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Das
MURDER IN A LIBRARY


By the Same Author
THE UNDERWOOD MYSTERY
OUT OF THE DARKNESS
THE SHADOW ON THE GLASS
THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD
THE SECOND BULLET
FLYING CLUES
THE CROOKED CROSS
STREAKED WITH CRIMSON
THE SHADOW OF EVIL
MURDER IN A LIBRARY


MURDER
IN A
LIBRARY
CHARLES J.
DUTTON
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND .
COMPANY
1931


878
D98m
COPYRIGHT, 1931
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Ino.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM
WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHER
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON, N. Y.


898
198m
To
FORREST SPAULDING
AND HIS DES MOINES LIBRARY STAFF,
who of course
are unlike any character in this book





MURDER IN A LIBRARY


CHAPTER I
With his back pressed close against the door of the
police station, Carty Rand stood gloomily staring
across the street. Should he go up to the Press Club
and play poker with the gang, or spend the next hour
improving his mind in the public library ? The Press
Club meant walking three long blocks in the rain; as
for the library, all he had to do was to walk across
the street.
A few weeks before, the city editor had called
Rand into the office to break the news that for the
next few months the young reporter was to do police
work, and had suggested that he might also cover
the library. No two assignments could have pleased
Rand better. Police work had always thrilled him
and, like every other newspaper man, some day he
was going to write a novel.
With his soft hat pulled low over his eyes, the usual
cigarette in the corner of his lips, he stood looking out
at the wet afternoon. It had been raining hard all
day and evidently would do the same all night. The
street was a glittering surface of moisture, and,
whipped by a steady wind, the rain lashed in blinding
sheets around the police station.
Making up his mind that the Press Club was too
[1]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
far away, he blessed the city fathers who had placed
the public buildings in a civic center on the river front.
For half a mile on both sides of the dirty river ran a.
strip of green grass; behind it stood the municipal
buildings; across the water he could see the two
granite court houses.
On a bright day, the green grass, the river and the
stone buildings which flanked the promenade made a
rather pleasing picture, but as he looked out at the
blinding rain, Carty Rand decided it was not only an
ugly scene but also a very depressing one. The
buildings were streaked with moisture and every
hideous corner and angle leaped forth to meet his '
eyes.
With a despairing shrug of his shoulders the tall
young man pulled his coat collar up around his neck
and darted down the steps of the police station. As he
ran across the street the rain slapped against his face,
and once he slipped and almost fell. Up the five stone
steps of the library entrance he hurried, pausing for
breath before the main door.
Though it was one of the best known public libra-
ries in the country, famous for its efficient manage-
ment and public service, yet the building itself was old
and much out of date. Once, some forgotten architect
had thought the squatty granite structure a thing of
beauty, but that was in a day long past. To Rand it
was the most hideous building in the city.
[2]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
Inside the door he climbed the three steps and
came into the main lobby of the library. It was a large
square room containing several couches, with easy-
chairs flanking book-laden tables. To his right was
the delivery desk, behind it the long rows of stacks,
and on his left the desk where the books were checked
out. Above his head ran a book-lined balcony. On the
walls were several large, though not very beautiful,
paintings.
Crossing the floor he paused at the delivery desk
and for a few moments joked with the efficient look-
ing girl who was in charge. Because of the storm the
room was almost deserted and the assistant had
plenty of time at her disposal. There were at least
twenty girls on the staff and Rand knew them all, for
there was hardly a day during which he did not drop
into the building.
The conversation over, he paused by the open door
of the librarian's office and threw a quick look into
the room. Behind a rosewood desk he saw the short
figure of the man who controlled the reading tastes
of the city. As a rule Rand dropped into the office for
a few moments' chat, but the librarian was engaged
in a conversation, so Rand drifted past the door
toward the reading room.
This was the largest room in the building and, as
he passed through the open doors, he saw that it was
filled. On every side were tall bookcases whose vol-
[3]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
umes made a pleasing contrast of colors. The tables
