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 -“
