The Ghost Of The Manor

CHAPTER XXIII EVIDENCE OF MURDER

JASPER DELTHERN’S study had become an inquest room. Police Chief Sidney Gorson was standing just within the door. Before him, seated in front of the desk, was Warren Barringer, head bowed and hands cuffed.

Two uniformed policemen were present. Horatio Farman, pale of face, was seated in a corner. On the floor, the gruesome body of Jasper Delthern still stared upward in mute testimony of murder.

The revolver was lying on the floor where Warren had dropped it when The Shadow had been here. Police Chief Gorson was constantly shifting his gaze from the weapon to Warren Barringer.

“Well,” growled Gorson, “we’ve got the goods on you, Barringer! You say you don’t know how this happened, but it looks plain to me. Come along now — are you going to talk?”

“I’m waiting for Clark Brosset,” responded Warren.

Chief Gorson laughed. It was the twentieth time that Warren had made that statement.

“He’ll be here shortly now,” promised the police chief. “We sent for him when you insisted. It’s not going to help you, Barringer. There’s only one man who could have killed Jasper Delthern. That man is you.”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Three men appeared: a policeman, Holley, and Clark Brosset. Warren Barringer raised his head, and his eyes gleamed hopefully. Brosset, serious of expression, approached and tapped him on the shoulder. Then, noting Jasper Delthern’s body, the president of the City Club stepped away in momentary horror.

“What’s this, Warren?” he queried. “You — you haven’t killed him?”

“No,” responded Warren.

“Here are the facts, Mr. Brosset,” informed Gorson, taking the floor. “Warren Barringer came up to this room with Jasper Delthern. The servant came to summon them downstairs. He found the door locked. No answer. I was below. He called me and others. We hammered at the door, and Barringer opened it. We found him and Jasper’s body.”

“I didn’t do it!” cried Warren. “I didn’t kill him! There was a shot in the dark—”

“He asked for you,” inserted Gorson, speaking to Brosset. “Said he wouldn’t talk until you came. We can’t see what that has to do with it.”

“Tell them, Clark!” pleaded Warren.

“I KNOW why Warren Barringer wanted me here,” declared Clark Brosset frankly. “He told me some time ago that he suspected Jasper Delthern of murder. He overheard Jasper talking on the telephone at the City Club.”

“To whom?” queried Gorson.

“To Wellington, the servant here,” responded Brosset. “Warren Barringer came here immediately. Afterward, he returned and told me that Humphrey Delthern had been murdered.”

“Wait a minute!” Gorson was on his feet. “You mean that on the night when Humphrey Delthern was killed, Warren Barringer came here—”

“Yes,” broke in Warren. “I was here. In this room. Someone turned out the lights, and when they came on again, Humphrey was dead. Wellington came in; he grabbed for me. The lights went out again, and someone shot Wellington.”

“What did you do then?” inquired the police chief, in a sarcastic tone.

“I left,” admitted Warren. “I went back to the City Club and told Clark Brosset that Jasper Delthern was a murderer.”

“Ah! You saw Jasper here?”

“No,” admitted Warren slowly, “I knew he was coming here—”

“You did, eh?” Gorson was derisive as he turned to Clark Brosset. “Did you know that Jasper was coming here that night?”

“Only because Warren Barringer told me,” declared Brosset. “You see, Warren confided in me as a friend. He only came here twice. First, to see Winstead—”

“To see Winstead Delthern?” broke in Gorson. “When? On the night that Winstead fell down the stairs.”

“Yes,” admitted Brosset, in a hopeless tone.

“So, now we’ve got it!” growled the police chief. “Frankly, I’m sorry about this, Brosset. You’ve let this murderer play you for a sap. We’ve been looking into these killings, Terwiliger and I. Now comes Jasper’s murder. Here we find out that Barringer was up here twice before. Did you ever think, Mr. Brosset, that your good friend Warren Barringer might have bumped off Winstead and his brother Humphrey?”

“I trusted Warren Barringer,” declared Brosset, in a serious tone. “I can’t believe that he is a murderer. Surely — if what he says is true — there must be something that can prove it.”

“Jasper Delthern killed his brothers,” asserted Warren suddenly. “He told me so, himself. Tonight—”

“Look around,” suggested Brosset. “Have you searched the desk? Maybe Jasper left something there. I can’t believe this about Warren—”

Police Chief Gorson was acting on the suggestion. He yanked open the top drawer of the big desk. He found an envelope. He opened it. He read two papers within.

“Look at these,” he said grimly.

Clark Brosset took the papers. Gorson spoke while Brosset was reading.

“Just little statements,” he declared. “Sworn to by Humphrey and Wellington before their deaths. Statements that Warren Barringer was here the night that Winstead died. Can you guarantee those signatures, Mr. Farman?”

The old attorney took the documents. He nodded sadly.

“Yes,” he said, “they are genuine. I knew about those affidavits, Chief Gorson. Humphrey wanted me to keep them for him. I refused to do so.”

“Jasper must have found them,” grunted Gorson. “Poor chap. I guess he wouldn’t believe it. Look at what he got.”

TURNING toward Warren Barringer, the police chief became savage in his denunciation.

“You might as well confess to it, Barringer!” he said. “You see how far your bluffing has gotten you. Three murders — four — that’s what we’ve got you for!”

Warren looked pleadingly toward Clark Brosset. He saw a look of anguish on that friendly face. He turned to Horatio Farman. The old attorney was solemn and challenging. Warren clutched at the last straw.

“Marcia Wardrop!” he cried. “Maybe she can tell you that I’m innocent. Maybe she knows—”

“Send for the girl,” ordered Gorson. “I wanted to make it easy for her, but if she knows anything about this, we’d better find it out.”

A few minutes later, Marcia Wardrop appeared in the room. The girl shrank back with a frightened gasp when she saw the body of Jasper Delthern. She looked toward Gorson; then stared at Clark Brosset. The president of the City Club stepped forward to catch the girl as she began to totter.

Marcia regained her nerve as she felt Clark Brosset’s grasp. Then Horatio Farman was beside her. The old lawyer took charge of the girl, while she looked toward Warren Barringer.

“What do you know, Marcia?” questioned Warren anxiously. “Help me — please—”

“On what other occasions,” interrupted Chief Gorson, “did Barringer come to this house?”

Marcia Wardrop looked for friendly eyes. Clark Brosset stared sympathetically in her direction.

In a dull, frightened tone, the girl spoke:

“He was here — here the night that Winstead died. When Humphrey and Wellington were killed, I saw him again. He — he was in a taxicab on the boulevard. He — he — I noticed him because he had no hat. The — the hat is here — in the closet downstairs. Don’t ask me any more — please — that’s all I know. I couldn’t believe it — really — I couldn’t. I thought — I thought — I don’t know—”

“Take her downstairs,” said Gorson to Farman. “Stay in the big room — the place with the candles. That’s all she knows.”

Horatio Farman helped the sobbing girl from the room. Chief Gorson turned to Warren Barringer, while Clark Brosset stood to one side, his chin buried in his hand.

“Come on, Barringer!” growled Gorson. “We’ve got the evidence of murder. Give us your confession!”