a little pleasure.”
“I see,” Barrison said again. “And does getting drunk give you a great
deal of pleasure?”
“Oh, yes!” said Coster gravely. “I’m not a drunkard, understand. I
don’t go off on bats; _that_ wouldn’t give me pleasure. And I can
always sober up in time for anything special. But I like to go quietly
home like this and drink—well, say, about this bottle to-night, and
another to-morrow. Then I’ll taper off and quit again. See?”
“Perfectly. If you have to do it, it seems a very sensible method. Look
here; is there any particular hurry about this systematic debauch of
yours?”
“Hurry? Oh, no, there’s no hurry. Any time will do. Why?”
“Then,” said Barrison, who had an idea, “why not come over to my
rooms—we’re almost there—and have a couple of drinks with me and a bite
to eat, first? You can go home and get drunk later, you know, just as
well.”
“Just as well,” said Willie, with surprising acquiescence. “I don’t
want any drinks, thanks, for I only drink alone. But now you mention
it, I’m hungry.”
Barrison knew that he himself was far too tired already to lengthen
out this night so preposterously, but that idea which had so suddenly
come to him drove all consideration of fatigue from his mind. He was a
detective, and thought that in the dim distance he could see a shadowy
trail. In a weird case of this sort, anything was worth a chance.
At Barrison’s rooms they found a cold supper waiting, and Tara asleep
in a chair, contriving somehow to look dignified even in slumber. There
is no dignity like that of a superior Japanese servant. He even woke
up in a dignified manner, and prepared to serve supper. But Barrison
sent him to bed, and sat down to talk to Willie over cold chicken
and ham, and macedoine salad. The little stage manager ate hungrily,
but stubbornly refused to drink. He also scorned his host’s expensive
smokes, preferring his own obnoxious brand.
“Coster,” said Barrison at last, “I want you to tell me what you know
of Alan Mortimer.”
“What I know! He was the yellowest guy in some things that ever——”
“That isn’t just what I meant. I mean—you’ve been with Dukane a long
time, haven’t you?”
“Sure thing. I’ve been with the gov’nor five—no, six—years.”
“Then you must know how he came to take up Mortimer. Where did he
discover him first? He’s a stranger on Broadway.”
“Why don’t you ask the gov’nor about it?” demanded Willie shrewdly.
“Well,” Jim was obliged to admit, rather uncomfortably, “he’s not the
sort of man you feel like pumping. Of course, Lowry will get it all out
of him sooner or later, but I’m curious. And I can’t see what objection
he could have to your——”
“Being pumped,” finished Willie. “Maybe not, but I don’t really know
much about it, anyway.” His eyes strayed wistfully to his brown paper
package. “See here,” he said, “I’m much obliged for the eats, but I
guess I’ll be trotting along. I’ve got a very pressing engagement!”
“With John Barleycorn?” laughed Barrison. “Oh, see here, Willie,
what’s the difference? If you prefer your whisky to mine, I’ll get you
a corkscrew, and you can just as well start here. Eh? Make an exception
and have a couple of drinks with me, like a good sport.”
He felt slightly ashamed of himself, but he prodded his conscience out
of the way by telling himself that as long as the man was going to get
drunk anyway, he might just as well——
Willie hesitated and was lost. The first drink he poured out made his
host gasp; it nearly filled the tumbler.
“Will you take it straight, man?” he asked, in a tone of awe.
“Certainly I will. I don’t take it for the taste, I take it for the
effect. The more you take at a time, the quicker you get results.
What’s the good of little dabs of drinks like yours, drowned in soda
water? When I drink, I drink.”
“I perceive that you do!” murmured Barrison, and watched him swallow
the entire contents of the glass in three gulps. He choked a bit, and
accepted a drink of water, then leaned back with an expression of pure
bliss stealing over his face.
“Gee, that was good!” he whispered joyously. “Now I’ll have one more
in a minute; that will start me off comfortably. Then I’ll go home.
You know,” he added, with that shrewd glance of his, “I’m on to your
getting me to tank up here; you know I’ll talk more. But I’m blessed
if I can make out what it is you want to know. If there’s any dark
mystery going, I’m not in it. But you just pump ahead.”
He poured out another enormous draft.
“Mortimer used to be in a sort of circus, a wild West show, didn’t he?”
Willie grunted assent between swallows. “It was a sort of punk
third-class show,” he said. “Never played big time, just ordinary tanks
and wood piles out West. They had a string of horses and a few cowboys
who could do fancy riding; Mortimer was one of them. His real name
was Morton. The gov’nor was waiting to make connections somewhere on
his way to the coast, and dropped in to see one or two of the stunts.
This chap was a sort of matinée idol wherever he went, and the gov’nor
spotted him as a drawing card if he ever happened on the right part.
You know the gov’nor never forgets anything, and never overlooks a bet.
He took the guy’s name and address, and put him away in the back of his
head somewhere, the way he always does. When Carlton came to him with
this war-play proposition, the gov’nor thought of Morton, and wrote
him. That’s all I know about it.”
“Was Mortimer married?”
“Not that I know of. Not likely—or, rather, it’s likely he had half a
dozen wives!”
Barrison was disappointed; he had thought it just possible—there was
the pistol, marked with M, and the unknown woman who had been in the
dressing room that night. However, Willie was not proving much of a
help. Barrison yawned and thought of bed.
“One more question,” he asked suddenly. “What was the name of the show?”
“I don’t remember. Blinkey’s or Blankey’s, or something like that.
Blinkey’s Daredevils, I think, but I’m not sure. Say, you’d better let
me go home while I can walk.”
“All right; you go, Willie. Were there any women in the show?”
“A couple, I think—yes, I’m sure there were, because I remember the
gov’nor speaking about a sort of riding-and-shooting stunt Mortimer did
with some girl, a crack shot.”
Barrison started. Was that the trail, then?
“Much obliged to you, Willie,” he said carelessly. “There wasn’t much
to tell, though, was there? Why did Dukane keep it all so dark, I
wonder? I should have thought that would have been good advertising,
all that cowboy stuff, and the traveling show, and the rest of it.”
“I don’t know why the gov’nor does some things; no one does,” said