The Ghost Of The Manor

CHAPTER XVI THE POLICE THEORY

THE uniformed policemen were not the only persons who had entered Delthern Manor to find the dead bodies in the upstairs study. With them were three or four neighbors whom Marcia Wardrop had called when she first left the house.

These men had crowded up the stairs after the officers; now they were down in the living room, consoling Marcia, while they awaited the arrival of police officials.

A siren sounded in the side drive. A man went to the door and admitted two chunky, square-shouldered arrivals. One was Sidney Gorson, the Newbury police chief. The other was his star detective, Harold Terwiliger.

Gorson asked a few brisk questions. Learning that none of the persons present knew anything about the crime, he motioned to Terwiliger, and the two ascended the stairs. They entered the room where the bodies lay. Noting two officers here, and none below, Gorson dispatched one of the policemen to the living room.

The police chief and his detective made a careful examination of the bodies. Gorson, square-faced and sober of demeanor, turned to Terwiliger and observed the solemn, methodical expression which the detective wore.

“What do you make of it?” questioned the chief.

“Plain enough,” returned Terwiliger. He turned and pointed to the door. “Somebody sneaked in here and stabbed Humphrey Delthern. Look at that knife. Driven in hard and fast.”

“Then what?”

“I’ve given you the answer. He couldn’t get the knife out quickly. The servant must have heard him sneaking up the stairs. He bobbed in, and the killer shot him.”

“Sounds logical,” agreed Gorson. “You get at things quick, Terwiliger. Odd thing, I took it — one killed with a knife; the other with a bullet.”

“Well,” said the detective, “I’ve explained it. The murderer used a knife because it wouldn’t make a noise. The servant wasn’t expected. So he had to shoot him, and make a quick get-away. He didn’t figure he’d need two knives; but he probably had the gun for emergencies.”

The detective picked up the revolver from the floor, examined it carefully, and replaced it.

“I’ll tell you more,” he declared. “Look at the positions of the bodies. I’ll show you just what happened. First, the murderer came in through the door.”

By way of description, Terwiliger strode to the door and assumed a crouching position, with one hand tucked under his coat, as though holding a concealed weapon.

“Delthern was sitting at the desk,” stated the detective. “See how he pushed back the chair? The criminal wanted to catch him unaware; but he wasn’t quick enough. He got across the room in time, though, to stab Humphrey Delthern. But he may have made some noise doing it. Maybe Delthern managed to give a cry. Anyway, the murderer stepped back.”

TERWILIGER, after having advanced across the room, withdrew with a dramatic gesture, and glared at Humphrey’s body. He was giving his impression of a murderer viewing his handiwork.

“Then,” continued the detective, “the killer suddenly heard a noise behind him. He turned” — Terwiliger paused to illustrate the action — “and found the servant leaping upon him.”

Gorson nodded admiringly. He had a high opinion of Terwiliger’s skill at crime detection.

“The killer had buried the knife,” went on Terwiliger. “There it was, in Delthern’s body. He had no weapon when he met the servant; but he backed away to pull out his revolver. The man jumped upon him; the killer broke loose and fired.”

Terwiliger’s final imitation was an attempt to reproduce a struggle between two men which finally brought the detective panting, against the wall, staring down at Wellington’s inert form.

“He must have lost the revolver after the first shot,” decided Terwiliger. “Maybe the servant was fighting him right to the end. But he thought just one thing” — the detective tapped his forehead to indicate the murderer’s inspiration — “that was that someone else might be coming. He had to get out — in a hurry, too. He didn’t want to be seen running with a gun. That’s why he didn’t stop.”

His oration finished, Terwiliger resumed his natural pose. He became taciturn and wise of expression, displaying the confident manner of a man who is convinced of his own opinions.

Police Chief Gorson slowly turned over everything that the detective had said. Deliberate and methodical, he rubbed his heavy jaw as though seeking loopholes in Terwiliger’s theory, and finding none. At last, he put forth an important question.

“What was the motive?”

A knowing smile appeared upon Terwiliger’s face. The detective swung his arm about the room in an attempt to include the entire building in a single gesture.

