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CHAPTER XV
“WITHOUT CONSULTING ANYONE”
WHILE the expert examined the armor and then the door for finger-prints, Landis went into the hall and once again sounded the gong. Miss Mount appeared as promptly as before. He asked her to come downstairs for a few minutes. When she consented he returned to the library and posted Sergeant Forbes in the hall to watch Joel Harrison’s door. The policeman he sent back into the reception-room.
When Miss Mount appeared he led her to a chair and sat down facing her. “Sorry to bother you again, Miss Mount. But we want you to verify Allen’s statement as to his quarrel with Mr. Harrison. Did Allen’s disagreement with Harrison involve the question of his marrying Anita?”
Miss Mount relaxed a little.
“Mr. Harrison said that Mr. Allen had asked his permission to marry Anita and he had refused point-blank.”
“Allen didn’t tell us why,” hinted Landis.
“Mr. Harrison had little faith in human nature. I believe he regarded Mr. Allen as a fortune hunter.”
“What is your own opinion, Miss Mount?”
“On that subject I have none, Mr. Landis.”
“Thanks,” replied Landis dryly. “Didn’t Mr. Harrison also threaten the young people in some way?”
“He did. He told Mr. Allen that if they married without his consent he would cut Anita off without a penny.”
“That was rather strong, wasn’t it? How did it happen that Allen stayed in the house after that?”
“I suppose Mr. Allen stayed on to be near Anita and possibly in the hope that Mr. Harrison might relent. It was like his peculiar humor to tell Mr. Allen that he was welcome to remain as a guest so long as he chose.”
“Harrison liked to gloat, did he?” inquired Bernard.
“It’s possible,” replied Miss Mount in a dry tone.
At this moment the expert appeared, to interrupt their conversation.
“By the way, Lieutenant—”
“Yes, Thorpe? Find anything?” asked Landis.
“Nothing at all on the armor. It’s been wiped clean and quite recently, I think. Dusting might account for that. The door’s a bit better. I found blurred prints of three small fingers on the far side of the jamb and a thumb on the near side. There are distinct, slightly larger finger-prints on the inside knob.”
“The ones on the knob were made by Miss Mount here,” Landis explained. “Have you got impressions of both sets?”
“Can’t get them very well. I’ll have to photograph them. I’ve dusted them all with powder, though.”
“Take an impression of Miss Mount’s finger-prints and check them with the ones on the knob. I want a clear impression or print of the others if you can get it, Thorpe!”
Miss Mount submitted, passively pressing her finger-tips on the expert’s inky pad and then on paper. Thorpe took the impressions to the end of the library, studied them and the door knob with a magnifying glass and came back to the fire.
“The prints on the knob were made by the lady,” he said. “I’ll get the three views you want first and then the blurred finger-prints. They’ll need a special lens.”
Landis nodded the man away and rose to his feet.
“Thanks, Miss Mount. Please ask Mr. Joel Harrison to get into something and come down to the library as quickly as possible. Please say nothing else to him whatever.”
Miss Mount stood up, flung him a glance out of dark eyes that sparkled dangerously and moved out of the room.
For the first view, that of the full length of the library, Thorpe wanted the room empty. So Landis and Bernard left it for the hall. Presently Thorpe called to them and they returned to find him adjusting his camera to photograph the armor. They were just sitting down by the fire again when a tall, angular individual in a dressing-gown, his white hair on end so that he looked like a cockatoo, moved into the doorway from the hall and stood staring at them.
“You requested that I come down here?” he asked in a reedy voice. “It seems very strange to me.”
“Come in and sit down!” ordered Bernard.
Spurred by the note of command, Joel Harrison obeyed, settled his bony length in a chair and began to stare into the flames. Bernard and Landis sat motionless, watching him curiously. The dead man’s brother appeared to have forgotten entirely that he was not alone.
