IN the brightly lighted reception-room the local policeman had helped himself to a chair, a delicate, gilded affair that looked too small and spindling to support his generous bulk. Bolt upright, he maintained an uncomfortable but stolid watch over the body of the dead millionaire.
Doctor Stanford nodded familiarly to the policeman. The other three advanced and stood looking down at the object of his vigil. Landis and Bernard studied the position of the body both physiologically and in relation to the room in which it lay. Graham, beside them, and the doctor, opposite, studied their faces instead, noting the vast difference between them, idly speculating on their relative abilities. Bernard seemed more the type; burly, tenacious and, in spite of his age, distinctly formidable. About Landis, however, young and friendly and sympathetic though he was, there lurked an air of efficiency. They had received proof in the library of his deductive powers.
The doctor’s thoughts so closely paralleled those of Graham that the eyes of the two were drawn to each other and over the body of Harrison they exchanged a fleeting smile.
“He was shot in the doorway and he fell forward into the room.” Bernard was thinking aloud. “Then he ought to be lying on his face. Maybe he rolled over after he fell. Then he ought to be out of line with the door. But here he lies on his back with his legs pointing straight through the doorway toward that lop-eared bow!”
“That needn’t worry us, sir!” Landis looked at Stanford. “Wouldn’t the weight of an arrow driven hard enough to kill him be likely to spin him half-way round as he fell?”
“Almost sure to, striking him to one side as this one did! There’s little doubt that he fell on his back and never rolled at all.”
“Miss Mount saw him,” said Graham. “She can tell us how he fell.”
Landis nodded his thanks. “Describe the wound to us, will you, Doctor?”
“Certainly. The arrow struck and crashed through the fourth rib close to the left scapula, pierced the left lung and the heart and struck the fourth rib near the breastbone, causing a compound fracture there.”
“The same rib in front?” Landis exclaimed. “You mean the arrow was horizontal when it struck him?”
“Oh, no,” Doctor Stanford smiled. “The ribs are a bit higher in the back than they are in front. The arrow was pointing downward—dropping a little.”
“Would you say that it struck him with considerable force?” Landis persisted.
“With terrific force!” retorted the doctor. “Mr. Harrison is deep chested and his bones are heavy and strong. But the arrow went clear through him, breaking one of the heaviest ribs in two places!”
“Then it wasn’t a woman who shot him!” rumbled Bernard. He looked at Graham inquiringly.
“Probably you’re right,” the lawyer admitted. “It isn’t likely that a woman could draw a bow far enough to shoot an arrow that hard.”
Landis moved nearer the dead man’s head, dropped to one knee and looked up at the doctor.
“Graham tells me the broken shaft of the arrow is still under him. I’d like to see it. Help me sit him up, will you? And while we’re at it we might as well have a look at the wound.”
Doctor Stanford kneeled on the far side and between them they lifted the body of Harrison to a sitting position. The movement revealed a small bloodstain, perhaps an inch across, matting the carpet. Bisecting this stain lay the shaft of an arrow, snapped off short and crushed into the thick pile. It looked two feet long or more and had lain parallel with the body, the feathered end of it at the base of the dead man’s spine.
“There’s ten or eleven inches of it still in his body,” the doctor explained.
“Anybody touched this shaft?” inquired Landis.
Graham shook his head.
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Not since I have been here, sir,” the policeman volunteered, and Doctor Stanford nodded endorsement.
Landis took one of the feather vanes between finger and thumb, slid the nocked end of the arrow from under Harrison’s body and lifted the shaft clear. Taking care not to let it touch anything, he walked into the library and deposited his deadly trophy beside the blunted arrow over which Sergeant Forbes was standing guard.
When he got back to the reception-room Bernard and Graham had hold of Harrison’s head and the doctor was swiftly stripping the corpse to the waist. Graham’s face was drawn with distaste.
The removal of the dead man’s undershirt revealed a small, clotted wound in the back near the shoulder blade. In front, perhaps two inches on the left side of the breastbone, the hairy chest showed an irregular, raised lump, torn open at the top and dark with blood. Side by side from the top of the lump protruded a blunted metal arrowhead and a thick, jagged splinter of bone. Half an inch of the arrowhead was visible and about an inch of the broken rib. Friction with the clothing had wiped these almost clear of blood.
“Not much question of the cause of death,” commented Landis grimly. “Well, let’s pull out the arrow if we can, Doctor, and keep our exhibits together.”
Presently the doctor held out to him the rest of the arrow—the blunted end and about a foot of shaft—which he had managed to draw from the wound and had wiped clean. Bernard had laid the body down where it had first fallen.
Again Landis traversed the library to leave this bit of splintered evidence with the rest.
“Look here, sir,” he said to Bernard as he re-entered the front room, “I’d like to get the exact line of flight of that arrow, if you’ll lend me a hand.”
Bernard nodded assent and between them they lifted the body of Harrison to its feet, shuffled to the door with it, swung about and held it as nearly as possible erect, a limp and dreadful travesty of drunken somnolence.
“Now, Doctor,” said Landis sharply, “line up the wound if you can and see where it points. He must have been about in this position when he was shot.”
Doctor Stanford faced the body, felt for the wound in the back, took a pencil out of his pocket and held it perpendicularly against that wound so that it showed above the shoulder. Then, with one eye directly above the wound in the chest he squinted past the pencil down the library.
“Just about hits Sergeant Forbes,” he announced. “The arrow entered a trifle from the left and a trifle downward. But there’s no way to tell just how Harrison was facing when he got it.”
“We may be able to find out about that later,” said Landis with a touch of silk in his voice. “That’s all we need, I think. Wonder whether you’d mind dressing the body for the coroner.”
“All right! Lay him on the floor again.”
