The Third Skull

CHAPTER II. THE LAW DECIDES

A SWARTHY, stocky man was standing in Hildrew Parchell’s flame-scorched bedroom. One hour had elapsed since Homer Hothan’s secret flight. The man who now stood in charge of the premises was Detective Joe Cardona, acting inspector from headquarters.

Cardona was viewing a half-burned mattress. The bedclothes had been almost completely destroyed; the high top of the bed was charred by flame. Beyond, Joe saw the scorched table, overturned on the floor.

Near it lay the body of Hildrew Parchell, attired in a nightgown.

The old man’s white hair had been singed by the flames; otherwise, the body was untouched. The reason was apparent in the presence of a fire extinguisher that lay on the floor by the foot of the bed.

Cardona turned about to face a pitiful, gray-haired servant who was seated, sad-faced, in a chair.

“You say the bed was all ablaze when you came in?” inquired Cardona. “That Parchell’s body was on the floor?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Tristram, soberly. “And the table—”

“What about the table?” quizzed Cardona, sharply.

“It was overturned, sir,” replied Tristram, promptly. “My master must have struck against it when he fell.”

“Where did you get the fire extinguisher?”

“From the hall closet, sir, where Mr. Parchell always kept it.”

Cardona eyed the servant. Then he asked another question.

“How long were you out of the house?” asked the detective. “Just why did you leave the front door unlocked?”

Before Tristram could reply, there was an interruption. A tall, white-haired man spoke from the doorway.

Long-faced and irritable, this individual peered at Cardona through a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles.

“Let me speak, inspector,” insisted the tall man, in abrupt fashion. “I have told you already that I am Weldon Wingate, Mr. Parchell’s attorney.”

“You told me that,” agreed Cardona. “But it has nothing to do with my quizzing of this man.”

“It has,” objected Wingate. “As Mr. Parchell’s attorney, I feel that it is my province to represent this man whom you are questioning. Tristram was Hildrew Parchell’s faithful servant. Every shred of evidence in this room points to the fact that he endeavored to save his master’s life. I object to your conducting a cross-examination at this time.”

“There’s one question that has to be answered,” asserted Cardona. “I want to know why Tristram left that front door open. He says he went to call up Selwood Royce. We can check on that later. But the front door—”

“Was left open so that I could come in,” inserted Wingate.

Cardona looked puzzled.

“I had an appointment with Mr. Parchell,” explained Wingate. “There is no telephone in the house. Naturally, when Mr. Parchell sent Tristram out to call up Royce he would have told the servant to leave the door unlocked for my convenience.”

CARDONA appeared mollified. This was a point that he had not gained during his preliminary survey of Hildrew Parchell’s death. While the detective stood deliberating, another man spoke.

This individual was middle-aged, keen-faced, and of a somewhat professional appearance. He had been introduced to Cardona as Doctor Raymond Deseurre.

“I was Hildrew Parchell’s physician,” testified Deseurre, in a harsh, but steady voice. “His condition was serious; one in which a severe shock could easily have caused heart failure. To me, this case is obvious.”

“Hildrew Parchell was stricken during Tristram’s absence. While I cannot picture the exact circumstances, it is apparent to me that he must have seized the table and overturned it when he fell from his bed.”

“Your own police surgeon” — Deseurre indicated a man who was standing in a corner, nodding — “will agree with me that this must be the most logical explanation of Parchell’s death. The old man’s head must have struck against the table. He may have been dead at the time; or that blow may have been the final cause of his decease. In either case, the verdict should be the same. Death through accidental cause.”

“Maybe you’re right, doctor,” admitted Cardona, “but what I don’t get is why there was a lighted candle on the table. There are electric lights in this room.”

“But none above the bed, sir,” put in Tristram. “Mr. Parchell used to read occasionally; but only for very short periods. His eyes were unusually strong, sir, and he believed that the candlelight, close by, was sufficient.”