Suddenly Landis remembered the sergeant still on duty in the hall. He went out, suggested that he join the policeman in the reception-room and returned to the library fire. As he drew near, Joel Harrison glanced up at him in surprise.
“How do you do?” he said with some formality.
“Very well indeed, thank you,” replied Landis as he sat down. “How are you, Mr. Harrison?”
“Oh, quite well. I’m always well!”
Landis nodded and let the conversation lapse, watching the old fellow intently. In spite of many wrinkles, the long, lean face had something of the child, or rather, something of extreme youth in it. Landis then and afterwards thought of Joel Harrison in terms of a bird or an animal rather than as a human being. Everything about the man, his sudden silences, his relaxed immobility, his dreamy or bird-like glances, belonged to the woodland rather than to civilized mankind. Remembering the dead man’s face it was difficult to imagine the two brothers getting on together.
“Mr. Harrison,” he began at last, “did you lock the door at the end of the wing on this floor tonight?”
Joel turned his head slowly.
“Why, no. Stimson takes care of that sort of thing,” he explained.
For the last time, Landis embarked upon his list of questions. Joel Harrison answered them clearly but slowly and with a sort of absent, equable courtesy. He had not closed the library door or seen any stranger about the place lately. He understood that his brother had been hurt but had not been told, as yet, who did it.
Thoroughly puzzled as to the extent of the man’s mentality, Landis tried a new tack.
“Mr. Harrison,” he said, “we’d both be interested to hear how you spent your day today?”
“I’ll tell you with pleasure,” answered Joel politely. “I walked about my brother’s extensive grounds or sat in quiet contemplation. What a lucky fellow he is to preserve so much of nature from contamination, gentlemen!”
“You took your lunch with you?”
“Oh, yes. I was away almost all day and did not return until evening began to close in.”
“What time did you return, Mr. Harrison?”
“I have no idea. It’s no matter anyway.”
“Can you tell us through what door you entered the house when you came home?”
This question seemed to catch Joel’s full attention. He looked at Landis.
“I cannot see how that is of the slightest importance!” he replied.
“It is important!” snapped Bernard. “We want to know and we want to know at once, Harrison!”
Joel shook his head helplessly.
“I really can’t remember. I think I came in the kitchen door and went up the back stairs to my room, but I’m not entirely sure.”
“I understand,” said Landis, “that you are interested in shooting with bows and arrows, eh?”
This time, to their amazement, Joel obviously found cause for offense.
“Pardon me! I am interested in archery!”
“I suppose then that you have noticed the Japanese bow at the end of the room here?”
“I have, of course, seen and handled the long bow there. The design ruins it for distance.”
“Was it usually strung?”
Joel was roused at last. He turned on Landis a glance of protesting rebuke.
“Strung? There is no such word in archery, sir! If you mean bent, that is, the bowcord in its nocks, then it was not! No one with any respect for a bow would leave it in that condition!”
The effect of this dignified pronouncement was somewhat marred by the sudden explosion of Thorpe’s flashlight. At the glare and puff of it, Joel crouched and turned his head with the swiftness of an animal.
“What is that?” he exclaimed.
“Nothing. He’s taking photographs.” Landis paused to nod at the expert as he carried his camera and flashpan past them toward the reception-room. Then he turned back to Joel.
“Can you tell us how many arrows the quiver contained?”
“It’s of no consequence and I have no idea,” answered Joel with a touch of impatience. “They are self-arrows, round steeled and with swine-back vanes, white-webbed. They are V-nocked and have short shaftments. I judge they are sheaf arrows as they have iron piles.”
“Would you be kind enough to tell us your movements since you entered the house this evening?”
Once roused, however, Joel was not so easily calmed.
“I cannot see how my movements are of any importance to my brother’s guests!” he retorted distantly.
“Oh, but they are,” said Landis. “We are not exactly guests; we are detectives. And your brother is dead!”
