Part 7 (1/2)
”Lieutenant,” he said disparagingly, ”you don't attribute this crime to the work of spirits, do you?”
”No,” laughed Britz. ”Spirits don't murder people outside of story books. No ghostly significance attaches to the murder of Mr. Whitmore.”
”Well, what is your theory?” demanded the coroner.
”I haven't any--as yet. I shall wait until I'm in possession of more facts before formulating one. Of this I am certain, however. Mr.
Whitmore came down here to-day expecting to meet death. In fact, he had prepared himself for it by destroying or secreting all his personal papers. More than that I am not prepared to say at present.”
”Is there anything further that I can do?”
”Nothing, coroner, beyond ordering an immediate autopsy.”
”Very well,” replied the coroner, preparing to go. He was about to step out of the room when his footsteps were halted by an approaching figure that tore down the aisle as if under the stress of great excitement. The figure did not pause at the door but brushed past the official, halting abruptly before the body of the slain man.
”Dead!” he moaned, and the single word conveyed to his hearers the darting agony which rent him. For a long moment the newcomer stood, bowed with unutterable grief, holding the hand of the dead man, as if he would joyfully impart to those lifeless fingers, the largest measure of his own vitality. Reluctantly he relinquished the limp hand, and the effort cost him a pang.
As he turned from the rigid features staring vacantly up at him, he was sobbing inwardly. His handsome face was contorted as if in physical pain, his head drooped as if his shoulders had suddenly grown too weak to bear its weight.
”Who are you, sir?” the coroner's voice broke the stillness.
The wave of sorrow which swept over the man seemed to deprive him of the faculty of speech. He looked about him in a bewildered way, as if unable to comprehend the presence of the others.
[Ill.u.s.tration: He looked about him in a bewildered way]
”You knew Mr. Whitmore?” the coroner inquired mildly.
”Yes, I was his confidential secretary,” the answer came in weak tones.
The coroner and the two detectives exchanged significant glances.
”Then you are Mr. Beard?” the former inquired.
”Yes.”
”Can you throw any light on the murder--have you any idea as to who could have done it?”
As the weighty import of the query slowly dawned on Beard's consciousness, his face contracted until it took on the expression of one whose mental vision is gradually clearing; before whose dazed mind certain images are again taking compact shape, revealing themselves out of the surrounding darkness, sharply cut like figures illumined by the long-stretching rays of a powerful searchlight.
Britz noted the changing expression of the man's face with lynxlike eagerness. There was something touching, pathetic, in the utter desolation which the secretary felt at his employer's death. Then, suddenly, a burning anger seemed to succeed all other emotions, and, in an outburst of tempestuous fury, he exclaimed:
”Collins--George Collins--d.a.m.n him--d.a.m.n that scoundrel! He did it--there was no one else! Officers, arrest Collins--you know who he is.
He threatened to kill Mr. Whitmore, came down here every day for a month to do it. I'll send that cur to the electric chair--why should I s.h.i.+eld him?”
”Precisely,” agreed the coroner. ”Now, calm yourself and tell us all about Collins.”
Beard had been carried away by the storm of resentment that had swept his mind. He had uttered a direct accusation, something which it was farthest from his purpose to do. Caution had been his life-long habit.
It had deserted him for the instant, but only for the instant. The next moment it had returned, to abide with him throughout the rest of the examination.
”This Mr. Collins--can you explain how he got in here without being observed by the clerks?” asked the coroner.