Leslie was speaking.
“You haven’t lost out, Jack,” he was saying. “But if that narrow-gauge Sampson elects to fire you—which I know he won’t—I’ll give you work if I’ve got to pay you out of my contingent5 fund. Get off that suisses diet and report. The Enquirer6 can’t afford to lose you.”
Lanagan, unshaven for a week, looked otherwise disreputable.
“The Enquirer,” he reported judicially7, “can afford to lose anybody. It’s a sweat-shop life, reporting; and they fill your place just as easily as Schwartz, down there on Stevenson Street, fills a place at one of his shirt machines. Nothing is as dead as a yesterday’s paper—excepting it has a[Pg 94] libel in it; and nothing is so perishable9 as a reporter’s reputation. The slate10 is swabbed clean once every twenty-four hours. Your job is precisely11 that long.”
“Rats. You’re in a beautiful humour. They can’t forget that Iowa Slim exclusive very soon.”
“No; but only because of the fact that I haven’t shown up for work since. They had given me warning before then. I’m through unless they send for me, and they don’t seem to be doing that. As a matter of cold-blooded fact, the Enquirer likes my work but not my weakness. My type don’t get much sympathy these times. I belong to the generation of the tramp printer; the days of a real ethical12 code in the profession. We old-timers are taking the gad—what few of us there are left—three times over for an even break with these peg-topped trouser boys at ten a week who once wrote a class farce13.
“No, chief,” concluded Lanagan dispassionately and deliberately14, “I guess I’ve shot my bolt in San Francisco. I’ll ship on a banana boat and flag it on to Panama. Maybe when I get there I will tangle15 up in some big complication and another Davis will come along to chronicle me with that other Derelict; a grand story, by the way, chief—a newspaper epic16. You should read it.”
Leslie ignored the morose17 mood of the reporter. “Shot nothing,” he said in disgust. “Take a Turkish[Pg 95] bath and sweat that grouch18 out of your system. Here, take this ten. I want you to get back to your paper. You’re too valuable a man to be out of work in this town.”
Lanagan rejected the proffered19 money, and Leslie was attempting to force it on him—there was a warm bond of friendship between the two men and a mutual20 admiration21 for the abilities of each other—when when Brady from the upper office stuck his head through the door. He saluted22.
“Captain Cook sent me over to say that it looks now like that Hemingway case was not a suicide after all. There are no powder burns on the face. The revolver must have been put in her hand after she was shot.”
Cook was night captain of detectives. Leslie jumped to his feet and swung Lanagan to his.
“Here! This will put you on your mettle23. I didn’t like the looks of that case from the start. I am going out and take hold of it personally. Come along. Maybe you can turn up something that the Enquirer will be glad to hear from you on. Come along, Brady.”
They jumped into the police machine and were whirled out to a fashionable home on Pacific Avenue. It was 9:30 o’clock. Less than an hour before a report had been received of the suicide of the daughter of the house, a débutante whose coming-out party had been an event of the spring before[Pg 96] and whose engagement to a broker24, Oliver Macondray, had just been announced.
Wilson, accounted one of Leslie’s shrewdest upper office men, was already in the room when Leslie, Lanagan, and Brady arrived. There were there also a shoal of newspaper men and photographers, and the smell of flash powders was heavy on the air. On the first report from police headquarters I had been sent out by Sampson and had already been in the house for half an hour. But I was glad to surrender the story promptly25 to Lanagan when he entered, although he did not then say that he intended going to work.
It was Wilson, as I recall it, who had raised a doubt of the suicide theory by pointing out the absence of powder burns, although the bullet wound was in the right temple and the revolver clasped tightly in the right hand. A girl with her frail26 wrist must have pressed the revolver close before firing. It was clear the revolver had been placed in her hand after the shooting. It was an English bulldog of old pattern, one of those “family” pistols found in most homes.
“Then Lanagan took his leisurely27 turn, drawing up an easy chair.”
“If you can’t be first on the ground, be last,” was an axiom of the newspaper business that Lanagan often tried to impress upon me. He proceeded to act upon his theory now by rolling and lighting28 a cigarette to give all in the room ample time to finish their investigation29. Finally the room was[Pg 97] cleared of all save, Leslie, Lanagan, Brady, Wilson, and myself.
The room had one set of French windows giving out upon a wide porch and a heavily matted lawn. It would be next to impossible to say whether a person had escaped over the lawn by way of the veranda30. The bedroom door was open when a maid, attracted by the shot, had overcome her terror and run to the room.