Joel frowned.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I was told something of the sort. It is a great pity, gentlemen. But my poor brother was always headstrong—very, very headstrong! I have no doubt that he died without—er—consulting anyone!”
At this moment they caught the light of Thorpe’s flash from the little reception-room. Again Joel turned his head in swift alarm. A moment later the expert came back into the library and started to prepare his camera to photograph the finger-prints. Joel seemed to connect the man with the flash for he relaxed in evident relief.
Bernard had been fuming inwardly for some time.
“Harrison!” he snapped. “Where did you go and what did you do from the time you entered this house tonight?”
Joel became instantly submissive.
“I went to my room and remained there,” he answered quickly. “Cook sent me up my dinner. I read a book.”
“Did you hear a scream?” Bernard demanded.
“Oh, yes! I did!”
“Well, what did you do about it?”
“I thought at first it might be Mrs. Graham screaming again. Then I thought of Anita. She is good to me. I went to her room to see if she was all right. But she failed to answer my knock. So I returned to my bed and my book.”
“You made no attempt to investigate further?”
“No. I went back to my book.” Joel glanced about the library and began to look puzzled and annoyed. “Excuse me,” he diverged, “I don’t wish to seem discourteous or inhospitable. But it seems strange that you should ask me to rise and come downstairs after I was in bed. Would it not have been possible for you to call tomorrow?”
Humor deserted Landis, giving place to a shadow of pity.
“You know,” he said quietly, “we owe you an apology about that. But now we’re here, we may as well have a chat, Mr. Harrison. You just said that you thought the scream you heard might be Mrs. Graham again. Has she screamed before?”
“Yes. She screamed a few nights ago. Miss Mount told me it was she when I inquired.”
“When was it that she screamed, do you know?”
“A few nights ago. I believe it was Wednesday as I was in my bath. Wednesday and Saturday are my bath nights.”
“Have you ever used the Japanese bow?” asked Landis.
“I bent it one day. My brother asked me not to use it so I refrained.”
“Ever try the arrows?” asked Bernard suddenly.
“No, sir. We have plenty of others in the lockers.”
“Where are the lockers?”
“Why, in the billiard-room!”
“Have you done any firing with bows and arrows on the third floor?” Landis inquired.
Joel winced.
“Firing!” he exclaimed. “There is no way to ‘fire’ a bow! One speaks of drawing and letting fly. Pardon me, but one doesn’t like to make mistakes.”
“Of course not! Well, then, have you done any letting fly with bows and arrows on the third floor?”
“Early this week we were practicing up there. The young people lost interest too soon, I consider.”
“That was on Tuesday,” said Landis. “Have you done any shooting up there since Tuesday, Mr. Harrison?”
Joel shook his head.
“No. It was not necessary. The weather has been fine. Of course one prefers butt-shooting for the added hazard due to windage in the open.”
“All right, Mr. Harrison. We’re enormously obliged to you. Now I suggest you go back to your bed and your book. If we need anything more, we’ll see you tomorrow.”
Joel rose obediently and started out of the room, paused to bow a courteous good night and vanished.
At precisely that same moment, Thorpe came hurrying along the library to Landis.
“Look here, Lieutenant,” he exclaimed. “This is an amazing thing! While I was taking those photographs, somebody has wiped the blurred finger-prints off the door!”
Landis leapt from his chair and strode to the end of the library. Finger-prints, picked out with white chalk, were plainly visible on the knob of the half-closed door. But the woodwork was smooth and unmarked.
He hurried into the hall to look at the other side. Door-knob and door-edge bore no traces of chalk. He looked swiftly about the deserted hall. At the end of it nearest the swinging doors and the butler’s pantry, something tiny and crumpled and white caught his eye. He ran to it and picked it up, carrying it back to Bernard in the library. It was a woman’s lace handkerchief. Landis explained swiftly where he had found it. He carried it to the desk lamp where they studied it together. The crumpled folds were ridged with white chalk. In one corner they found the initials: “I. H.”