On the floor above, at the head of the stairs, a man of the unmistakable domestic type stood uncertainly.
Welden pointed below. “Send those people where they belong.”
Hurrying by, he wrenched open a door which he closed behind him. When presently that door reopened, he looked older; not white, but worn.
As before, at the head of the stair, the man was standing. Welden motioned him into another room, one wainscotted with bookless bookcases, from which two windows gave on the sea.
Through one of them Welden looked, though certainly it was not the sea that he saw. After a moment he turned. The man was standing by a table, his hands hanging at his sides. In and out of the palms the fingers moved, regularly, mechanically, perhaps unconsciously.
“Harris, close the door.”
The man obeyed.
Welden added: “Tell me everything.”
“It was my wife, sir, Perkins. She was taking in the tray with the breakfast things, and when she saw, she let it fall and ran out and called to me, and I telephoned to Mr. Wickses.”
“Have any of you any idea who did it?”
“No, sir, but—”
“But what?”
“Thinking as how you would wish it, I telephoned to the police.”
Welden nodded. “I told Wicks to. They will be here shortly. Fetch some brandy and soda.”
Harris turned. He was reopening the door when, through the windows, came the whirr of a motor, the sound of voices, the shuffle of feet.
“If that is the police,” said Welden, “send them here.”
From an oblong silver box that lay on the table he took a cigarette. While he was lighting it Harris reappeared. Accompanying him was a large man with small eyes, a deformed stomach and a red moustache. As he entered he looked Welden over.
“I’m Chief of Police,” he announced. “Right off I want—”
But Welden, accustomed to give orders and not at all to receive them, cut him short.
“Harris, show the way. Do whatever is required. The brandy and soda can wait.”
In a little, however, the liquor was forthcoming.
“There are two of them, sir, besides the chief,” Harris volunteered, placing, as he spoke, the bottles on the table. “And the coroner is here.”
Welden, who had seated himself, took another cigarette. Through the windows came the savour of salt, the scent of flowers; there came, too, the bark of a dog, caught up and repeated. The forenoon was departing in perfect clarity and, save for an occasional footfall, save, too, for an indistinct murmur of voices, in a peace that was perfect as well.
Shortly the silence was stirred. There came a rap at the door. Before Welden could answer, it opened. The chief entered. With him was a little man, with smoke-coloured glasses and a suit of leprous brown.
Closing the door, the officer indicated his companion. “This here is Dr. Quizenberry, the coroner. We’re goin’ to ask some questions.”
“Sit down,” said Welden. “Will you drink anything?”
The chief accepted, but the coroner refused. Welden filled a tumbler which he gave to the former.
He drank it noisily. “Nasty business,” he muttered. “Damn nasty.” Wiping his mouth and drawing a chair, he seated himself in front of Welden. “When did you last see yer wife?”
“A moment before you got here. You probably mean, though, when did I last see her alive. That was at midnight.”
“Nothin’ unusual been goin’ on?”
“Nothing.”
The chief gnawed moodily at a finger nail. His thoughts were few and slow. He was assisting at their laborious accouchement. Presently, delivered of one, he looked suspiciously at it and from it to Welden.
“You and yer wife had separate rooms?”
Welden nodded.
“The man out there showed me yours, it’s on the other side of the house.”
Again Welden nodded.
“Durin’ the night you heard nothin’?”
“Nothing whatever. But in regard to my domestic arrangements you may have noticed that in this house there are but two sleeping porches, one abutting from my room, the other from Mrs. Welden’s. I have been in California before and when here I prefer to sleep in the open air. Mrs. Welden had not accustomed herself to it, though naturally she slept with the windows open.”
“That’s right,” said Dr. Quizenberry, “and with the screen door to the porch unfastened. Anybody could have climbed in.”
“Anythin’ missin’?” the chief inquired.
“I do not know,” Welden answered. “Usually Mrs. Welden did not appear much before noon. This morning, long before she would ordinarily have been up, I was in Santa Barbara. Since I got back I have had no time to look.”
Under the steady gaze of Welden’s eyes, and the prompt and rapid fire of his speech, the chief’s laboriously accouched suspicion died. Burying it decently, he asked: “Had yer wife any enemies?”
“Probably,” Welden, with an uplift of the chin, replied. “But hardly among such people.”
At that the chief leaned forward. The coroner cocked an eye. The possibility that the statement had not been understood, occurred to Welden.
“I mean,” he resumed, “that such enemies as Mrs. Welden may have had were of her own class, and assuming the impossible, assuming, that is, that their enmity could have been murderous, they would hardly have gone about it in this way.”
“Hey?” the chief, groping still in dark ness, threw out.
But the coroner had got it. “That’s right,” he threw in. “It’s not the crime of an educated person; more like some Jack the Ripper business.”
“Or the Roo Morgue,” the now enlightened chief insinuated, indicating by the insinuation that he, at any rate, was educated. “You’ve a greaser here,” he continued. “I don’t care for him, or for the Jap either.”
“They were here before I came,” Welden answered. “There is also an Irishman, a negro and some servants we got from Los Angeles. I know nothing about any of them. But Harris, the man who showed you about, and Perkins, his wife, came with us from Europe. I have every confidence in them. Perkins always took care of Mrs. Welden’s jewelry.”
“Had she much?”
For a moment Welden’s long thin fingers beat a tattoo on the arm of his chair. “Quite a lot,” he finally replied. “But the majority of it is at
