Natalie Sumner Lincoln

“ MRS. PORTER GROWS INQUISITIVE A SILENCE followed, so heavy as to be felt, then Vera took the black-edged card and, reversing it, read the engraved name. A rush of memories obliterated the bleak countryside. In its place she saw a busy city street, a swaying figure, a cry for help, the later clang of the emergency ambulance—and the last agonizing parting from her beloved mother. She had been conscious of the aid rendered by the skilful hospital interne, but her mother had focused her attention to the exclusion of all else. ”

“ Reaching a crossroad Wyndham hesitated, then turning his car into the highway which skirted Thornedale, he continued along it until opposite the embankment where he had encountered Millicent Porter the night before and Beverly Thorne that morning. He stopped the car and, going over to the roadside, walked along it. The crushed and bedraggled condition of the creeping myrtle vines a little further on attracted his attention, and bending down he thrust his hand along until he touched the muzzle of the old cannon. ”

“ Thorne’s next words, however, brought her back to her surroundings with a jump. “Good heavens, Miss Deane!” he exclaimed as he caught a full view of her face and noted the dark shadows under her eyes and her hectic flush. “You must take care of yourself or you will be ill in bed.”
“All I need is sleep,” protested Vera, but Thorne shook his head in dissent.
“Consult your physician,” he advised, a trifle sternly. “With your training you should know better than to trifle with your health. You are on the point of a nervous breakdown.” ”

“ The newcomer was making his way down the hillside, and she watched him idly.
The man kept a zigzag course and she was unable to get a good look at his face as, with cap pulled down over his forehead and the collar of his Norfolk jacket turned up, he seemed intently scanning the ground, pausing now and then to watch a switch which he carried loosely before him in both hands. Suddenly he stopped and, facing in her direction looked up long and earnestly into the bare branches of a tall tree. Vera’s breath forsook her as she recognized Beverly Thorne. Had she conjured him to appear? ”

“ Mrs. Hall did not at once re-enter Millicent’s bedroom, but when she did her expression was not pleasant.
Wyndham was not noted for patience at any time, and when he strode into the dining-room his manner showed his frame of mind. He had a vanishing view of the butler, Selby, carrying a tray upstairs, but Murray’s non-appearance after he had repeatedly rung the bell added to his irritation. Jerking back his chair he pushed open the swing door.
“Murray!” he roared, and his voice carried through the pantry and into the kitchen beyond. ”

“ Frankly, I was prepossessed in Noyes’ favor this afternoon; he is a man evidently of deep feeling, and, judging by appearances, living under great strain.” Thorne spoke more slowly. “Noyes is not the type of man to commit cold-blooded murder.”
“Tut, doctor, murder is not confined to a type!” retorted Mitchell. “If it were we would have an easy time detecting criminals. And they don’t go around labeled ‘criminals’ in real life any more than they do in fiction. It’s generally the least suspected person who is guilty in everyday life, and the clues are to be found in the victim’s past.” ”

“ Dorothy turned like a flash.
“No, no, miss, the ’tec, Mitchell. I hear tell as how he’s the man in charge here; tall, light-haired, looks as if he didn’t belong anywhere, ’cause he’s so busy concealing he’s looking everywhere.”
“I know the man you mean.” Dorothy laid her hand on the swing door. “Miss Millicent and I watched him pacing up and down the carriage drive before breakfast, and saw him go toward Dr. Thorne’s house. Has he been here since? Oh!” She stepped back, startled, as a face appeared at the pantry window, and a second later a finger tapped gently on the pane. ”

“ As she spoke Dorothy opened her handbag and taking out her purse offered a Treasury bill to Wyndham. He waved it aside.
“Pay for the cards when they are finished,” he exclaimed.
“Please take it,” insisted Dorothy, closing her bag with a snap. “Vera objects to charge accounts.”
“If you wish me to.” Wyndham pocketed the money just as the limousine drew up at the curb, and throwing aside the lap-robe he jumped out and assisted Dorothy to the sidewalk before the chauffeur could leave his seat. “Are you coming with me to Brentano’s, Millicent?” ”

