“What kind of death?” was the harsh reply. “We don’t send detectives in cases of heart-failure or simple accident. Is it an accident?”
“No — no — hardly. It looks more like an insane woman’s attack upon a harmless stranger. It’s the oddest sort of an affair, and we feel very helpless. No common officer will do. We have one of that kind in the building. What we want is a man of brains; he will need them.”
A muffled1 sound at the other end — then a different voice asking some half-dozen comprehensive questions — which, having been answered to the best of the Curator’s ability, were followed by the welcome assurance that a man on whose experience he could rely would be at the museum doors within five minutes.
With an air of relief Mr. Jewett stepped again into the court, and repelling2 with hasty gestures the importunities of the small group of men and women who had lacked the courage to follow the more adventurous3 ones upstairs, crossed to where the door-man stood on guard over the main entrance.
“Locked?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Such were the orders. Didn’t you give them?”
“No, but I should have done so, had I known. No one’s to go out, and no one’s to come in but the detective whom I am expecting any moment.”
They had not long to wait. Before their suspense4 had reached fever-point, a tap was heard on the great door. It was opened, and a young man stepped in.
“Coast clear?” he sang out with a humorous twist of his jaw5 as he noted6 the Curator’s evident chagrin7 at his meager8 and unsatisfactory appearance. “Oh, I’m not your man,” he added as his eye ran over the whole place with a look which seemed to take in every detail in an instant. “Mr. Gryce is in the automobile9. Wait till I help him up.”
He was gone before the Curator could utter a word, only to reappear in a few minutes with a man in his wake whom the former at first blush thought to be as much past the age where experience makes for efficiency as the other seemed to be short of it.
But this impression, if impression it were, was of short duration. No sooner had this physically10 weak but extremely wise old man entered upon the scene than his mental power became evident to every person there. Timorous11 hearts regained12 their composure, and the Curator — who in his ten years of service had never felt the burden of his position so acutely as in the last ten minutes — showed his relief by a volubility quite unnatural13 to him under ordinary conditions. As he conducted the detectives across the court, he talked not of the victim, as might reasonably be expected, but of the woman who had been found leaning over her with her hand on the arrow.
“We think her some escaped lunatic,” he remarked. “Only a demented woman would act as she does. First she denied all knowledge of the girl. Then when she was made to see that the arrow sticking in the girl’s breast had been taken from a quiver hanging within arm’s reach on the wall and used as lances are used, she fell a-moaning and crying, and began to whisper in the poor child’s senseless ear.”
“A common woman? One of a low-down type?”
“Not at all. A lady, and an impressive one, at that. You seldom see her equal. That’s what has upset us so. The crime and the criminal do not seem to fit.”
The detective blinked. Then suddenly he seemed to grow an inch taller.
“Where is she now?” he asked.
“In Room B, away from the crowd. She is not alone. A young lady detained with the rest of the people here is keeping her company, to say nothing of an officer we have put on guard.”
“And the victim?”
“Lies where she fell, in Section II on the upper floor. There was no call to move her. She was dead when we came upon the scene. She does not look to be more than sixteen years old.”
“Let’s go up. But wait — can we see that section from here?”
They were standing14 at the foot of the great staircase connecting the two floors. Above them, stretching away on either side, ran the two famous, highly ornamented15 galleries, with their row of long, low arches indicating the five compartments16 into which they were severally divided. Pointing to the second one on the southern side, the Curator replied:
“That’s it — the one where you see the Apache relics17 hanging high on the rear wall. We shall have to shift those to some other place just as soon as we can recover from this horror. I don’t want the finest spot in the whole museum made a Mecca for the morbid18 and the curious.”
The remark fell upon unheeding ears. Detective Gryce was looking, not in the direction named, but in the one directly opposite to it.
“I see,” he quietly observed, “that there is a clear view across. Was there no one in the right-hand gallery to see what went on in the left?”
“Not that I have heard of. It’s the dullest hour of the day, and not only this gallery but many of the rooms were entirely19 empty.”
“I see. And now, what about the persons who were here? How many of them have you let go?”
“Not one; the doors have been opened twice only — once to admit the officer you will find on guard, and the other to let in yourself.”
“Good! And how many have you here, all told?”
“I have not had time to count them, but I should say less than thirty. This includes myself, as well as two attendants.”
With a thoughtful air Mr. Gryce turned in the direction of the few persons he could see huddled20 together around one of the central statues.
“Where are the others?” he asked.
“Upstairs — in and about the place where the poor child lies.”
“They must be got out of there. Sweetwater!”
The young man who had entered with him was at his side in an instant.
“Clear the galleries. Then take down the name and address of every person in the building.”
“Yes, sir.”
Before the last word had left his lips, the busy fellow was halfway21 up the marble steps. “Lightning,” some of his pals22 called him, perhaps because he was as noiseless as he was quick. Meanwhile the senior detective had drawn23 the Curator to one side.
“We’ll take a look at these people as they come down. I have been said to be able to spot a witness with my eyes shut. Let’s see what I can do with my eyes open.”
