“Nor to me,” returned Davenport, “but I cannot feel that I can help you in your deductions. Answering your questions, I say it would have been quite possible for Mr Gleason to have fired those two shots himself. You see the first one hit his left shoulder, leaving his right arm available to fire the second shot.”
“Why did he merely maim himself first?”
“Heavens, man! I don’t know. Missed aim, perhaps – or, just shooting for practice! Such questions make me mad! If you want any more medical statements, say so – if not, for goodness’ sake, let me go!”
“For goodness’ sake, let him go,” repeated Prescott, and Dr Davenport went.
“Some mess,” Prescott said, after the doctor’s angry footsteps tramped down the stairs.
CHAPTER III – The Lindsays
“You’re sure no one in this building knew Mr Gleason any better than you two did?” Prescott asked of the Mansfields, as he put them through a course of questioning.
“Oh, no,” Mrs Mansfield informed him, volubly, “and we didn’t know him much, but being on the same floor – there are only two apartments on each floor, we saw him once in a while, going in or out, and he would bow distantly, and mumble ‘good-morning,’ but that’s all.”
“You heard no noise from his apartment, during the last hour?”
“No; but I wasn’t noticing. It’s across the hall, you know, and the walls are thick in these old houses.”
“Was he going out, do you think?” asked Jim Mansfield, thoughtfully. “He always went out to dinner.”
“Probably he was, then. It’s evident he was dressing – he was in his shirtsleeves – his day shirt – and his evening clothes were laid out on the bed.”
“When did it happen?”
“As nearly as I can make out, he telephoned for the doctor about quarter before seven. He must have expired shortly after. As I figure it – oh, well, the medical examiner is in there now, and I don’t want to discuss the details until he gets through his examination. It’s an interesting case, but I’m only out for side evidence. What about Gleason’s visitors? Did he have many?”
“No,” offered Mrs Mansfield, “but he had some. I’ve heard – well, people go in there, and he was mighty glad to see them, judging by the gay laughter and chatter.”
“Oh – lady friends?”
Mrs Mansfield smiled, but her husband said quickly, “Shut up, Dottie! You talk too much! You’ll get us involved in this case, and make a lot of trouble. He had callers occasionally, Mr Prescott, but we never knew who they were and we’ve no call to remark on them.”
“Well, I give you the call. Don’t you see, man, your information may be vitally necessary – ”
Here Prescott was recalled to the Gleason apartment.
The medical examiner had concluded his task. He agreed with Doctor Davenport that the shots could have been fired by Gleason himself, though, but for the locked door, he should have thought them the acts of another person. The presence of powder stains proved that the shots were fired at close range, but not necessarily by the dead man himself.
Still, the door being locked on the inside, it looked like suicide.
“No,” Prescott disagreed, “that doesn’t cut any ice. You see, it’s a spring catch. It fastens itself when closed. If an intruder was here and went out again, closing that door behind him, it would have locked itself.”
“That’s right,” assented Gale. “So, it may be suicide or murder. But we’ll find out which. We’ve hardly begun to investigate yet. Now, we must let his sister know.”
“It’s pretty awful to spring it on her over the telephone,” demurred Prescott, as Gale started for the desk.
“Got to be done,” Inspector Gale declared, “I mean we’ve got to tell somebody who knew him. How about those men at the Club?”
“That’s better,” consented Prescott. “Just call the Camberwell Club, and get any one of those Davenport mentioned. But, I say, Gale, use the Mansfields’ telephone. I’m saving up this one for fingerprint work.”
“Oh, you and your fingerprint work!” Gale grumbled. “You attach too much importance to that, Prescott.”
“All right, but you let the telephone alone. And the revolver, too. Why, I wouldn’t have those touched for anything! I’ll get them photographed to-morrow. Shall I call the Club?”
“Yes,” grunted Gale, and Prescott went back to the opposite apartment.
“Sorry to trouble you people,” he said, with his winning smile, “but if you object, say so, and I’ll run out to a drug store.”
“None around here,” vouchsafed Mansfield, looking a little annoyed at the intrusion, however. “Isn’t there a telephone in the Gleason rooms?”
“Yes; but I don’t want to use that.” Prescott had already taken up the Mansfield receiver. “Please let me have this one,” and a bright smile at Dottie Mansfield made her his ally.
Getting the Club, Prescott asked for the names Davenport had supplied. Only one man was available, and Mr Harper was finally connected.
“What is it?” he asked, curtly.
“Mr Robert Gleason has been found dead in his home,” Prescott stated; “and as you’re said to be a friend of his, I’m asking you to inform his sister, or – ”
“Indeed I won’t! Why should I be asked to do such an unpleasant errand? I’ve merely a nodding acquaintance with Mr Gleason. Dead, you say? Apoplexy?”
“No; shot.”
“Good God! Murdered?”
“We don’t know. Murder or suicide. I’m Detective Prescott. I want you to tell his sister, or advise me how best to break the news to her. She’s Mrs Lindsay – ”
“Yes, yes – I know. Well, now, let me see. Dead! Why, the man was here this afternoon.”
“Yes; apparently he returned home safely, and while dressing for dinner, either shot himself or was shot by some one else.”
“Never shot himself in the world! Robert Gleason? No, never shot himself. Well, let me see – let me see. Suppose you call up some closer friend of his. Really, I knew him but slightly.”
“All right. Who was his nearest friend?”
“Humph – I don’t know. He wasn’t long on intimate friends!”
“Little liked?”
“I wouldn’t say that – but close friends, now – let me see; he was talking this afternoon with a bunch – Doctor Davenport, Phil Barry, Dean Monroe, Manning Pollard – oh, yes, Fred Lane. And maybe others. But I know I saw him in the group I’ve just mentioned. Call up Davenport.”
“Tell me the next best one to call.”
“Barry – but wait – they had a quarrel recently. Try Lane or Pollard.”
“Addresses?”
These were given and as soon as he could get connection, Prescott called Pollard.
But he was out, and Philip Barry was also.
“Can’t expect to get anybody at the dinner hour,” Prescott said, and looked at his watch. “After eight, already. One more throw, and then I make straight for the sister.”
Fred Lane proved available.
“No!” he exclaimed at the news Prescott told. “You don’t mean it! Why I was talking with him yesterday. And only to-night