“ A policeman’s life is not a happy one—”
chanted a voice from the door, and, glancing up, Dorothy saw one of the reporters watching her. “Cheer up, Miss Deane,” he said, advancing farther into the room. “You haven’t been standing on the ‘sacred soil’ of Virginia for hours in a biting east wind, watching a front door for news. I’m frozen inside and out,” blowing on his hands as he spoke. “But, oh, it’s a big story—”
At the mention of Virginia, Dorothy had glanced at him eagerly, but the question burning her lips was checked by the telephone’s loud call. ”

“ Mitchell’s sense of humor was highly entertained by the tableau before him; for Thorne and Wyndham both looked heated and displeased in spite of their efforts to maintain an attitude of calm indifference. The detective could understand their quarreling, but why they sat by the roadside, resting lazily back against an embankment at some distance from each other, and each presenting the appearance of having used physical exertion, was beyond him.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, looking from one to the other.
“Smoking,” responded Wyndham; he did not relish the detective’s presence. ”

“ A low cry escaped Millicent, and her hands closed spasmodically over the pages torn from her ledger.
“Hugh!” she gasped. “Where—where have you been?”
“In town.” Wyndham stopped by the tray and, picking up the plate of sandwiches, handed it to Millicent. She shook her head. “No?” he queried; “then I’ll eat your share.” He poured out a cup of coffee and drank it clear, almost at a gulp. “That’s delicious,” he declared. “I had no idea I was so cold and hungry. Can’t I help you get up?” ”

“ Their branches touched the galleries and windows, and in summer their foliage shut out much light and sunshine, but Beverly Thorne scoffed at the idea of dampness and refused to cut down the trees, as his father had refused before him. The stars in their constellation were not more fixed than the customs which had obtained in the old Virginia home.
Beverly Thorne crossed the lawn and entered his house, and an anxious-faced negro butler, grown gray in service, came forward to meet him. ”

“ Wyndham was a poor hand at manufacturing small talk; he did not care to discuss with anyone whom Mrs. Porter disliked intensely the happenings of the week, yet Bruce Brainard’s murder and its attendant mystery were uppermost in his mind, and he could think of nothing else to speak about. Thorne, watching him closely, embarrassed him still further by remaining obstinately silent. They could not stand by the roadside contemplating each other for the remainder of the morning, but Wyndham [272] was determined not to leave until Thorne did.
“Suppose we sit down,” suggested Thorne finally. ”

“ Her features looked pinched and worn in the ruddy glow from the burning paper. She faltered as her busy fingers came at last to a handful of twisted [179] papers, and it took her some moments to smooth out the torn sheets and place each separately on the red-hot embers. The last sheet followed its predecessor before the first had been quite consumed, and Mrs. Porter shuddered as the sheet, like some tortured body, twisted about, then stiffened, and the words it bore showed in bold relief:
Tuesday morning—Saw Alan. ”

“ My so-called ‘disappearance’ was but a coincidence,” said Noyes finally, and he looked at Thorne. “I understand you are a surgeon.”
“I am.”
“Then you must be aware that cutting a man’s throat is a difficult operation.” Noyes spoke slowly, impressively. “According to the newspaper accounts which I read, Brainard’s throat was cut from right to left, and that he was found lying on the right side of the bed; therefore, if such was the case, the wound must have been inflicted by a right-handed man.”
“Do you mean to claim as your defense that you are left-handed?” demanded Mitchell. ”

“ Noyes, besides his professional ability, is a man of high character and proven courage. He would not stoop to murder,” declared Mrs. Porter hotly. “Besides, there is no possible motive for his killing Bruce Brainard—they never even met before Monday night.” Mitchell remained discreetly silent, and, after watching him in growing resentment, Mrs. Porter announced vehemently: “Mr. Brainard committed suicide. In ascribing his death to murder, the police err.” ”

“ The Porter limousine had driven off but a scant five minutes when Inspector North entered the Tribune building and went direct to the managing editor’s office, only to be told that he would not be there until after dinner. The inspector was making for the society editor’s office when he spied the city editor emerging from it.
“Hello, Harding,” he hailed. “Miss Deane in?”
“No, just gone.” Harding kicked a chair out of his way as a slight vent to his feelings. “Anything I can do for you, Inspector?”
“Yes. Tell me, is Miss Dorothy Deane in mourning?” ”