“Young and old, rich and poor,” murmured the Curator as some dozen persons appeared at the top of the staircase.
“Yes,” sighed the detective, noting each one carefully as he or she filed down, “we sha’n’t make much out of this experiment. Not one of them avoids our looks. Emotion enough, but not of the right sort. Well, we’ll leave them to Sweetwater. Our business is above.”
The Curator offered his arm. The old man made a move to take it — then drew himself up with an air of quiet confidence.
“Many thanks,” said he, “but I can go alone. Rheumatism24 is my trouble, but these mild days loosen its grip upon my poor old muscles.” He did not say that the prospect25 of an interesting inquiry26 had much the same effect, but the Curator suspected it, possibly because he was feeling just a little bit spry himself.
Steeled as such experienced officers necessarily are to death in all its phases, it was with no common emotion that the aged27 detective entered the presence of the dead girl and took his first look at this latest victim of mental or moral aberration28. So young! so innocent! so fair! A schoolgirl, or little more, of a class certainly above the average, whether judged from the contour of her features or the niceties of her dress. With no evidences of great wealth about her, there was yet something in the cut of her garments and the careful attention to each detail which bespoke29 not only natural but cultivated taste. On her breast just above the spot where the cruel dart30 had entered, a fresh and blooming nosegay still exhaled31 its perfume — a tragic32 detail accentuating33 the pathos34 of a death so sudden that the joy with which she had pinned on this simple adornment35 seemed to linger about her yet.
The detective, with no words for this touching36 spectacle, stretched out his hand and with a reverent37 and fatherly touch pressed down the lids over the unseeing eyes. This office done to the innocent dead, he asked if anything had been found to establish the young girl’s identity.
“Surely,” he observed, “she was not without a purse or handbag. All young ladies carry them.”
For answer the officer on guard thrust his hand into one of his capacious pockets, and drawing out a neat little bag of knitted beads38, passed it over to the detective with the laconic39 remark:
“Nothing doing.”
And so it proved. It held only a pocket handkerchief — embroidered40 but without a monogram41 — and a memorandum-book without an entry.
“A blind alley42, if ever there was one,” muttered Mr. Gryce; and ordering the policeman to replace the bag as nearly as possible on the spot from which it had been taken, he proceeded with the Curator to Room B.
Prepared to encounter a woman of disordered mind, the appearance presented by Mrs. Taylor at his entrance greatly astonished Mr. Gryce. There was a calmness in her attitude which one would scarcely expect to see in a woman whom mania43 had just driven into crime. Surely lunacy does not show such self-restraint; nor does lunacy awaken44 any such feelings of awe45 as followed a prolonged scrutiny46 of her set but determined47 features. Only grief of the most intense and sacred character could account for the aspect she presented, and as the man to whom the tragedies of life were of daily occurrence took in this mystery with all its incongruities48, he realized, not without a sense of professional pleasure, no doubt, that he had before him an affair calling for the old-time judgment49 which, for forty or more years, had made his record famous in the police annals of the metropolis50.
She was seated with no one near her but a young lady whom sympathetic interest had drawn to her side. Mr. Roberts stood in one of the windows, and not far from him a man in the museum uniform.
At the authoritative51 advance of the old detective, the woman, whose eye he had caught, attempted to struggle to her feet, but desisted after a moment of hopeless effort, and sank back in her chair. There was no pretense52 in this. Though gifted with a strong frame, emotion had so weakened her that she was simply unable to stand. Quite convinced of this, and affected53 in spite of himself by her look of lofty patience, Mr. Gryce prefaced his questions with an apology — quite an unusual proceeding54 for him.
Whether or no she heard it, he could not tell; but she was quite ready to answer when he asked her name and then her place of residence — saying in response to the latter query55:
“I live at the Calderon, a family hotel in Sixty-seventh Street. My name”— here she paused for a second to moisten her lips —“is Taylor — Ermentrude Taylor. . . . Nothing else,” she speedily added in a tone which drew every eye her way. Then more evenly: “You will find the name on the hotel’s books.”
“Wife or widow?”
“Widow.”
What a voice! how it reached every heart, waking strange sympathies there! As the word fell, not a person in the room but stirred uneasily. Even she herself started at its sound; and moved, perhaps, by the depth of silence which followed, she added in suppressed tones:
“A widow within the hour. That’s why you see me still in colors, but crushed as you behold56 — killed! killed!”
That settled it. There was no mistaking her condition after an expression of this kind. The Curator and Mr. Gryce exchanged glances, and Mr. Roberts, stepping from his corner, betrayed the effect which her words had produced on him, by whispering in the detective’s ear:
“What you need is an alienist.”