At the time of death the only persons in the house were the mother, daughter, and the maid, Marie. The maid was in a state bordering on collapse31 after the first siege with the detectives and newspaper men, and Leslie ordered her kept quiet for an hour. The occasional hysterical32 cries of the mother, prostrated33 in her own room, could be heard.
Leslie examined the body with minute care. The rest of us had completed our investigations34. Then Lanagan took his leisurely turn, drawing up an easy chair. Leslie, Brady, and Wilson had stepped through the window and were examining the porch and the lawn carefully with their pocket lights. Lanagan had taken one of the girl’s hands up in his. He was examining an old-fashioned bracelet36 critically, very critically, it seemed to me. He flashed a sudden quick glance toward the window; the chief and the detectives were still busy outside.
“Stand at the door, Norrie!” he shot at me electrically.
[Pg 98]I sprang to put my back to it, to give him a moment’s delay in case any of the other newspaper men should drift back to the room. I had not the slightest idea what he was after, but I caught a glitter of fierce interest in his eyes, and I knew him better than to disobey. I did not see what he did then, save that he quickly placed something within his pocketbook, something that didn’t have much substance, for he had to rub his thumb and forefinger37 to drop it into a piece of paper. Some of the newspaper men trooped back into the room; Leslie entered again, frowning in perplexity.
“Singular, Jack,” he said. “What’s your idea?”
“I think,” drawled Lanagan, “I’ll save my ideas for the Enquirer, Chief. I’ve concluded to go back to work.”
Leslie stared. “You’ve got something,” he finally said testily38. “What is it?”
“Something that may save me being driven from town like a beaten dog, Chief, that’s all. You didn’t want that, you said.”
“Confound you anyhow. You’re too infernally clever. Go in and win,” said the grizzled chief, but his tone was nettled39 and there was a natural trace, possibly, of professional jealousy40 that he could not conceal41. It had never before happened that he and Lanagan had started off on an absolutely even break where it was a straight open-and-shut proposition of the best detective winning; and he[Pg 99] felt that Lanagan had found a clue in that room that he had overlooked. He was a hard loser. He went over the room again; he examined the body; he used his magnifying glass and he scanned the walls, the carpet, the clothing, inch by inch.
He was still reluctant to give up when the coroner’s deputies finally arrived to discharge their melancholy42 functions. The mother was still in hysteria. The maid had calmed somewhat, and Leslie went to examine her with Wilson and Brady. Lanagan had drifted out and was sitting on the moonlit porch, to which the electroliers gave added brightness.
“When all those blunderbusses get through with their heavy work, Norrie, we’ll have a run in with the maid,” said he. “I seem to be the last man on the job. Meantime find out for me how many red-haired people there are about this house or among the immediate43 circle of the girl’s friends. It is a matter of some importance, because—” he carefully opened the pocketbook, extracted the folded piece of note paper, and, first assuring himself that no one was about, pointed—“because here are two broken, half-inch bits of red hair that I take it are going to play an important part in this case. Remember the Deveraux case? These were wedged back of the cameo on her bracelet, and they got there in her last struggle with whoever shot her. For the time being at least, then, we will eliminate all but red-haired people.”
[Pg 100]“Maybe it’s a dog’s hair,” I suggested hopefully.
Lanagan was on the point of retorting with his finished sarcasm44 when the Hemingway limousine45, evidently bringing other members of the family or relations summoned by word of the mournful occurrence, rolled up to the brilliantly lighted porte-cochère. Lanagan’s eye had travelled swiftly and fixed46 upon some object of interest. I followed his intense gaze.
The chauffeur47’s hair was as flaming as a firebrand.
Lanagan’s eyes seemed to be boring straight through the man as the machine came to a stop almost where we sat. The chauffeur’s face was pale, extraordinarily48 pale, it appeared to me; as he stopped his machine and shut down the gears, there was a perceptible evidence of nervousness in his manner that was possibly entirely49 natural in view of the shocking happening of a few hours before that had taken the life of his young mistress.
The first to leave the motor was a trim, well-groomed young man, whom we at once recognised, from the descriptions we had heard, as Macondray. As he held the door open for the other two persons to leave the machine, he removed his hat, holding it in his hand.
Simultaneously50 our eyes rested on his uncovered hair.