“A claim to which I objected,” added Deseurre, emphatically. “But I had enough of arguments with my patient on the subject of his heart condition. It was useless to add new controversy over the matter of eye strain, particularly when he had not long to live.”

CARDONA made another study of the bed. He was forced to agree that Tristram had shown remarkable effectiveness in extinguishing a most clangorous blaze. That spoke definitely to the servant’s credit.

Cardona made notations in a notebook; then, in a less challenging tone, he asked a general question.

“Why was every one coming here tonight?” questioned the ace detective. “You, Mr. Wingate; you, Doctor Deseurre? And why was Selwood Royce supposed to be here?”

“I was coming,” replied Wingate, “to receive minor instructions regarding the disposal of Mr. Parchell’s various documents. Hildrew Parchell knew that he did not have long to live. As his attorney, I was to take charge of his affairs.

“I have letters from him to that effect. I have a duplicate list of all his papers and valuables in his wall safe. It will be a simple matter to check up on all of his belongings. This was scarcely more than a routine appointment.”

“As for myself,” stated Doctor Deseurre, “tonight’s appointment was one of my regular calls. Hildrew Parchell was a patient I visited every evening.”

“What about Selwood Royce?” questioned Cardona, turning to Tristram. “Does he come here often?”

“No, sir,” replied the servant. “You see, Mr. Royce’s father was a friend of Mr. Parchell. All I know, sir, is that Mr. Parchell seemed anxious to see his friend’s son before he died. That was what Mr. Parchell told me, sir, when he sent me out to make the telephone call—”

Tristram broke off suddenly as a uniformed officer came into the room. Close behind him was a well-dressed man about thirty years of age, whose face showed concern as he stopped just within the room.

Cardona needed no introduction. He knew that this must be Selwood Royce.

Without a word, Royce walked over to the bed. He looked beyond and stared solemnly at Hildrew Parchell’s body. Royce’s expression was one of deep sadness. While the others watched him in silence, Royce turned to Tristram and clapped a sympathetic hand upon the servant’s shoulder. Tristram understood; his lips began to quaver.

“YOU are Selwood Royce?” asked Cardona, quietly, as he stepped toward the newcomer.

“Yes,” was the reply.

Cardona noted a choke in the single word. He studied Royce’s frank solemn countenance. Cardona had heard of Selwood Royce. The man was a millionaire; his wealth had been left to him by his father.

“This man” — Cardona indicated Tristram — “states that he called you at your home tonight. Is that correct?”

“It is,” replied Royce. “He called me at about nine o’clock.”

“And asked you to come in here?”

“Yes. Tristram said that he believed Hildrew Parchell was dying; that it was urgent that I see him. Hildrew Parchell had been my father’s friend. I told Tristram that I would come here at once.”

“My home is well out on Long Island. I left promptly and drove straight here. At the door, I met the policeman who brought me upstairs. He told me that there had been a fire; that Hildrew Parchell was dead.”

Cardona referred to his notes.

“About nine o’clock,” mused the detective. “Tristram put out the fire shortly after that. Let me see, Mr. Wingate, you arrived at about nine-thirty; you, Doctor Deseurre, at about the same time.”

“I was late,” remarked Wingate. “I should have been here at nine. If I had only arrived before Tristram!”

“I was exactly on time,” stated Doctor Deseurre.

“It’s not much after ten o’clock right now,” declared Cardona, looking from man to man. “Do you think that Hildrew Parchell could have wanted you all to meet here?”

“I can see no reason why,” replied Wingate. “I was Parchell’s attorney; Doctor Deseurre, his physician; Mr. Royce, a friend. We hold nothing in common.”

“Mr. Wingate and I,” added Deseurre, “had met but once before. That was a month or more ago, when I chanced to be leaving when he called. It was Tristram who introduced us.”

“I have never met either of these gentlemen,” stated Royce, looking from Wingate to Deseurre. “In fact, I had not seen Hildrew Parchell since my father’s funeral, five years ago.”