Had she heard? It would seem so from the quick way she roused and exclaimed with indignant emphasis:
“You do not understand me! I see that I must drink my bitter cup to the dregs. This is what I mean: My husband was living this morning — living up to the hour when the clock in this building struck twelve. I knew it from the joyous57 hopes with which my breast was filled. But with the stroke of noon the blow fell. I was bending above the poor child who had fallen so suddenly at my feet, when the vision came, and I saw him gazing at me from a distance so remote — across a desert so immeasurable — that nothing but death could create such a removal or make of him the ghastly silhouette58 I saw. He is dead. At that moment I felt his soul pass; and so I say that I am a widow.”
Ravings? No, the calm certainty of her tone, the grief, touching depths so profound it had no need of words, showed the confidence she felt in the warning she believed herself to have received. Though probably not a single person present put any faith in occultism in any of its forms, there was a general movement of sympathy which led Mr. Gryce to pass the matter by without any attempt at controversy59, and return to the question in hand. With a decided60 modification61 of manner, he therefore asked her to relate how she came to be kneeling over the injured girl with her hand upon the arrow.
“Let me have a moment in which to recover myself,” she prayed, covering her eyes with her hand. Then, while all waited, she gave a low cry, “I suffer; I suffer!” and leaped to her feet, only to sink back again inert62 and powerless. But only for an instant: with that one burst of extreme feeling she recovered her self-control, answering with apparent calmness the detective’s question:
“I was passing through the gallery as any other visitor might, when a young lady rushed by me — stopped short — threw up her arms and fell backward to the floor, pierced to the heart by an arrow. In a moment I was on my knees at her side with hand outstretched to withdraw this dreadful arrow. But I was afraid — I had heard that this sometimes causes death, and while I was hesitating, that vision came, engulfing63 everything. I could think of nothing else.”
She was near collapsing64 again; but being a woman of great nerve, she fought her weakness and waited patiently for the next question. It was different, without doubt, from any she had expected.
“Then you positively65 deny any active connection with the strange death of this young girl?”
A pause, as if to take in what he meant. Then slowly, impressively, came the answer:
“I do.”
“Did you see the person who shot the arrow?”
“No.”
“From what direction would it have had to come to strike her as it did?”
“From the opposite balcony.”
“Did you see anyone there?”
“No.”
“But you heard the arrow?”
“Heard?”
“An arrow shot from a bow makes a whizzing sound as it flies. Didn’t you hear that?”
“I don’t know.” She looked troubled and uncertain. “I don’t remember. I was expecting no such thing — I was not prepared. The sight of an arrow — a killing66 arrow — in that innocent breast overcame me with inexpressible grief and horror. If the vision of my husband had not followed, I might remember more. As it is, I have told all I can. Won’t you excuse me? I should like to go. I am not fit to remain. I want to return home — to hear from my husband — to learn by letter or telegram whether he is indeed dead.”
Mr. Gryce had let her finish. An inquiry so unofficial might easily await the moods of such a witness. Not till the last word had been followed by what some there afterward67 called a hungry silence, did he make use of his prerogative68 to say:
“I shall be pleased to release you and will do so just as soon as I can. But I must put one or two more questions. Were you interested in the Indian relics you had come among? Did you handle any of them in passing?”
“No. I had no interest. I like glass, bronzes, china — I hate weapons. I shall hate them eternally after this.” And she began to shudder69.
The detective, with a quick bend of his head, approached her ear with the whispered remark:
“I am told that when your attention was drawn to these weapons, you fell on your knees and murmured something into the dead girl’s ears. How do you explain that?”
“I was giving her messages to my husband. I felt — strange as it may seem to you — that they had fled the earth together — and I wanted him to know that I would be constant, and other foolish things you will not wish me to repeat here. Is that all you wish to know?”
Mr. Gryce bowed, and cast a quizzical glance in the direction of the Curator. Certainly for oddity this case transcended70 any he had had in years. With this woman eliminated from the situation, what explanation was there of the curious death he was there to investigate? As he was meditating71 how he could best convey to her the necessity of detaining her further, he heard a muttered exclamation72 from the young woman standing near her, and following the direction of her pointing finger, saw that the strange silence which had fallen upon the room had a cause. Mrs. Taylor had fainted away in her chair.
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1
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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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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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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17
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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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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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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22
pals
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| n.朋友( pal的名词复数 )；老兄；小子；（对男子的不友好的称呼）家伙 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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aberration
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| n.离开正路，脱离常规，色差 | |
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bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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accentuating
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| v.重读( accentuate的现在分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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35
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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36
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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38
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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39
laconic
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| adj.简洁的；精练的 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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41
monogram
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| n.字母组合 | |
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42
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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43
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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44
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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45
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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46
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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47
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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incongruities
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| n.不协调( incongruity的名词复数 )；不一致；不适合；不协调的东西 | |
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49
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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50
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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51
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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52
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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53
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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54
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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55
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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56
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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57
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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58
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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59
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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60
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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61
modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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62
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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63
engulfing
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| adj.吞噬的v.吞没，包住( engulf的现在分词 ) | |
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64
collapsing
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| 压扁[平]，毁坏，断裂 | |
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65
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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66
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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67
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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68
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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69
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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70
transcended
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的过去式和过去分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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71
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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72
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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