“ Mitchell rose and stepped into the center of the bedroom and pointed to the transom. It was an oblong opening in the thick wall, forming the top, apparently, of what had formerly been a door jamb; the communicating doorway, judging from appearances, having been bricked up years before. The glass partition of the transom, secured at the bottom to the woodwork by hinges, hung down into the bedroom occupied by Craig Porter from chains fastened to the upper woodwork of the transom, and was barely visible from where Vera and Thorne stood in Brainard’s bedroom. ”

“ How could the household remain asleep with that ghastly tragedy so close at hand? He shuddered and turned half appealingly to Vera. “What’s to be done?”
“The coroner—”
“To be sure, the coroner”—Wyndham snatched at the suggestion. “Do you know his name?” ”

“ The more certain he is that he suffers from a mortal disease, the more enjoyment he gets out of life. Just ask him now and then, ‘Murray, how are you feeling?’ and he will be your slave.”
Mrs. Porter had promptly followed the advice, and whenever she found the footman looking preternaturally solemn had cheered [83] him immensely by inquiring for his health. Both Nurse Hall and Vera Deane had quickly discovered his hobby, and the younger nurse had advanced in his esteem by listening patiently to descriptions of every new symptom his fancy conjured up. ”

“ Noyes been in attendance upon your son?” asked Black.
“He accompanied Craig home from the hospital in France.” Real feeling betrayed itself in Mrs. Porter’s metallic tones. “My [42] son owes his life to his skill and his untiring attention. We shall miss him now that he has returned to England.”
“Ah, then you think Dr. Noyes is on his way back to the front again?” Black was watching her closely as he toyed with his pencil.
“Certainly. Where else would he go?” glancing disdainfully at him. “No Englishman nowadays lingers behind when his leave of absence is over.” ”

“ Mrs. Hall, who had drawn back as Mitchell approached Vera, was roughly pushed aside as Hugh Wyndham, making no attempt to conceal his anger, stepped in front of the detective.
“What’s going on here? What foolery are [339] you up to, Mitchell?” he demanded. “Vera, there’s no law which compels you to answer this man’s questions.”
A clamor in the hall, which grew louder as footsteps approached, drowned Vera’s answer, and Millicent Porter, clutching Murray’s coat sleeve, burst into the room with the footman. ”

“ The detective moved closer. “Your theory is good, but it doesn’t hold water,” he declared. “You recognized Bruce Brainard as your sister’s husband; you knew of his despicable conduct to your sister; you had just heard that he considered himself engaged to Miss Millicent Porter, in spite of the fact that the law courts would hold him legally married to your sister.” Vera stirred uneasily. “You had Bruce Brainard here at your mercy—and Mrs. Hall saw you, nearly two hours before you admitted discovering the murder, removing bloodstains from your dress. ”

“ The detective chuckled grimly. “In moments of stress or excitement men give themselves away. Did you observe Noyes’ expression when Miss Porter fainted? You did; then there’s the answer to your question.”
“You mean—” Thorne tossed away his cigar stub. “You mean Noyes is in love with Millicent Porter?”
“I do,” emphatically. “There’s your motive, doctor—jealousy. Now, consider all the facts,” catching sight of Thorne’s dubious expression. “Miss Porter’s engagement to Brainard was to be announced on Tuesday, but it leaked out at the dinner Monday night. ”

“ I declare, Vera, you are downright provoking, not to say morbid,” protested Dorothy. “It’s the result of never getting away from the atmosphere of the sick room. I don’t see how you stand it; the mere sight of suffering drives me wild, and to think of poor Craig Porter, whom I used to dance with, lying there inert—I just could not go to his room today when Mrs. Porter asked me to do so,” she wound up. “His changed [162] appearance would break me down completely. How can you watch him night after night?” ”

“ Lawrence Porter, between the hours of two and five in the morning of January 8th, from the severing of the carotid artery in his throat, and from the nature of the wound and other evidence produced here we find that he was foully murdered by a party or parties unknown.”
“By a party unknown,” Vera murmured, dashing her pencil through the words she had scrawled on her pad. “But how long will the ‘party’ remain ‘unknown’— Merciful God! If there was only someone I could turn to!” and she wrung her hands as she gazed despairingly at the desk calendar. ”