“Burglary,” he asserted. “The best bet in Newbury. A man living here who is the heir to millions. One servant in the house. Everyone in town knows that. Some smart crook came in here for a big haul. He didn’t get it.”

Terwiliger’s tone was convincing. Sidney Gorson again nodded in agreement. Nevertheless, the police chief felt that the star detective could do even greater work by quizzing the persons below. He ordered the policeman to keep charge; then motioned Terwiliger to follow him. The pair descended to the living room.

MARCIA WARDROP and the neighbors were gathered in a cluster with the policeman standing beside them. Police Chief Gorson went directly to the girl.

“You were the first person in here?” he questioned.

“Yes,” admitted Marcia.

“Talk to the lady, Terwiliger,” ordered Gorson.

“Tell me what happened, Miss Wardrop,” said the detective.

“It began when I was coming home,” began Marcia, in a wistful, hesitating tone. “That is, it began — began when our car stopped just past the driveway.”

The girl’s words indicated that she had thought of some event previous to the actual arrival. Terwiliger, however, missed that point.

“Whose car?” he asked.

“Dorothy Garland’s car,” returned Marcia, “She was taking Harriet Saylor and myself home from a bridge club. They were in the front seat; I was in back. Dorothy went by the driveway before I stopped her. So I stepped out and came up to the side door.”

“Then what?”

“I unlocked the side door with my key. I came in, but I didn’t see Wellington.”

“The servant?”

“Yes. He always used to reach the door just about the time I came in. I walked through the living room, and called him. There was no answer. Somehow — something” — the girl hesitated, then resumed — “something made me worried. I called Wellington from the foot of the stairs. There was still no answer. I was afraid. I ran out to tell the neighbors.

“They didn’t want to enter unless they were sure something was wrong. Mr. Townley called the police station, and the two officers came. They were the ones who went upstairs.”

Terwiliger turned to Townley. The neighbor corroborated the girl’s story so far as it concerned him. The detective again questioned Marcia.

“You are sure you saw nothing? Here in the house, I mean — or in the driveway?”

“Nothing at all,” declared the girl, in a firm tone.

Terwiliger began to talk with the men who were present. His indication that he had no further questions for Marcia gave the girl sudden courage. She turned to Police Chief Gorson.

“Would it be all right,” she asked, “for me to call Mr. Horatio Farman? He is our lawyer, you know.”

“Certainly,” responded Gorson. “It would be a good idea to have him come here.”

MARCIA left the living room, remarking that the telephone was in the central hallway. She reached a closet near the foot of the stairs. There, out of earshot, she picked up the telephone and gave a number in a low, steady voice.

Her tones became a whisper as she heard the response that she had expected. While she spoke, she kept a furtive eye upon the distant living room.

“This is Marcia… Yes… At home… Something terrible… Humphrey has been killed — and Wellington… I have been questioned, but there was something I didn’t tell… Listen… Coming up the avenue, we passed a taxi that was going in the opposite direction… Yes, on the avenue… Warren Barringer was in it… I was sure he had been here… Yes… Yes… I understand… Say nothing… Yes, I promise.”

The girl paused; then, quickly, she added:

“Someone is coming. I’ll call later.”

Marcia clicked the hook with her thumb just as Chief Gorson appeared from the living room. The man saw the girl at the telephone.

“Haven’t you gotten Farman yet?” he queried.

“I’m still trying the number,” returned Marcia. “Operator — operator, please—”

The response came, and Marcia gave the number, repeating it in an annoyed tone. Chief Gorson stood by, watching.

“This is Marcia,” said the girl. “I–I’ve been trying to get you, Mr. Farman… Yes, I am at home… Humphrey Delthern has been killed. Mr. Farman… Yes, the police are here… No… Wellington was killed also… You will come at once?”

The girl hung up the receiver and nodded to the police chief. She managed to smile as though she had heard good news.

“Mr. Farman is coming right away,” the girl announced. “He can tell you anything that is important.”

“Nothing is important but the name of the murderer,” returned Gorson grimly.

