Is he here?”
“Yes, Mr. Barham.”
“It is a mystery. I do not understand at all. But this is my wife—and—she is dead. Was she—was it an accident?”
“We do not think so.”
And then Doctor Gannett gave his account of the finding of the body on the floor——
“On the floor?” Barham interrupted. “Just where?”
He was shown, and he wondered more than ever.
“With this book-end,” he mused, “this bronze Sphinx. You say it is not possible that it was an accident? That she fell on it—she was on the floor——”
“No”; and Doctor Babcock added his own testimony to Gannett’s.
Barham drew a long sigh, and brushed his hand across his eyes.
“Then,” he said, and he looked at the policemen in turn, as if arraigning them, “then you conclude it was—murder?”
“We do, sir,” Dickson answered.
“Then move heaven and earth to find out who did it! Spare no time, pains or expense. Who would—who could have reason to kill a woman like that? But, strangest of all is her presence in this place, that has yet to be ex plained. Everything has yet to be explained. Are any of her friends here—in the other room?”
“No, Mr. Barham, everybody in the other room declares he or she never saw Mrs. Barham before.”
Again the man seemed so blankly bewildered as to be on the verge of losing his mind.
But he wasn’t. Andrew Barham was unutterably amazed, astounded—but he wasn’t yet dazed. His mind was thinking with lightning quickness.
“Who did it?” he demanded again. “You must have some suspicion—some slight clue!”
“We have no suspicion, Mr. Barham,” Hutchins told him, “and as to clues or evidence, we’ve not been able to go into those things yet. Think, it only happened less than two hours ago.”
“Less than two hours ago! Then why wasn’t I told sooner?”
“Because nobody knew who she was.”
“Nobody knew my wife! In a house where she had come as a guest!”
“No, nobody knew her.”
“The host? Didn’t he know her?”
“The host—Mr. Locke, cannot be found.”
Andrew Barham dropped into a chair.
“Do you know you are telling a very strange story to me?”
“It is a strange story, Mr. Barham. But it is all true. Mr. Locke cannot be found—nor can Charley.”
“Who is Charley?”
“A Chinese boy—Locke’s servant.”
“Do you think it might be, then, that my wife came to the wrong house? I have heard of such mistakes.”
“That might be. But this is the address she gave her own chauffeur.”
“May I see Louis?”
The chauffeur was brought in and told his tale with the same immovable calm he always displayed.
He addressed himself to Barham.
“Madame ordered her car for nine-thirty,” he said.
“She bade me drive her here. I did so. When she alighted, she told me to be here for her, a little before eleven, as she was then going to Madame Gardner’s. I was here shortly before eleven and waited a little distance away. While I was waiting, there seemed to be some commotion—several people left this house hurriedly, and some policemen came.”
“You sat still and waited?” put in Hutchins, hastily.
“Why not? It was the order. And I knew not but it was apartments and the police had naught to do with the home Madame visited. Yes, I waited, until maybe half after eleven, then the commotion grew more—and I began to feel fear. I came to the door and asked for Madame. The rest is known.”
Louis was the perfect French chauffeur. His manner and mien showed just the right shade of grief, without being unduly or presumptuously personal.
Hutchins watched him out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t always trust French chauffeurs.
Barham, who seemed to read the detective’s mind, said, “You may depend on Louis’s story. He is absolutely reliable.”
There was a silence. Andrew Barham was thinking deeply.
At last he said, “What must be the procedure? I am at a loss to know what I am to do.”
For the first time Rodman Jarvis spoke.
“It is a most unusual case—we all see that. But, speaking as a lawyer, I want to ask you. Doctor Babcock, as Medical Examiner, if you can’t waive certain technical considerations and let Mr. Barham remove his wife’s body to-night—if he wishes to do so.”
Barham gave the young man a grateful look.
“That is just what I do want,” he said, “but not unless it is a proper and legal proceeding. I am shocked and horrified enough as it is, without leaving her here any longer than is absolutely necessary. If she could be taken to the Funeral Director’s—or to my home—yet, stay, Mr. Dickson, nothing—no consideration of my feelings or anything else, shall be done that will put a straw in the way of finding the murderer. That must and shall be done!”
His voice almost rang out in this decision, and Hutchins reassured him quickly.
“No, Mr. Barham, that won’t matter, that way. It’s only that it’s a bit hasty to turn over the body to the relatives before a step has been taken to solve the mystery. Yet, it can be of no help to retain the body. The doctor’s reports are full and complete, and there is little or no evidence to be learned from the body itself. If necessary to see it again that can be done at the undertaker’s—better there than at your home. And if an autopsy is held——”
Hutchins checked himself. He was expert in trying to carry on his detective work and yet spare the feelings of the bereaved ones, but he frequently fell into error.
However, Andrew Barham took it rationally.
“Yes, Mr. Hutchins, if an autopsy is indicated, it can be performed. May I then send for the funeral people? May my man Prall telephone for them? I have ahead of me the difficult task of breaking this news to my wife’s mother. And, as you can understand, it has shaken me terribly.”
One and all they admired him. As man to man, Barham had a fine, a sensible