His hair, if anything, was a shade more auburn than that of the chauffeur! His swollen51 eyes and[Pg 101] pale face were natural under the circumstances, with his marriage hopes thus painfully blasted. They walked within, and Lanagan said:
“Come on. We’ll get first crack at this fellow anyhow. Let’s meet him back at the garage in the rear.”
We had started to walk back to the garage as the chauffeur cranked his machine when from the same low window Leslie and Brady stepped alertly. Leslie held up his hand to the chauffeur. The two officers were beside him in a moment. I knew what was coming even before they laid a hand on him. I had seen too many arrests made not to know what was meant by that brusque, cool manner, that quick step, that wary52 eye even before there came that familiar terse53, short snap of the professional thief-taker:
“We want you!”
“The maid has spilled!” was Lanagan’s ejaculation as we stepped up to the trio. Leslie could not forbear a pleased lighting of the eyes as he glanced at Lanagan.
“What have you got, Chief?” asked Lanagan easily.
“The maid, Marie, broke down and admitted that she let this man Martin into the house and into the girl’s room at the girl’s orders at 8.30 o’clock. Possibly ten minutes later, she says, she heard the shot. When she could summon courage to go to her mistress’s room she found her lying on the floor[Pg 102] dead, the revolver in her hand. What have you to say, Martin?”
“Nothing, sir,” said Martin levelly. “I have nothing at all to say, sir.”
He was a man of about thirty. Lanagan’s subsequent investigations disclosed that he had been with the Hemingways for many years, formerly54 working as a stable boy. When automobiles55 came into vogue57, he had taken a place as chauffeur. He was a probation58 court boy when the Hemingways took him into their employ and “made a man of him,” as he used to express it.
“Nothing?” snapped Leslie. “Well, we’ll see. I guess we’ll take him in, Brady, and give him the dark cell.”
Leslie swung on his heel, and Brady, giving the chauffeur only time enough to run his machine to the garage, took him to the city prison and locked him up. But first I had noticed Lanagan pick up Martin’s cap from the seat of the machine while the brief conference was going on and deftly59 extract something from it. The “something” proved later to be one or two of Martin’s red hairs.
Other newspaper men emerging from the house had been informed by Leslie of the arrest. It was 11.30 o’clock by that time, and, with the arrest of Martin as their sensation, the morning paper men of one accord shoaled back to their offices. Leslie turned whatever ends might come up over to Wilson, with instructions to keep an eye on the maid,[Pg 103] Marie, and went back to headquarters satisfied that if Martin was not the murderer he at least could clear up the mystery. Lanagan started back with the rest, but dropped off the car unobserved and returned to the house. He was not yet satisfied that all that the inmates60 knew there had been told.
“You go in and write the story,” he had told me. “That chauffeur isn’t the type who is rendezvousing61 with the daughter of the house; and she isn’t the type to engage in an alliance with a chauffeur. There is a nigger in this woodpile some place—and a red-headed nigger at that. Go off with your story if you don’t hear from me by press time, but keep my red hairs out of your story unless you hear from me further.”
I had gathered in my camera man and artist and hurried back to the office to write a story that I knew would be exactly similar in its facts with those in the other morning papers, leading off naturally with the arrest of the chauffeur.
There were still quite a number of relatives and family friends at the house when Lanagan returned. The reception hall was brilliantly lighted, and he hung up his hat. As he did so he examined Macondray’s topcoat carefully and quickly. On the collar was one hair. It was tucked away, labeled, in a separate package in the pocketbook.
He went to the room of the murder to find Wilson there “sweating” Macondray. The broker was bent63 over a table, sobbing64. The intermittent,[Pg 104] hysterical cries of the mother, hoarser65 and fainter as exhaustion66 came upon her, still punctuated67 the air. Wilson was reading a letter. He passed it to Lanagan.
Lanagan read, then, a startling few lines written by Miss Hemingway the day before to Macondray, breaking their engagement with the single explanation: I love another. You surely could not want to marry a woman who had discovered she loved another.
Lanagan passed the letter back. He was anxious to make a microscopic68 examination of the hair, but he wanted also to put Macondray through a mill. He signalled Wilson to “jam,” and the detective touched Macondray on the shoulder.
“Get together,” he said brusquely. “We want you to answer a few questions.”
“We aren’t getting any place in this fashion,” added Lanagan curtly69.
“Tell me, Macondray, when did you get that letter?”
