Chapter 4

Flint Stryker's first step was to go to the windows and open the curtains. Then he stood still, in contemplative silence, his eyes going carefully over every detail of the room, noting the position of each piece of furniture and bric-a-brac. Bill Cooley, meantime, approached Finley Grahm, who stood by, an expression of offended dignity on his face, resenting this invasion of the premises and meddling by men who were not even regular policemen, but outsiders who did it only for money.

Bill addressed the butler:

"I suppose the police have mauled everything about? Or is this the way the furniture was found?"

Grahm eyed the speaker scornfully, taking him in from head to foot

"Nothing was disturbed on this side," he haughtily replied. "Everything was as you see it." Pointing to the right, he added: "But on this side everything was helter-skelter, just as it is now."

Billy gave Stryker a questioning glance.

"I wonder how that happened?"

Grahm chuckled, and retorted sarcastically:

"If you knew that and had your supper, you could go to bed."

Bill looked sharply at him, a flush in his cheeks.

"Very funny!" he said, then changed his tone to say: "You may wind up in the gas chamber yourself, so I'd be careful if I were you."

Grahm glared at the young man.

"I'll will you my wits, then," he said savagely. "You'll be needin' 'em."

Stryker chuckled and drew his assistant aside.

"I'll take care of him," he whispered. "What's his "Grahm. Finley Grahm."

Stryker leisurely removed his coat, as if about to get busy. Then turning to his assistant, he said:

"Bill, go and bring Mr. Grahm in here. He's the man who can help us."

"That's Mr. Grahm," Bill replied, pointing to the butler.

Stryker turned to the butler as if surprised. "Are you Finley Grahm."

"I am," Grahm answered, drawing himself up. Stryker laughed.

"Well, I'll be-Why didn't you tell us? I am well aware of your confidential relations with the household and your late employer. The family has always spoken in the highest terms of you, Mr. Grahm. I need your help. You're in a position to be of great assistance to us."

Grahm was flattered more by Stryker's manner than by his actual words, but he was not entirely won over. Nevertheless he became almost affable as he said:

"I will naturally help in any way I can. However, I have already told everything I know to the police, and they didn't think it was of much value."

"I would appreciate your help anyway," Stryker said, smiling.

"Well, sir, I'll tell you one thing," Grahm said. "I don't take much stock in detectives." Stryker nodded approval.

"You're quite right, of course. But what have you got against them in particular?"

Grahm frowned. Indignantly he said:

"Men with so little intelligence as to try and put suspicion on such a girl as Miss Janet-as innocent and harmless a young woman as ever lived. I've no patience -with such scoundrels. They'll get no assistance from me in that kind of work, or from any other honest man."

Stryker nodded.

"You're quite right, Mr. Grahm; now tell us the facts as you know them. You found the body?" The butler shook his head.

"Yes-sir-that is, I knocked at his door in the usual way, but he did not answer. I was alarmed and opened the door, thinking he was ill or something. When I saw the bed hadn't been slept in I was still more alarmed. I went to Miss Janet and told her-"

Stryker interrupted him.

"What time was it?"

"About eight o'clock, sir."

"Was Miss Boyington up?"

"Yes-sir. She came to the door fully dressed."

"Fully dressed?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did she say?"

"She was very nervous. Her face was white, and she was all agitated. I thought she was ill."

"Oh, you found her so pale and agitated that you thought she was ill, and she was completely dressed at eight o'clock in the morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Had her bed been slept in."

"I did not notice, sir."

"What did she say?"

"She didn't know what to say. I went downstairs and was just wondering what to do when suddenly Andy ran into 'me. 'He's dead!' he said. 'Stark dead on the floor in there!' 'Who's dead?' says I. 'Mr. Thomas,' says he-"

"Who's Andy?" demanded Stryker.

"Dan Scully's boy."

"How long has he been here?"

"Time out of mind-nearly as long as myself."

"What does he do?"

"He makes himself useful where I tell him to."

"Did Andy come first to you?" The butler nodded.

"He did, and it was I that told Miss Janet. When we found he was dead she got Mr. Fred here straightaway and the doctors, and then the police, and from that it began-trouble without end. Reporters, photographers-"

Stryker turned abruptly from him and made another careful survey around the room. Then he turned again to the butler:

"Is the furniture as it is now pretty much as you found it?"

