Part 11 (1/2)
The crowd was gathered in front of the entrance, talking excitedly, each asking the other what had happened. No one seemed to know precisely what the excitement was about, but that something extraordinary had occurred was plainly evident.
Britz and Greig plunged into the hallway and pushed the elevator b.u.t.ton, but the car did not descend. They waited impatiently a minute or two, then proceeded up the stairs.
On the third floor they found most of the tenants of the house ma.s.sed in front of the closed door of one of the rear apartments.
”We are officers,” said Britz, forcing a lane through the crowd. ”Who lives in there?”
”A woman named Strong,” someone answered.
Britz pressed a finger firmly against a b.u.t.ton set in the jamb of the door, and, in response to the insistent clamor of the bell, the door was opened by Muldoon. On seeing Britz he breathed a sigh of relief.
”Come on into the sitting-room,” he said, closing the door on the curious crowd that pressed forward.
At the threshold of the sitting-room, their forms framed in the wide, curtained doorway, the two detectives stood, amazement printed on their faces. Greig's heart was throbbing violently and his breath came in short gasps. Britz, as he gazed on the unexpected sight that met his eyes, stood as one stupefied.
On a couch at the side of the room, her pale face a chalky white, her eyes staring rigidly, a thin line of blood dropping from the corner of her mouth, the woman they had come to see was stretched--dead.
And, standing over her like a statue of dumb despair, was the figure of Horace Beard.
CHAPTER VII
Britz recovered gradually from his astonishment. Advancing to the couch he examined the lifeless form of the woman, noting that the shot which killed her had entered the mouth and probably penetrated to the base of the skull. A small pearl-handled revolver gleamed ominously from the floor, about seven or eight feet from the lounge. Britz picked it up, examined it, then deposited it on a convenient table.
As the detective moved about the apartment, his activity seemed to arouse the others from the half-stupefied state into which they had lapsed. Beard, who had remained standing as if petrified by the tragic turn of events, suddenly regained his faculties and gazed apprehensively at the officers.
With studied deliberation Britz disregarded his presence in the room and continued to busy himself with an examination of the contents of a small writing table that stood in an angle of the wall.
Evidently drawing courage from Britz's preoccupation and from the bewildered inactivity of the other officers, Beard bent forward until his hand touched the floor, and, after groping for an instant beneath the head of the couch, again drew himself to an erect posture.
”I'll take that paper!” Britz's voice broke the silence.
A tremor shook Beard's frame, while the blood drained from his face.
Then, a rebellious impulse against the detective's calm a.s.sertion of authority possessing him, he made a bold effort to destroy the paper he had picked off the floor.
But Britz was prepared to antic.i.p.ate the move. Leaping forward he seized the other's wrists in an iron grip that caused Beard to groan with pain.
”Greig, take the letter out of this man's hand!” called the detective.
It was not necessary, however, to employ further violence, for the secretary announced his willingness to relinquish the note. Evidently it had been written in a hurry, under stress of excitement, and was as follows:
”_My Dear Julia_:
”Don't permit your anger to tempt you into any rash act. There is no reconciliation. My wife's return is but a sham, designed to avoid a great deal of unpleasantness. Mr. Whitmore's death has not changed matters. Follow Mr. Beard's instructions and I shall carry out faithfully my promise to you.
”Yours in haste, GEORGE.”
Britz stowed the letter in his pocket, then summoned Muldoon.
”Now tell what happened,” he said.