It was apparent to Cardona that there was no connection between the three visitors. Tristram was the one person who knew them all; the three shared belief in the servant’s integrity.

Cardona held a brief consultation with the police surgeon; then made an announcement.

“It’s death by misadventure, all right,” decided the detective. “There won’t be any need to hold this man Tristram. He deserves credit for the way he tried to save his master. You can testify at the inquest, Tristram. I’d like you there, too, Doctor Deseurre.”

“I shall be present also,” inserted Wingate, dryly.

“All right,” agreed Joe. “I’d like a chance to check things over with you, Mr. Wingate. Just to be sure nothing is missing from these papers, or the wall safe.”

“Very well.”

WINGATE was about to leave; Deseurre also, when Cardona stopped them. The detective had another question.

“What about Hildrew Parchell’s affairs?” he questioned. “Anything unusual about them? Did he have any enemies?”

“None to my knowledge,” responded Wingate. “His estate is not a large one; but it is well in order.”

“Any heirs?”

“A nephew. Roger Parchell.”

“Where is he?”

“In San Francisco. He has not been East in years.”

A pause. Neither Deseurre nor Royce had any comment. Again the visitors were about to leave, when Tristram spoke.

“There was Mr. Hothan, sir,” said the servant, looking toward Wingate. “He lived here until a month ago.”

“Hothan?” questioned Cardona.

“Homer Hothan,” replied Wingate. “He was Parchell’s secretary for a few months. The man was inefficient. Parchell discharged him.”

“What became of Hothan?”

“He went home to Ohio, I believe.”

“Whereabouts in Ohio?”

“I don’t know.”

It was Tristram who supplied the information.

“Mr. Hothan lives in a town called Chalwood,” recalled the servant. “Somewhere near Columbus.”

Cardona made a note of it. The visitors left. Tristram stood by while Cardona made arrangements for the removal of the body. Then the detective went downstairs.

At the door, he encountered a new arrival. It was Clyde Burke, reporter for the New York Classic.

“What’s the dope, Joe?” questioned Clyde.

“Nothing,” returned the detective. “The old gentleman fell out of bed with a heart attack. Tipped over the table and the place caught fire from a candle that fell over. His servant put out the blaze.”

“Well, that’s a story. Give me more details.”

“Look them over for yourself.”

Cardona extended his opened notebook. Clyde began to read the various items. Immediately, the reporter noted the completeness of Cardona’s notes. He saw that the star detective must have suspected more than accident at the beginning of the inquiry.

“Want to keep the book?” growled Cardona, as Clyde kept on transcribing information. “Say — what are you going to do? Make a story for the Sunday supplement?”

“No,” laughed Clyde. “Just hoping that I can convince the M.E. that this yarn is worth something. All right, Joe, I’ve got the details. So long.”

Joe Cardona went in one direction; Clyde Burke in the other. The detective, bound for headquarters, felt positive that his final decision was the correct one that Hildrew Parchell had died by accident.

The reporter held no conclusion whatever. To Clyde Burke, the death of Hildrew Parchell was an oddity.

That gave the case a definite importance; so much so that Clyde stopped at the nearest drug store to put in a prompt telephone call.

Speaking over the wire, Clyde gave the complete details from his copy of Cardona’s notes. That done, he stuffed the sheet of paper into his coat pocket. Clyde grinned as he went out to the street.

This story would mean but little to the Classic. Joe Cardona had been right in wondering why Clyde had put down so many details. Clyde Burke had not been acting in his capacity as a reporter when he had telephoned the facts concerning Hildrew Parchell’s death.

Clyde Burke was more than a newspaper reporter. He was also the agent of a hidden master sleuth who sought traces of crime beneath placid surfaces. It was to that chief that Clyde had forwarded the facts that he had learned.

The circumstances of Hildrew Parchell’s death; the names of those persons with whom the old man had maintained contact — all were on their way to The Shadow!