"Yes, sir; all wheeled about every which way. Nothin's as it should be. He made a hard fight to defend himself -God help us!-before they put death on him."

"Where was the body?"

The butler pointed to where Bill was standing. "There, where your man is." Indicating another corner, he added: "And the pistol was yonder."

"Was he lying on his back?" The butler nodded.

"On his back, to one side, with the table-cloth clutched in his hand."

Stryker now went to the table, and, taking up one end of the cloth, he said:

"You say this cloth was dragged from the table?"

"About half-way, sir-and some books on top of him."

"When was this cover put back."

"That's hard to say, sir."

"It may be very important."

The butler scratched his head, as if trying to refresh his memory. Hesitatingly he said:

"Well, I remember I was straightening up the room when one of the doctors came in. He stopped me till the coroner should come; but I had already put back the cloth and those three books."

"Has it been touched since?"

"It has not-not so much as dusted."

Stryker nodded approval. Then, consulting a little memo book which he carried in the palm of his hand, he said:

"I want to see the chauffeur, Mr. Grahm." The butler shrugged his shoulders. "Very good, sir."

The butler went out with alacrity and closed the door behind him. Stryker made a quick gesture to his assistant. "Let's see if we've got anything on the table."

Hurrying to the table, they carefully lifted off the cloth.

"Be careful of that cloth!"

Quickly they went to work to secure fingerprints. Still busy at work, Stryker continued examining the furniture at the other end of the room, when suddenly the library door opened and Mrs. Wyatt entered.

Considerably nettled that the detectives should have proceeded with the investigation without even taking the trouble to consult her, the housekeeper was not in the most amiable mood. Surveying the detective from head to foot, she said, haughtily:

"Mr. Stryker, I presume?"

"Yes," he replied laconically.

Tossing up her head, she went on:

"I suppose you know who I am?"

He looked at her inquiringly, but without displaying any great interest.

Piqued, she said, grandly:

"I'm Mrs. Wyatt."

He nodded carelessly.

"Oh, yes. Good morning, Mrs. Wyatt."

She was nonplussed for the moment, not knowing whether to be angry or not. Finally, she said with a forced smile:

"Mr. Fred ought to be here soon. He said he'd come right back and it's almost eleven now. Is there anything you want to ask me?"

"Yes, there is."

He nodded gravely, fixing his eyes on her in a manner that frightened her. Startled, she exclaimed:

"I wasn't here when it happened, you know! I mean to say, I don't know any more about it than you do, but I suppose you do know a great deal."

He smiled, and, coming down to where she was standing, offered her a chair.

"Won't you please be seated, Mrs. Wyatt? When did Mr. Thomas adopt Miss Boyington?"

"Why, I don't know. She was just a little thing. I don't believe she was more than six, but I really don't know much about it. I mean to say, I wasn't there. It was in San Francisco, you know."

"What was Mr. Boyington's first name?"

"I think it was James. Yes, I know it was."

"What became of her mother?"

"Oh, she died there."

"In San Francisco?"

"Yes, I really don't know much about her either."

"What was her maiden name?"

"If I remember correctly, it was Hillyer."

Mrs. Wyatt smiled amiably as she went on gushingly: "That's all I can tell you. I really don't know how I remember that. As I said, I've never heard much about the mother, except that there was some scandal about her."

Stryker looked up quickly. "Scandal? In what way?"

"I really can't say. Mr. Thomas never could be persuaded to talk about her."

The detective was silent for a moment, then abruptly he asked:

"How long have you lived here?"

"Oh, many, many years-"

"As long as that?" he smiled.

Hastily checking herself, she stammered in some confusion:

"I mean to say it must be sixteen-ever since my husband died. I'm a widow-do you know what I mean? I'm a very old friend of the family, and when Mr. Thomas adopted Janet he felt that he must have a woman in the house."

The detective rose and paced the floor. With a shade of impatience in his voice he said:

"Yes, yes, I'd like to see Miss Boyington."

Taking the hint, Mrs. Wyatt moved nervously toward the door. As she reached it she turned and said:

"Oh-well-I don't know-I mean to say-if you want to, I suppose you must. I'll go right to her now.