Macondray straightened up, wiping his eyes.
“This afternoon at 5 o’clock,” he said.
“When did you see Miss Hemingway last?”
There was a long pause while Macondray gazed fixedly70 first at Lanagan and then at Wilson, as though trying to read their minds to learn what they knew.
“Because you did see her after the letter, you know,” said Lanagan quietly. It was entirely a[Pg 105] random71 shot, but it went home. Macondray studied the matter over again for some moments.
“Well,” he said at last slowly, “I suppose it is best that I tell all I know. I saw her last—at half-past eight o’clock to-night.”
His head dropped to his breast and dry sobs72 shook him again for a minute.
“But as to her death I can offer no explanation. Only—you have Martin in custody73, and I saw Martin in her room at that time. My God!” he burst out, “that Elvira could have sunk so low! A menial, a lackey—a chauffeur!”
“We don’t want a dissertation74 on caste,” said Lanagan with cold brutality75. “What we want of you, Macondray, either here or at the city prison—” Macondray started, realising for the first time that suspicion was pointing his way—“is a simple statement of how you happened to see Miss Hemingway in this room with Martin and what happened after that?”
“I received her note by messenger at five o’clock. At half-past seven I called, but she was not in. I wanted a personal explanation. I called again in an hour. She was home, Marie said, and had gone to her room for the night and under no circumstances was to be disturbed. I determined76 to see her at any cost. I knew the position of her room here, fronting on the veranda. I went from the house by the front door and walked around here to the lawn. I intended only to attract her attention[Pg 106] by throwing a pebble77 against the window and compelling her to speak with me. But while I stood there on the lawn, searching for a pebble, an automobile56 drove slowly down Buchanan Street and stopped just beyond the Hemingway drive behind the pepper tree. There were two men in it. One remained while the other, whom I recognised as Martin, came to the house, entering by the kitchen door. Of course, then I would not risk attracting Elvira’s attention.
“While I was just turning to go, Elvira’s curtain suddenly was raised, and I saw her peering out down Buchanan Street toward the place where the motor car was. Just when that tableau78 was being presented her chamber79 door opened quickly, and Martin entered. She seemed to be glad to see him, and extended both her hands to him.
“I could witness no more. It broke my heart. Sick and miserable80 that I had discovered so fine a girl, the girl whom I loved sincerely, in a meeting with her chauffeur, I turned and came away. That is all I know. Later I received a telephone message of the tragedy. They sent the car for me. I could not understand it then; I cannot now.”
He was sobbing again with his arms on the table.
Wilson stepped over to him.
“Brace up,” he said shortly, “I want you to come with me. The chief will want to keep you where he can see you for a day or two.” His[Pg 107] heavy hand descended81 professionally upon Macondray’s shoulder. But Lanagan interrupted.
“Not a chance, Jim,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t want to interfere82 with your duty, but I believe that chap is telling the truth absolutely. What we want to do now is to clear up the mystery of the man in the automobile. Martin must be made to talk. And, by the way, have you come across any red-haired people in this case outside Martin and Macondray? It struck me as a good little feature story. Here’s a red-haired chauffeur and a red-haired fiancée. It’s a combination that don’t often occur.”
“Humph,” replied Wilson. “That’s curious. The chief and I only saw Mrs. Hemingway for a moment, she was so unstrung, but she most certainly has the finest head of red hair for a woman of forty-four or five you want to see. Seems to be her own, too. Funny proposition, the three of them at that.”
Lanagan was staring, for once taken completely by surprise, so pat did the circumstance fit his theories. He glanced at his watch. His eyes were dancing with excitement. “That will be all, Mr. Macondray, unless Wilson wants you for anything,” he said. Wilson said he was through, and Macondray left the room. “Now, Jim, let’s see Marie again. I’m collecting red hair; it’s a fad83 I have acquired, and I want one or two of Mrs. Hemingway’s.”
[Pg 108]“I was never more serious in my life,” said Wilson, summoning the maid. He sent her for a brush containing combings of her mistress’s hair. She asked no questions, but did as ordered. The maid acted like a person in a trance.
“Holding up to a certain point, and then she will drop like a plummet,” thought Lanagan, then aloud: “I guess we are all through here, Jim, except one last fling with the mother.”
But there was no “last fling” with the mother. She had been given a hypodermic, the nurse said, and was sleeping.
