Murder in Stained Glass. Armstrong Margaret

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СКАЧАТЬ told his story clearly and well. Gleason tried to trip him up with technical questions as to the exact temperature of the oven when glass was “fired” and the length of time required to heat it. But the boy kept his head and stuck to what he knew. He was finally allowed to sign his deposition and return to our corner.

      Leo came next. His manner wasn’t as good as Clarence’s. Yet Gleason’s questions were politely worded and obviously routine. How long had the garage been used as a glass shop? Who was the owner? What was the rent? How many workmen were employed? Perfunctory questions. Why, I wondered, did Leo mind answering them? For he did mind; he hesitated and mumbled and contradicted himself. When his deposition was read over to him, he listened anxiously and his signature was so shaky that I saw Gleason give him a puzzled frown as he moved away from the table. I was puzzled too—for a different reason: Leo had not mentioned that small object I had seen him pick up from among the ashes!

      However, that was Leo’s business, not mine. When my turn came to “depose,” I would, I determined, say as little as possible. I could not sign my name to anything I wasn’t absolutely sure of. I needn’t have worried. I wasn’t asked to sign anything. Neither was Phyllis. Gleason disposed of us both in short order. Phyllis got a curt word of thanks, but he waved me away with such a bored stare, as if he were wondering what the hell I was doing here, that I was rather sorry when Mr. Merritt spoke up:

      “Say, Mr. Gleason!” he protested. “You’d oughtn’t to let Miss Trumbull go like that. She’s awful good at deductions. You just ask her . . . .”

      “Deductions?” Skinner put in. “We make our own deductions. Facts are what we want. Have you any facts to offer, Miss Trumbull? Important facts?”

      “Facts?” I said. “Yes; I have one fact to offer. I’m not sure whether or not it’s important.”

      “Let’s have it, anyway.”

      “If you will examine the stand-pipe over there you will find a small sticky spot where the hose is attached. It may, of course, be molasses. On the other hand—”

      But Skinner was already bending over the stand-pipe. He beckoned to another man, evidently a fingerprint expert. Together they examined the spot, peering at it through a magnifying glass, smelling it. The fingerprint man shook his head.

      “No prints,” Skinner announced with disgust. “But it’s blood, all right. We’ll have it analyzed.”

      “Miss Trumbull, you have shortened Mr. Skinner’s examination of this cellar,” Gleason remarked, “by at least three minutes. Much obliged. Anything more?”

      “That’s all—at present.”

      “Then you and the young lady may go.”

      Phyllis and I moved to the door. A reporter started to follow us. Gleason called him back.

      “No interviews yet,” he said. “There’s plenty for you boys to see right here in this cellar. Get to work, Skinner!”

      Instantly, Skinner took the lead. Fairly swelling with importance he strutted to the center of the room and stood there, pointing out this and that, giving orders with an arrogant confidence that evidently inspired respect. Tripods were unfolded, typewriters clicked, tape measures began to measure, insuflators to insuflate. I thought of the scene in that enchanting opera, Gianni Schicchi, when the heirs turn everything topsy-turvy looking for the will. Bombarded by efficiency, Phyllis and I hurried to the door. Leo opened it for us. We went out.

       IV

      How sharper than a serpent’s child it is to have a thankless tooth.

      Mixed Proverb.

      THE inquest came off on Wednesday. There had been much discussion as to the time and place, for the sheriff and the local people wanted to postpone everything until Mr. Ullathorne returned; the sheriff, because Mr. Ullathorne might suggest some way of identifying the victim, and the village, for fear Mr. Ullathorne, of whom they stood a good deal in awe, when he did come, wouldn’t like strangers poking around his premises without permission. For the same reason they didn’t want to hold the inquest in the glass shop. Mr. Merritt thought the basement of the Methodist Church where the Christian Endeavorers held their meetings would be suitable, and Mrs. Flack offered the big room over the post office. But Gleason had his own ideas. He said it was nonsense to wait for Mr. Ullathorne. All efforts to reach Mr. Ullathorne by wire and telephone had been unavailing. If Mr. Ullathorne didn’t like visitors on his premises let him come and say so. The inquest ought to be held as soon as the coroner could get a jury together, and the scene of the crime was the proper place. This was what the district attorney, Mr. Drinkwater, thought too. In the end a compromise was reached. The jury and various witnesses, including our little group, were told to come to the glass shop on Wednesday at nine o’clock in the forenoon.

      I confess I was thrilled when I got the notice to attend. It was such an impersonal crime. Unreal. Your feelings weren’t involved, for those bones couldn’t belong to anyone you knew. And besides, by this time the bones were no longer very bony. Their trips back and forth in the box to Dr. Greely’s office and to the office of the medical examiner in Banbury hadn’t done them any good as exhibits. It was reported that the Banbury man was indignant, said he couldn’t be expected to report on a pint of bone meal and cinders, and Gleason scolded Mr. Merritt for not having packed the bones in cotton, and he would have scolded Dr. Greely too but the poor man was in bed with influenza and couldn’t be interviewed.

      Well, Wednesday morning came, and Phyllis and I started out bright and early. But we had to park a long way from the glass shop, for the roads were simply packed with cars of all sorts and kinds, and there was such a solid mass of people jammed together in front of the shop that Phyllis and I wondered how in the world we were ever going to get through.

      The path had been roped off and a policeman stood at the gate, but he was a stranger and didn’t pay the slightest attention to us when we signaled to him for help. We stopped on the opposite side of the road, and stood looking about, hoping to see Mr. Merritt, or Sam Beers, or somebody else we knew; but there wasn’t a soul. The village had been crowded out by a rather horrid-looking mob of sightseers, laughing and shouting and chewing gum. We were at our wits’ end when, to my relief, I caught sight of a familiar figure; an old friend, Edgar Farraday, had just reached the gate and was speaking to the policeman.

      “Oh, Edgar!” I called. “Edgar Farraday! Come over and help us. We can’t get through.”

      He turned, smiled, waved his hat, and began making his way towards us. I couldn’t help laughing a little; he looked so absurdly out of place.

      Edgar Farraday is a good deal older than I am, but when I came out he was still going to dances and still considered the best dressed man in New York. Both he and I care less for dancing than we used to, but we have preserved our interest in clothes, and it did my heart good to see him now in his well-cut rough coat, so exactly right for a March morning in the country, with a red carnation in his buttonhole.

      As he is over six feet tall, he hadn’t much difficulty in reaching us. We shook hands. I introduced him to Phyllis. He regarded her with pleasure.

      “I knew your mother,” he said—Edgar always remembers everybody’s mother. “A charming girl. You are very like her, my dear; except that her eyes were gray.” Edgar always remembers everybody’s mother’s eyes. “Yours, I see, are forget-me-not blue. What brings you here, Harriet?”

      “I’m СКАЧАТЬ