Flint Stryker rubbed his hands with satisfaction. So far, so good. He had examined several of the servants to whom suspicion might attach, and was thoroughly convinced of their innocence. The process of elimination had begun. He had learned at least two things that might lead to important clues: one was that Miss Boyington did not go to bed on the night of the murder; the other that Mr. Knapp, the lawyer, had an interview with the banker that evening and consulted him about changing his will. Still another find, and perhaps the most important, were the prints of a woman's hands on the table in the room where the murder took place. Who was that woman? If he could only find that woman who was in the room and saw the old man murdered, he would be very close to the murderer.

Going over to his assistant, who was still busy getting the prints from the table, he said hastily:

"Bill, when you've finished, go and get the fingerprints of all the women who were in the house the night of the murder. Don't miss anybody."

As he spoke Grahm re-entered the room, followed by the chauffeur.

"Here is Innes, sir," said the butler, deferentially.

Stryker looked the man quickly over from head to foot. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he turned to his assistant and said quietly:

"Get his prints, Bill." Then, turning suddenly on the chauffeur, he demanded sharply:

"How did you come to be mixed up in this murder?"

The man turned pale. He knew it-they were going to charge him with the murder!

"Me, sir? I'm a man of early hours an' quiet habits. I had read my evening paper an' was in bed by half past ten."

"Did you hear anything in the night?" The man shook his head. "No, I go to bed to sleep."

The detective shrugged his shoulders. Sarcastically he said:

"You're one of those very heavy sleepers, I suppose."

"No, sir. I'm a very light sleeper."

"How did it happen, then, that you slept all through a murder?"

"I didn't say I slept through a murder," was the shrewd answer.

"You say you didn't hear anything. What did you do?"

"I had an uneasy night, and at three in the morning I got up and opened my window."

"Did you notice anything unusual?"

"I can't say that it was unusual," replied the man, cautiously.

"No, what was it?"

The chauffeur hesitated. He was keeping something back. That was very evident. Sharply the detective exclaimed: "Come on, Innes-What was it!? "

But Innes still hesitated. He might only get into trouble if he told what he had seen. Finally, with reluctance, he said:

"I saw a light"

Stryker looked up quickly.

"Where?" he demanded.

The chauffeur made no answer, but turned appealingly to the butler, as if for protection. He got little sympathy in that quarter. Eyeing him sternly Grahm said:

"Go on! Don't be so foolish. Out with it!"

"Well, sir, it was in the room below me."

Quickly the detective turned to the butler. "What room is that, Grahm?"

It was the butler's turn now to hesitate. It was hard that after all these years he should be asked to testify against one who had always been kind to him. Reluctantly he answered:

"Why, sir, that's Miss Janet Boyington's room, but."

"Miss Boyington's room!" exclaimed Stryker, in surprise. Turning quickly to the chauffeur, he went on: "What did you do?"

"I went back to bed, an' I was there when they wakened me."

The detective made a gesture of dismissal. "That's all for the present. You may go." The chauffeur hastily left the room; and Stryker turning to the butler, said, quietly: "Now, get the maid, Ethel."

Grahm went toward the door to summon the girl.

As Ethel entered, frightened and apprehensive like all the other servants, he said, in a tragic undertone which did not tend to reassure her:

"You're wanted by the detective, girl."

"What for?" she asked, with a shiver.

Stryker, who was getting tired of all this cross examination dropped into a chair, and without even glancing in the direction of the maid, he turned to the butler and said curtly:

"Bring the cook in also."

Grahm shrugged his shoulders.

"Very well, sir, I'll bring her-I'll bring her, only don't blame me if she's a bit cantankerous."

He went out, closing the door of the library behind him. Stryker looked at the maid, who smiled bashfully.

She had never seen a detective before, and had no idea they were so good-looking. Modulating his voice, he said, kindly:

"So you're Ethel, are you?"

She advanced shyly toward him.

"Yes, sir."

"Did you hear anything the night of the murder."

"N-no, sir," the girl replied after a moment's hesitation.

"Nothing whatever?" he persisted. "The rain-" she stammered. "What time was it?" he asked abruptly. She gave him a furtive look as if wondering how much she could tell with safety. "A quarter past one."

"You got up and turned on the light to look at the clock?"

The girl stared at him in amazement, frightened that he knew so much. Quickly she answered:

"No sir. I got up because I'd-I'd left a window open downstairs."