From a neighbourhood bar Wilson telephoned to Leslie, still waiting at police headquarters to get a last word from his men. The detective was still half decided84 to lock up both Marie and Macondray, but Leslie said no. Lanagan had borrowed Wilson’s magnifying glass and had spread out upon the bar the different pieces of red hair. He was so deeply engrossed85 in making comparisons that he failed to follow the startling one-sided conversation going on between Wilson and the chief. Wilson whirled around from the receiver as Lanagan, profoundly stirred, carefully tucked away his collection.
“A child could see it,” he muttered to himself as Wilson called out:
“Martin has spilled! Says he tricked the maid, who, by the way, is in love with him, into letting him into Elvira’s room. There he declared his love[Pg 109] for her, demanded that she fly with him, and when she refused seized up the family revolver and shot her down, maddened by her command that he realise his place and return to the stables where he belonged. He escaped through the window after placing the revolver in her hand. They are going to book him now for murder.”
Lanagan took a long time to digest this bit of surprising information. He made no comment other than to say:
“You’re through for the night now, aren’t you, Jim? With Leslie vouching86 for Martin as the man?”
“Yes,” replied Jim, “and now I’m off.”
A moment after he had been left alone Lanagan had Leslie on the telephone.
“Chief? Lanagan. Hop8 into your car and meet me at Farrelly’s. Bring Martin along. It’s quarter to one. Make time. And this is something absolutely between you and me; me and the Enquirer. Scoot now, Chief. I’ve something to interest you.”
Since the incident in the room earlier in the evening Leslie had been restless about Lanagan. Within ten minutes the police automobile stopped at Farrelly’s. Leslie and Brady, with Martin walking between them, entered.
Lanagan quickly led the way to the side room.
One grimed incandescent87 lit the room pallidly88. Around a beer-stained table the four men sat, Martin[Pg 110] farthest from the door. Lanagan’s eyes were fairly snapping as he opened his pocketbook and spread it out upon the table. From it he extracted his little papers, each containing a piece or two of red hair. He laid each separate hair slowly, deliberately, before them all upon the table. Martin was watching the performance with eyes that glistened89 in the intensity90 of his interest. Equally absorbed were Leslie and Brady. Deliberately, precisely, Lanagan laid out the hairs—two from the brush of Mrs. Hemingway, one from the coat collar of Macondray, two from Martin’s cap, and the two short bits from the bracelet of Elvira.
Leslie had understood the pantomime the moment Lanagan opened his pocketbook and disclosed the collection of hair. He knew what it was now that he had overlooked; and, chagrined91 but alert, he watched each move that Lanagan made, for the solution had not yet come. Was it to be Martin? Leslie hoped professionally, for the sake of his reputation, that it would be.
“Martin,” said Lanagan, flashing the word out like a dirk might flash in the sun, “what did Mrs. Hemingway ever do to earn your loyalty—even to death?”
Martin paled, visibly, even beneath the sick light of the weak incandescent.
“She has been very good to me, sir. She took me out of the court’s custody and gave me a good home and a good salary. She made a man of me[Pg 111] when I might have become a jailbird. She has been a good mistress, sir.”
“Yes, a good mistress,” came through Lanagan’s teeth. “You’re loyal. The type of loyal retainer. You’re not the type that falls in love with the daughter of the house. You never loved Elvira; you never murdered Elvira; and you are concealing92 now the name of the murderer, telling a poor weak lie that could not have stood at the outside for twenty-four hours! Who killed Elvira?”
Lanagan had arisen and glowered93 above the ashen94 Martin. Leslie was leaning forward, his eyes, gimletlike, boring into Martin’s. Brady swung around, too, to face him, caught as well under the spell of fierce magnetism95 of the newspaper man.
“Tell me,” Lanagan snarled96, “who was in that automobile with you last night?”
Martin’s heavy lips dropped apart while he continued to stare affrightedly upon the newspaper man.
“The mother of that girl found you in Elvira’s room with her, making preparations for flight with whoever was in that machine!
“I will tell you,” continued Lanagan, hammering each word home; “I will tell you who killed Elvira Hemingway!” He leaned swiftly across the table, bending down and breathing a word into the ear of Martin. The effect was electrical.
“No! No! No—no—no! It was I, I tell you; I and no other! I shot her in my fit of madness!”
[Pg 112]He collapsed97 suddenly, his head sinking on his breast, still gasping98 huskily forth99 his protestations.