Landis and Bernard complied without comment. As they rose from their task a figure passing along the hall caught Bernard’s attention.
It was the butler, moving with dignified tread toward the front door. In a moment they heard voices. A short, sandy little man with red eyelids and rumpled hair appeared in the hall doorway and caught sight of Harrison’s body.
“Good gracious!” he exclaimed. “A dreadful business! A dreadful, dreadful business! Now, who—”
“Mr. Brent!” exclaimed Graham.
“Yes, Graham, I’m here! Dreadful! Who are these gentlemen?” With the sudden question Brent drew himself erect and pursed his lips. Both Landis and Bernard noticed that there was more than a hint of force of character about the heavy nose and full chin of the newcomer.
Introductions followed and the detectives learned that Fullerton Brent was the acting senior partner of Cathcart, Brent & Graham, Cathcart having retired. The firm, Brent told them, had handled Harrison’s legal affairs for nearly thirty years, ever since he became a power in the financial world.
“Dreadful,” he repeated at last. “And now, gentlemen, who did it?”
Bernard merely grunted. Landis smiled. “We haven’t been here long and we don’t know yet,” he answered pleasantly. “How did you happen to hear about it, Mr. Brent?”
“Graham telephoned my house. I was out for a stroll at the time but he left word of what had happened and that he was sending to the city for an experienced detective. I live not far from here, down in the town. As soon as I returned and received his message, I came here, post haste.” He turned to eye Graham. “You followed the wise course, young man. No hitch with the local authorities, I take it?”
“No, sir. The coroner agreed that it would be a good plan and arranged the details.”
“By the way, Mr. Brent!” Bernard’s voice had a booming note in it, “now you’re here, do you happen to know whether Harrison changed his will lately?”
The question was totally unexpected and Brent’s expression clearly indicated that he took exception to it. “So far as I know, Mr. Harrison has not changed his will lately!” he snapped. “Why do you ask, Mr.—er—the name, I fear, escapes me.”
“Bernard,” supplied Landis gently. “Mr. Paul Bernard, of whom you may have heard, Mr. Brent!”
Brent had. His tone and manner changed, chameleon-like, from ruffled dignity to genial welcome. “Well, well! Of course, I have! We have a famous man on the case, then—and an able assistant, no doubt!” He nodded shortly at Landis.
“Tut, tut,” said Bernard, with a ghost of a smile. “Landis is in charge and I’m the assistant.” He turned to Graham. “Do you happen to know whether Harrison changed his will within the last two or three weeks?”
“So far as I know, he hasn’t. And one of us would know if he had, of course.”
They were grouped in the doorway between the reception-room and the hall. At this moment Doctor Stanford finished his task and approached them. Brent eyed the man closely, then presented him with a distant nod.
“All right,” said the doctor. “That’s finished. My name’s in the local telephone directory if you want me again. Good night.” He edged through the doorway without looking at Brent and let himself out of the house.
As soon as the front door closed, Brent snorted.
“How did that man get in here?” he demanded.
“Mr. Harrison’s family doctor was on his vacation and Miss Mount suggested Doctor Stanford. She said he had been here before,” answered Graham soothingly.
“Surprised to hear it,” snapped Brent.
“What’s the matter with him?” Landis inquired.
“Rumors, sir! Rumors! One hears that he traffics in liquor prescriptions! It has also been hinted that he misuses his calling in other ways—at a price! However, that is neither here nor there. The man has done his work and gone, I presume—”
“About the question of this will,” interrupted Bernard grimly. “Can you give me the names of the principal heirs, Mr. Brent, and any other large bequests? I’m talking about the will at present in force so far as you know. I suppose you drew it up, didn’t you?”
Wounded, visibly swelling and rather red in the face, Brent contrived to swallow his temper. “I did, sir! And I—I can give you an outline of the will,” he stammered.
Landis felt a touch on his arm and turned to find Graham at his elbow. In the eyes of the young lawyer he saw a twinkle of amusement and a whimsical plea. “Suppose,” Graham suggested at large, “that we all go into the library and sit down? I’d just as soon get away from the sight of Mr. Harrison’s body, myself!”
“Good idea,” said Landis. “What do you say, sir?”
“You’re in charge,” the older detective retorted.
By the time they were settled in front of the fire the metaphorical ice was firm again. Brent explained that the will, in force so far as he knew, left Harrison’s fortune jointly to his two daughters, Isabelle and Anita. It was left to them as a trust until they were twenty-five, at which times they would receive their share of the principal.
“How old are they now?” inquired Bernard.
“Isabelle is twenty-four, I think, and Anita twenty-one or twenty-two. They won’t suffer on the income in the meantime!” Brent concluded with heavy playfulness.
“How large a fortune will it be?” Bernard asked.
“Somewhere in the neighborhood of ten million dollars, I believe.”
“Well, well,” exclaimed Bernard pompously and set Landis to chuckling without sound. “That’s a large sum, Mr. Brent! Any large bequests to be deducted first?”
“There are several other bequests, most of them from two to five thousand dollars to servants and old employees. Mr. Harrison left three larger ones. He left a half-million-dollar life trust to be administered for the benefit of his brother, Joel, a hundred-thousand-dollar life trust for Miss Mount and fifty thousand dollars outright to myself. Graham and I are appointed executors and trustees. He also left Graham, here, ten thousand dollars cash.”
“Thanks,” said Bernard. “You have an excellent memory, Mr. Brent.”
“I hope so! I hope so! And now tell me, gentlemen, have you made any progress in discovering the murderer?”
“Well, Mr. Brent,” said Landis, “Mr. Harrison was murdered with an arrow. There’s nothing as yet to indicate an outside job. Few criminals know how to handle a bow.”