"Did you go downstairs to close it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you pass Miss Boyington's room?"

Again she hesitated.

"Yes."

"Was there a light under the door?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, reluctantly, and avoiding the detective's steatly gaze.

"Did you speak to Miss Boyington?"

"Yes, sir. Her maid had gone away for the night, and I thought perhaps I could do something for her."

"Was she dl?"

"She had a headache."

"She said so?"

"Yes, sir. She said she had a headache and couldn't sleep."

"Did you do anything for her?"

The girl hesitated a moment before she answered: "No, sir."

"Didn't you go into her room?" The maid shook her head. "No, sir, she wouldn't let me."

"Why not?"

"She said she'd be all right."

Stryker looked at her keenly. Changing abruptly the line of questioning, he demanded suddenly: "Did you come down to this floor."

"No, I went right back to bed."

Before the detective could ask anything further there was a commotion outside the library door, and a shrill, angry voice was heard exclaiming:

"Gawd sakes! I'd like to see the man, detective or no detective, as thinks he can boss me!"

The next moment there bounced into the room, a burly Negress of the typical Southern-mammy type. She had a fat, kindly face, and her woolly hair was partially gray. Uncorseted, her enormous bust stood forth in vast folds of wobbly fat, and her fat, perspiring face shone like a freshly polished stove. She appeared to be laboring under great mental excitement, for directly she caught sight of Bill and she turned to Grahm, who had followed in a vain attempt to quiet her, and demanded:

"Is this de man?"

The butler shook his head and pointed to the chief. "No, this is Mr. Stryker."

Not in the least awed, the Negress advanced aggressively toward the detective.

Stryker, an amused expression on his face, looked the newcomer over for a moment and then turned to Ethel.

"That's all. You can go."

Overjoyed to get away, the maid beat a hasty retreat, and the detective turned to the cook.

"I don't suppose you would know anything about anything, anyway, would you?"

Incensed that he should take her for an ignoramus, she fell easily into the trap. Wrathfully she replied:

"I-I-I don't know nuffin', eh? I don't know nuffin', eh? I-I know 'nuff to know she didn't done nuffin'! "

The detective quickly altered his tactics. It was time to attend to business. Going closer to the cook and looking her straight in the face, he said, sternly:

"Mr. Thomas had engaged me to find out the truth. If you know anything that will help to clear Miss Boyington, you had better tell it."

The cook shifted uneasily about on her feet and rolled up the whites of her eyes as she replied:

"I know Miss Janet hadn' nuffin' to do wit' that assassination, 'cause she was on d'uppeh flo' all de time."

"How do you know that?" demanded the detective quickly.

"Cause I done see her dere."

"Where were you?"

"I was crawlin' up dem kitchen stairs, an' dare was a light up dare, an' I look up an' I see her."

"What brought you upstairs?"

"Well, suh, I was wakened up by a pow'ful row in de middle o' dat yeah night. 'Peahed like somebody must 'ave fell down dem yeah staihs-I was scared corpsecold, an' I wait dere, an' listen an' scared still I listenan' I don' heah nuffin' mo'. Den I reckon I bettah 'ves-tigate dat commotion. An' I done it."

"Did you speak to Miss Boyington?"

"No, suh, I wan't speak', I was jes' lookin'. Looks like I couldn't get mah breaf in time to speak 'fore Miss Janet went back inteh her room an' shut de do'. Den I calc'late I mus've dreamed some o' dat yehe noise, so I goes back to bed, an' didn't heah nuffin' mo' till mohnin'. An' if you'll excuse me, Mistah Policeman, I'd like to go back to my bakin'. Yo' all 'peahs to fohget dat folks has got to eat."

Stryker laughed and turned on his heel.

"All right, you may go. If I want you again, I'll send for you."

She shook her head defiantly.

"Yo' don' see no mod o' dis here latly. Come roun' askin' me all dese fool questions. I hopes to de Lawd yo' all clear out o' dis yeah house, an' leave dis yeah fambly in peace."

After she had gone, Stryker hastily scribbled a few notes and then turned to see the butler. Quietly he said:

"I want to see Miss Boyington."

The old servant started, and a look of genuine distress came over his face.

"Go at once and tell her that I want to see her."

"Very well, sir," replied the man resignedly. "I will call Miss Boyington."

Without another word the butler left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.