“Look here, then,” said Lanagan. He held Brady’s magnifying glass over the hair—over the two hairs from the bracelet and then over the other specimens100. The difference in the texture101 of the hair and a difference in colour were apparent under the microscope even in the ill-lighted room. That one of the three specimens was similar hair to that from the bracelet was apparent almost to the naked eye. Leslie’s face grew grave. Brady had absolute unbelief written in his eyes. Martin took one peering look furtively102.
“That hair,” said Lanagan, indicating, “came from Elvira Hemingway’s bracelet. It lodged103 there in her last struggle with whoever killed her. This is your hair, Martin; compare it. This is Macondray’s; compare it. This is from the mother’s head; compare it. A red-haired person killed Elvira. It was not you—it was not—”
But Martin had sunk his head into his arms on the table with a groan104. Lanagan waited; Leslie waited; Brady waited—experts all at the third degree. Mind was mauling matter—and mind was winning.
“It was not you,” continued Lanagan pitilessly as Martin lifted his haggard face with the look of pleading of an animal in his eyes. “It was not you—”
“But it was not she—not my mistress! It was[Pg 113] me! Me!” The last words were a shriek105; but the tax on his self-control had been too great. He fainted.
They threw water on Martin then and forced whiskey down his throat. He came to, staring in confusion from one face to the other.
“You have admitted the mother shot her own child,” said Lanagan rapidly, giving Martin no opportunity to recover his composure. “Now tell us the circumstances of this unnatural106 crime.”
Martin’s breakdown107 was complete.
Elvira Hemingway, practically forced into an engagement with Macondray largely through propinquity—he was her brother’s partner and a regular family guest—and through the wishes of her mother, inordinately108 ambitious socially to ally her daughter with the Macondrays, had finally jilted Macondray for a struggling young doctor, Stanton, a classmate at college. They were to have eloped, so greatly did the girl dread109 the scene that she knew would follow when her mother learned of her dismissal of Macondray. Martin, loyal, as he had said, to his mistress, but still more so to the daughter of the house, was party to the elopement. He had come to her room by prearrangement to help her out with a grip or two in order that no suspicion would attach should she be discovered in the room, on the porch, or crossing the lawn. The machine—the same that Macondray saw—was waiting at the pepper tree. But while Martin was in[Pg 114] the room the mother, on some slight errand, had unexpectedly gone to her daughter’s room.
There she found her daughter fully35 attired110, the French window wide open, and caught a flashing glimpse of a figure disappearing through the French window, that she recognised as Martin. At first flush she accepted the incident as an interrupted rendezvous62 of some sort between her daughter and her chauffeur, and one hot word of charge had brought a swift retort from the daughter, and a quarrel had arisen.
Martin, sneaking111 back to report progress in the room to Stanton, heard the rising voices in anger, and learned enough to know that the girl, under stress of her excitement, had revealed the plan for the elopement. He counselled with Stanton, and both agreed that Stanton had best retire and await developments, Martin to keep Stanton posted by telephone. In the grief and excitement of the final tragedy he did not do so, and the lover, worn by a sleepless112 night, received his great blow when he opened his morning paper. But this is not a tale of love or lovers, except insofar as they concern the solution of a crime, and Stanton therefore, with his blighted113 life, passes out of the story.
Martin, determined to intercede114 in hope of softening115 the lot of the daughter, taking all blame to himself as the messenger of the secret lovers, hurried then, back to the house.
Some primal116 strain of vulgarity, some poignant[Pg 115] pang117 of disappointed motherly ambitions, or possibly some pang of personal ambitions thwarted118, led to the utterance119 of one malediction120 sharper than all the others by the mother. In a moment of sudden hysteria the old-fashioned revolver that had been on her mantelpiece for years had been seized by the daughter in a wild threat of suicide.
The mother seized her wrist. A violent physical struggle for the weapon followed. This was occurring just as Martin was making his way back through the house to the room, taking along with him the maid, Marie, huddled121, frightened, against the hall wall at sound of the unseemly family quarrel.
There was a flash and a report in his very eyes as Martin opened the door. The revolver, he said, was unmistakably in the mother’s hands; but whether the discharge was accidental or intentional122 in heat of passion, Martin could not say.
And that angle of the story never was cleared up.
The mother had swooned. When it was clear to the frightened servants that the girl was dead, they had carried the mother to her room.