TWENTY minutes later, Horatio Farman arrived. The old attorney came by taxicab, instead of walking in this time of urgency. He found only Gorson, Terwiliger, and Marcia — a silent trio, seated in the living room.

The lawyer’s first concern was for the girl. He asked if she had been questioned; receiving an affirmative reply, he wanted to know if she would be needed further. Gorson looked at Terwiliger. The detective was doubtful.

“What do you want to do about her?” he asked Farman.

“I want to see that she is with friends,” declared the old lawyer. “This is no place for the girl. Where could you go, Marcia?”

Terwiliger offered a suggestion as Marcia hesitated.

“How about the girl friends that brought you home?” he asked. “Could you get in touch with them? I’d like to know if they heard anything after they left here.”

Marcia went to the telephone to call Dorothy Garland. Gorson and Terwiliger suggested that Farman view the scene upstairs. The detective remained, while Gorson went with the lawyer to the study.

Dorothy Garland arrived with Harriet Saylor just as the attorney and the police chief reappeared. Terwiliger asked Marcia’s friends a few questions. He finally told Gorson that it would be all right for Marcia to leave with the others.

Horatio Farman looked toward Marcia as the girl was about to leave.

“There is nothing you wish to say to me, Marcia?” he asked.

“No,” replied the girl. “I–I have told everything that I know. Thank you for coming, Mr. Farman. I–I’m sorry I was so abrupt over the telephone; but it was so important for you to know that—”

“Quite all right, Marcia,” interposed the lawyer. “Try to forget this horrible affair tonight. Don’t worry, my dear. Just try to ease your mind.”

“What about the other relatives?” questioned Sidney Gorson, turning to Farman after Marcia had gone. “Where are they?”

“Jasper Delthern, the brother, lives at the City Club,” explained Farman. “Warren Barringer stays at the Century Hotel.”

“Hm-m-m,” mused Gorson. “Why aren’t they living here, Mr. Farman?”

“Caleb Delthern, the grandfather, lived alone,” stated Farman, “except for Marcia, who has been here ever since she was a child. It is customary for the head of the Delthern family to dwell at Delthern Manor. Winstead, then Humphrey, followed that procedure.”

“Call the hotel and the club, Terwiliger,” ordered Gorson. “How about old Caleb’s estate, Mr. Farman. Who was to get the money?”

“All the grandchildren shared,” stated Farman. “The estate has not been settled; but every apportionment is considerably over a million dollars.”

Terwiliger was listening with one ear while he held the other to the telephone receiver. He heard Farman mention that Caleb Delthern had been very wealthy. But neither the detective nor the police chief noted a reserve in the attorney’s manner.

Horatio Farman, as legal representative for all of the Delthern heirs, was anxious to avoid too close a questioning. The mention of large sums for all the heirs spiked further queries on the part of Gorson, and enabled Farman to avoid a clash between police demands and the ethical right of an attorney to keep the affairs of his clients strictly to himself.

Gorson, leaning toward Terwiliger’s theory of attempted burglary, held very little suspicion regarding Jasper Delthern and Warren Barringer. His vague thoughts in that direction were ended when Terwiliger completed his efforts at the telephone.

“Just talked with Clark Brosset,” announced the detective, approaching the two men, who were now at the entrance to the living room. “He’s the president of the City Club. Jasper Delthern was on a bender down there tonight. They had to carry him up to his room. Warren Barringer is at the club, too. Been with Brosset all evening; playing cards there now.”

Police Chief Gorson turned to Horatio Farman. This information from a reliable source eliminated all consideration of either Jasper or Warren as persons who might have known of the crimes.

“Suppose,” said Gorson, “that you go down there and break the news to them.”

“Gladly,” agreed Farman. “You will remain here?”

“Yes. Terwiliger and I will search for clews.”

When the lawyer had gone, the police chief and the detective returned to the study. Gorson watched Terwiliger rummage about the room. The police chief was well satisfied with the detective’s efforts.

Burglary that had resulted in murder. That was Terwiliger’s idea, and Gorson liked it. The police had accepted it as the proper theory.