“Nobody actively disliked him?”
“Nobody knew him well enough for that – unless – well, no, I may say none of us knew him.”
“Yet you hesitated,” the doctor looked at him keenly; “why did you?”
“A mere passing thought – better left unspoken.”
“All right, Mr Mansfield – perhaps you are wise. But, if asked to, you’d better speak your thought to the police.”
“Oh, sure. I’m a law-abiding citizen – I hope. Will they be here soon?”
“Nothing happens soon in matters like this. It’s delay, linger and wait on the part of everybody. I’m bothered – I’ve important affairs on hand – but here I must stick, till the arm of the law gets ready to strike.”
Davenport returned to Gleason’s apartment, where the stolid Chris kept guard.
“Well?” said the doctor, glancing at his man.
“Looks like a suicide to me, sir. Looks like he shot himself – there’s the revolver – I haven’t touched it. And then he fell over all in a heap.”
“It seems he telephoned after he shot – ”
“He did? How could he?”
“Look again at his position. Near the desk, on which the telephone sits. He might have shot, and then – ”
“Not that shot in his temple!”
“No; but there may be another. I haven’t looked carefully yet. Ah, yes – see, Chris, here’s another bullet hole, in his left shoulder. Say, he fired that shot, then, getting cold feet, called off the suicide idea and telephoned for me. Then, getting desperate again, fired a second shot through his temple, which, of course, did for him – oh, a fanciful tale, I know – but, you see, the detective work isn’t up to me. When the police come they’ll look after that and I can go.”
But the police, arriving, were very much interested in this theory of Doctor Davenport’s.
Prescott, an alert young detective, who came with the inspector especially interested the physician by his keen-witted and clearly put questions.
“Did you know this man?” he asked among his first queries.
“Yes,” returned Davenport, “but not well. I’ve never been here before. He’s Robert Gleason, a very rich man, from Seattle. Staying here this winter, in this apartment which belongs to McIlvaine, a friend of Gleason’s.”
“Where’s McIlvaine?”
“In California. Gleason took over the place, furnished and all, for the winter months.”
“Any relatives?”
“Yes”; Davenport hated to drag in the Lindsays, but it had to be done. “His sister, Mrs Lindsay, lives in upper Park Avenue.”
“Have you called her up?”
“No; I thought wiser to do nothing, until you people came. Also, I’m a very busy man, and outside my actual duty here, I can’t afford to spend much time.”
“I see. Then the sister is the only relative in New York?”
“I think so. There are two Lindsay children, but they’re not hers. She married a widower.”
“I see. And the address?”
Doctor Davenport gave it, and then started to go.
“Wait a minute, please,” urged Prescott. “Had the dead man any friends, that you know of?”
“Oh, yes. Many of them. He was put up at the Camberwell Club, by McIlvaine himself. And he had many friends among the members.”
“Names?”
Doctor Davenport thought quickly, and decided to give no names of the group that had been with Gleason that same afternoon.
He gave the names of three other Club members, and sending Chris down ahead, again endeavored to depart himself.
Again Prescott detained him.
“Sorry, Doc,” he said, pleasantly, “but you’re here now, and something tells me it’ll be hard to get hold of you again, once I lose you. Inspector Gale, here, is putting through the necessary red tape and all that, and he’ll see to notifying relatives and friends, and he’ll take charge of the premises – but – well, I’ve a hunch, this isn’t a suicide.”
“What, murder?” cried the doctor, his quick acceptance of the suggestion proving the thought had been in his own mind.
“Well, you never can tell. And I want to get all the sidelight on the case I can. Was Mr Gleason happy – and all that?”
“Yes; so far as I know. I tell you I was not an intimate – scarcely enough to be called a friend – merely an acquaintance.”
“I see. Had the man any enemies?”
The direct glance that accompanied these words discomfited Davenport a little.
“Why do you ask me that?” he said, shortly. “How should I know?”
“Oh, it’s a thing anybody might know – even a mere acquaintance. And your desperate hurry to get away makes me think you don’t take kindly to this catechism.”
“Rubbish! I’m a busy man – a doctor sometimes is. I’ve numerous and important engagements for the evening. Now, if that’s incriminating, make the most of it!”
“Fie, fie, don’t get peeved! Now, tell me once again, what the injured man said to your nurse and I’ll let you go.”
“I don’t know the exact words. I’ve not seen her. But he called my office, said he was shot, and for me to come right here and quickly. That’s all I know of the message. Now as to my report – it’s that the man received two shots – whether by his own hand or another’s. One, in his left shoulder – and another – the fatal one – through his temple, producing instant death. You can get me at any time – if necessary. But I don’t want to be hauled over here, or summoned to headquarters to repeat these facts. I’ll send a typed report, and I’ll do anything in reason – but I know how you detectives mull over things, and how your slow processes eat up time – which though it seems of little account to you, is mighty valuable to me.”
“Yes, sir – yes, sir. Now if you’ll speak to Inspector Gale a minute, you can go.”
Grunting an assent, Davenport waited for the Inspector to finish writing a bit of memorandum on which he was busily engaged.
The doctor was sitting in a big easy chair, and as he squirmed impatiently, he felt something soft beneath his heavy frame.
Feeling about the chair cushions, he found it was fur, and a fleeting thought that he had sat on a cat passed through his mind.
A second later he knew it was a fur strip, probably a neck piece, doubtless belonging to some woman.
Now, the doctor had a very soft place in his heart for the feminine sex in general, and his mind leaped to the idea of this fur, left there by some indiscreet girl visitor, and the possibility of its getting the doubtless innocent young lady into a moil of trouble.
Also, he had a dim, indistinct notion that he recognized the fur, at which he had stolen a furtive look.
At any rate, unseen by the Inspector or either of his two colleagues present, Davenport adroitly slipped the small fur collar into his capacious overcoat pocket, and sat, looking as innocent of duplicity as a canary-fed cat.
“Now, Doctor,” and Inspector Gale frowned importantly, “this may be a simple case of suicide, and again it may not. So, I want your opinion as to whether it is possible that both those shots were fired by Mr Gleason himself.”
“Quite