The plan of the two was quickly formed. In their clumsy way they concluded it would be best for all concerned if the revolver should be placed in the girl’s hand to indicate suicide. Martin placed it there, while Marie laboured with the hysterical mother, trying to instil123 in her mind, in which the entire terrible scene was a whirl,[Pg 116] the idea that Elvira had, in fact, committed suicide.
As for the confession124:
“I feel I was to blame in a way, sir,” concluded Martin, wiping his eyes. “After all I would have been a jailbird anyway if she hadn’t saved me, most like. I thought I could protect her, too, sir, by confessing. I supposed if I said I committed the murder that would settle it.”
Lanagan glanced at his watch. It was half-past one.
“There’s one more move yet, Chief,” he said, “and I go to press in thirty minutes.”
In a moment or two they had all reached the Hemingway home again, surprised to find it brilliantly lighted. Servants were running about frantically125. An excited voice was at the telephone as the quartet walked through the door. It was the butler.
“Hurry! Hurry!” he was crying. “Hemingway’s! Pacific Avenue! For God’s sake hurry!”
“What is it?” demanded Lanagan.
“Carbolic, I think,” replied the butler. “She escaped from the nurse and got to the bathroom. She had been raving126 for an hour entirely out of her head crying to Elvira to forgive her—that she—” he stopped suddenly, his lips coming together in a taut127 line. “Another loyal family retainer,” thought Lanagan as he and the chief exchanged[Pg 117] quick glances. “Only this one can keep his secret for all of me.”
They hurried to render first aid, but one look convinced the reporter and the policeman, used to deaths in violent form, that the troubled and frightfully burdened mother’s soul had gone to a higher court for judgment128.
Lanagan raced back downstairs for the telephone. It was five minutes to two. By the accident of being on the ground he would have at least that tremendous exclusive of the mother’s suicide.
And that—good story as it was—was all the Enquirer printed, for it was all that I finally got from Lanagan just before the clock struck two.
Leslie, standing129 by the telephone, said, tentatively and curiously130, when the receiver was hung up:
“What about the real story? Saving that for to-morrow?”
“No, Chief,” drawled Lanagan, full brother in the Fourth Estate. “No, Chief, that’s all the story. She’s dead, isn’t she? They have had about enough trouble, this family.”
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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enquirer
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| 寻问者，追究者 | |
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judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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8
hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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9
perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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10
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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12
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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13
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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14
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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15
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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16
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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17
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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18
grouch
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| n.牢骚，不满；v.抱怨 | |
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19
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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21
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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22
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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23
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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24
broker
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| n.中间人，经纪人；v.作为中间人来安排 | |
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25
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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26
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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27
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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28
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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29
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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30
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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31
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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32
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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33
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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34
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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35
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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36
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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37
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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38
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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39
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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40
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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41
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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42
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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43
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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44
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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45
limousine
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| n.豪华轿车 | |
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46
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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47
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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48
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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49
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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50
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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51
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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52
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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53
terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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54
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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55
automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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56
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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57
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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58
probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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59
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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60
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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61
rendezvousing
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| v.约会，会合( rendezvous的现在分词 ) | |
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62
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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63
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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64
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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65
hoarser
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| （指声音）粗哑的，嘶哑的( hoarse的比较级 ) | |
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66
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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67
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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68
microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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69
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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70
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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71
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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72
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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73
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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74
dissertation
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| n.（博士学位）论文，学术演讲，专题论文 | |
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75
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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76
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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77
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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78
tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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79
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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80
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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81
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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82
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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83
fad
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| n.时尚；一时流行的狂热；一时的爱好 | |
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84
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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85
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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86
vouching
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| n.（复核付款凭单等）核单v.保证( vouch的现在分词 )；担保；确定；确定地说 | |
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87
incandescent
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| adj.遇热发光的， 白炽的，感情强烈的 | |
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88
pallidly
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| adv.无光泽地，苍白无血色地 | |
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89
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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91
chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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93
glowered
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| v.怒视( glower的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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95
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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96
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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97
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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98
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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99
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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100
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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101
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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102
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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103
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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104
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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105
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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106
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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107
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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108
inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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109
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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110
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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112
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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113
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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114
intercede
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| vi.仲裁，说情 | |
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115
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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116
primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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117
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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118
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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119
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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120
malediction
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| n.诅咒 | |
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121
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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122
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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123
instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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124
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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125
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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126
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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127
taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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128
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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129
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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130
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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