VIII
A Gold Sequin
“Does this revolver belong to you?” the coroner repeated.
“Why, yes,” Corole said huskily. “That—is mine.”
“Can you explain its presence in the closet in which your cousin’s body was found?”
She ran her tongue nervously over her lips.
“No,” she said. “No.”
“When did you see it last.”
“I—don’t know. It was usually kept in the drawer of the table in Louis’ study. I—don’t remember just when I saw it last.”
“You didn’t bring it to the hospital, then?”
“Certainly not,” flashed Corole. Her eyes narrowed so suddenly that I almost expected her to flatten her ears and spit like a cat.
“When did you last see your cousin, Dr. Letheny?”
“When I went upstairs at a little after twelve.” Mentally I figured that their quarrel must have been short and to the point.
“Where did you leave him?”
“He was sitting in his study.”
“When you answered the telephone when Miss Day called, did you search the house?”
“Yes.”
“Had his bed been disturbed?”
“Apparently not.”
“You can swear, then, that he was not in the house at—two o’clock?”
“If that was when Miss Day telephoned, yes. I did not look at my watch.”
There were a few more, rather unimportant, questions, then Corole was dismissed.
After that the inquest rather dragged for awhile, although Huldah telling very succinctly of Jim Gainsay taking out the Doctor’s sedan a short time before the storm broke was one of the points of interest. Several policemen had to tell just what they found; during the description of finding Dr. Letheny’s body, I saw Corole wince for the first time and raise her laced handkerchief to her face.
Then Dr. Balman was summoned to tell of his movements following the dinner party. He had gone directly to his room, it appeared, and was asleep when the telephone rang.
“Asleep?” said the coroner astutely. “Not in your dinner jacket, Doctor.”
“I was very tired that night, having worked hard all day. I sat down in an armchair to rest and went to sleep. The first thing I knew the telephone was ringing.”
“And what did you do then?”
“Miss Day sounded frightened—and it had been my impression that Mr. Jackson was doing very well indeed. I took my coat, for it was raining, got into my car and drove as fast as I could to St. Ann’s.”
Dr. Hajek, too, corroborated as far as possible every feature of the testimonies Maida and I had given. No, he had not heard any knocks on the door of his room, until I knocked. The lights were out and he did not understand at once what was wanted. However, when he did understand that there was some trouble in Room 18, he hurried to that room. He had only time to make the briefest of examinations, when Dr. Balman arrived. Dr. Balman came by the south door into the wing, instead of going around to the main entrance. The south door had been closed and the key in the lock and Miss Day had let Dr. Balman into the corridor. Yes, they had immediately agreed as to the cause of death.
Mr. James Gainsay was the next witness. As he advanced a queer little stir crept over the room.
He admitted freely that he had been walking in the orchard previous to the storm. The night was hot and sultry, he said, and he had thought it might be cooler outdoors. As freely he admitted that the cigarette case belonged to him.
“I’m certainly glad it was found,” he said, grinning a little. “I value that cigarette case and did not know where I had lost it.”
The coroner frowned; this levity was out of place. He moved the slim, gold case to the side of the table farther away from Gainsay.
“Was it you who collided with Miss Keate, there at the porch steps?” he asked.
Jim Gainsay’s suntanned eyebrows drew closer together, but his mouth retained a half-amused smile.
“I think it likely,” he said easily. “At least I—collided with someone.”
His candid air did not remove, to my mind, any of the significance of his presence near the hospital.
“Why were you running?”
“I was in a hurry,” said Gainsay simply.
“Where were you going?”
“To Dr. Letheny’s garage.”
“Did you go directly to the garage?”
There was the barest possible hesitation. Then:
“Yes.”
“What did you do, then?”
“Took Dr. Letheny’s car and drove into town.”
“How long were you gone?”
“About an hour, I should say. The roads were new to me and the rain made it bad driving.”
“You wanted to send a telegram?”
If Jim Gainsay was surprised, he gave no sign of it.
“Yes,” he said quietly. I don’t know what it was in the tightening of his mouth and the quality of his voice that made me quite sure that the question had, in some manner, put him on his guard.
“What was the telegram?”
“A matter of business,” replied Gainsay smoothly.
At this point Lance O’Leary reached over the coroner’s table and pushed something across it to the coroner. The coroner took it in his hands, a slip of yellow paper, and adjusted his spectacles. After reading what was written there, he glanced disapprovingly over his glasses at Gainsay, deliberately read the message again and finally spoke.
“Was this the message you sent?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Jim Gainsay, good-naturedly, though there was a wary look in his half-closed eyes.
A little gust of laughter was frowned upon by the coroner, who poised his spectacles again to read in a measured way: “ ‘Delayed owing to unexpected development stop cannot make the Tuscania stop may not get away soon signed J. Gainsay.’ That yours, huh?”
I was astounded to see that Gainsay had gone rather white and his jaw was set.
“Yes,” he said very quietly.
“What do you mean, ‘unexpected development’?”
“I—am not at liberty to state.”
Something in Gainsay’s manner seemed to irritate the coroner.
“Not at liberty to state! Well, see here, young man, you’d better be at liberty to state and that mighty fast! You’ve admitted to skulking around St. Ann’s, at a
