Tangled Trails (Western Murder Mystery). William MacLeod Raine

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      "That will do."

      Exit Mr. Blanton from the chair and from the room, very promptly and very eagerly.

      He was followed by a teller at the Rocky Mountain National Bank. He testified to only two facts—that he knew Cunningham and that the promoter had drawn two thousand dollars in bills on the day of his death.

      A tenant at the Paradox Apartments was next called to the stand. The assistant district attorney examined him. He brought out only one fact of importance—that he had seen Cunningham enter the building at a few minutes before nine o'clock.

      The medical witnesses were introduced next. The police surgeon had reached the apartment at 10.30. The deceased had come to his death, in his judgment, from the effect of a bullet out of a .38 caliber revolver fired into his brain. He had been struck a blow on the head by some heavy instrument, but this in itself would probably not have proved fatal.

      "How long do you think he had been dead when you first saw him?"

      "Less than an hour." Answering questions, the police surgeon gave the technical medical reasons upon which he based this opinion. He described the wound.

      The coroner washed the backs of his hands with his palms. Observing reporters noticed that he did this whenever he intended taking the examination into his own hands.

      "Did anything peculiar about the wound impress you?" he asked.

      "Yes. The forehead of the deceased was powder-marked."

      "Showing that the weapon had been fired close to him?"

      "Yes."

      "Anything else?"

      "One thing. The bullet slanted into the head toward the right."

      "Where was the chair in which the deceased was seated? I mean in what part of the room."

      "Pushed close to the left-hand wall and parallel to it."

      "Very close?"

      "Touching it."

      "Under the circumstances could the revolver have been fired so that the bullet could have taken the course it did if held in the right hand?"

      "Hardly. Not unless it was held with extreme awkwardness."

      "In your judgment, then, the revolver was fired by a left-handed person?"

      "That is my opinion."

      The coroner swelled like a turkey cock as he waved the attorney to take charge again.

      Lane's heart drummed fast. He did not look across the room toward the girl in the blue tailored suit. But he saw her, just as clearly as though his eyes had been fastened on her. The detail that stood out in his imagination was the right arm set in splints and resting in a linen sling suspended from the neck.

      Temporarily Rose McLean was left-handed.

      "Was it possible that the deceased could have shot himself?"

      "Do you mean, is it possible that somebody could have tied him to the chair after he was dead?"

      "Yes."

      The surgeon, taken by surprise, hesitated. "That's possible, certainly."

      James Cunningham took the witness chair after the police officers who had arrived at the scene of the tragedy with the surgeon had finished their testimony. One point brought out by the officers was that in the search of the rooms the two thousand dollars was not found. The oil broker gave information as to his uncle's affairs.

      "You knew your uncle well?" the lawyer asked presently.

      "Intimately."

      "And were on good terms with him?"

      "The best."

      "Had he ever suggested to you that he might commit suicide?"

      "Never," answered the oil broker with emphasis. "He was the last man in the world one would have associated with such a thought."

      "Did he own a revolver?"

      "No, not to my knowledge. He had an automatic."

      "What caliber was it?"

      "I'm not quite sure—about a .38, I think."

      "When did you see it last?"

      "I don't recollect."

      The prosecuting attorney glanced at his notes.

      "You are his next of kin?"

      "My brother and I are his nephews. He had no nearer relatives."

      "You are his only nephews—his only near relatives?"

      Cunningham hesitated, for just the blinking of an eye. He did not want to bring Kirby into his testimony if he could help it. That might ultimately lead to his arrest.

      "He had one other nephew."

      "Living in Denver?"

      "No."

      "Where?"

      "Somewhere in Wyoming, I think. We do not correspond."

      "Do you know if he is there now?"

      The witness dodged. "He lives there, I think."

      "Do you happen to know where he is at the present moment?"

      "Yes." The monosyllable fell reluctantly.

      "Where?"

      "In Denver."

      "Not in this court-room?"

      "Yes."

      "What is the gentleman's name, Mr. Cunningham?"

      "Kirby Lane."

      "Will you point him out?"

      James did so.

      The lawyer faced the crowded benches. "I'll ask Mr. Lane to step forward and take a seat near the front. I may want to ask him a few questions later."

      Kirby rose and came forward.

      "To your knowledge, Mr. Cunningham, had your uncle any enemies?" asked the attorney, continuing his examination.

      "He was a man of positive opinions. Necessarily there were people who did not like him."

      "Active enemies?"

      "In a business sense, yes."

      "But not in a personal sense?"

      "I do not know of any. He may СКАЧАТЬ