were all occupied, and most of the magazines had
been taken down from the racks. Over the room hung
that uneasy stillness which one finds in a room filled
with silent people.
Though books were Rand's chief hobby, yet he did
not feel like reading. After all, it was the rain which
had brought him into the library—the rain and the
fact that the Press Club was seven long blocks away.
There were at least two hours to be killed, and pick-
ing out a book of modern verse from the nearest case,
he sank down into a chair.
For a while he tried to read, then, in sheer bore-
dom, allowed the book to drop down upon the table.
Reading, he decided, was the last thing he wanted to
do, so he began to study the people in the room, peo-
ple who, in many cases, were making no more attempt
at reading than he was.
The reading room of a public library brings to-
gether many varying types of people. There are al-
ways those who have come for reference purposes,
groups of high school boys and girls with a scattering
of college students. These, Rand discovered when
he looked over the room, were absent. But another
class was well represented.
Because it is in a public building, warm and well
lighted, and containing plenty of free reading matter,
[4]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
nce
TOO
the reference room of every library brings together
a large number of homeless men and women. The
casual tramps, outcasts and petty criminals, the old
and defeated in life spend many hours in the public
reading room.
Rand was an intelligent young newspaper man,
but it would have required little intelligence to place
the groups sitting at the tables—men in faded, soiled
and dingy suits, some with sly shifty faces, others
who kept darting quick glances at the many tables.
The outcasts and the homeless had been driven by
the storm into the warm room.
For a time he studied the people around him. Some
of the occupants of the tables he had seen in the police
courts. He half smiled as he noticed one of the city's
leading clergymen sitting beside a thin, shrunken fig-
ure who had come out of prison only three days
before. There were several there who had been
in jail, and a few who he knew would be there some
day.
He gazed for a while languidly around. It was
four o'clock and on a clear day the high school stu-
dents would by now be thronging in through the big
doors, but the rain had kept them away. The girl be-
hind the reference desk was having nothing to do and,
seated at her desk, she was carefully reading a maga-
zine.
[5]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
It was a silent room except when someone turned
the pages of a paper or scraped his feet across the
floor. Once in a while there was a cough, checked as
a rule almost the moment it sounded forth. From
outside came the sound of the rain dashing over the
windows, the howling of the wind as it shrieked its
way around the building.
It was after he had listened to the rain for some
time that Rand began to feel uneasy. There was not
the slightest reason why he should be disturbed, but
he was. The silence seemed suspicious. He caught
himself waiting for someone to whisper to his neigh-
bor. To throw aside this feeling, he began to watch
a man seated at the other side of the room.
It was an oddly shaped room. Three fourths of it
was a large square, the floor filled with tables, the
walls lined with bookcases. The other fourth was
filled with high magazine racks. Behind them was a
half hidden office, its sides enclosed with frosted glass
and with a little narrow door.
This built-in room was the office of the woman who
had charge of the reading room. Rand knew her well
and, unlike most of the people of the city, was a fa-
vorite of the thin, angular and rather ill-tempered old
lady. For thirty-five years the reference room had
been her kingdom, and the years of detailed work had
not improved her disposition. Yet for some reason,
[6]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
perhaps because she had known his mother, Ruby
Merton had taken a liking to the unconventional re-
porter. She had two assistants, and was not often
seen outside of her enclosed office, but everyone in
the city knew the old lady, and her sharp tongue had
made her a public character. Few were the persons
ever invited to pass behind the frosted glass parti-
tions and sit beside her large desk.
For the past ten minutes Rand had noticed that
Joe White was much interested in the door of the
librarian's office. Every reporter knew Joe-just as
the police knew him well. He was a petty sneak thief
who found it a hard task to keep on the water wagon.
Not only was he a thief but also a bit of a coward,
sneaking and sniveling his way through life and always
in trouble.
Seated at a table, the thin little figure was holding
a newspaper before his face. But at the angle in which
he was sitting, Rand was able to see the sharp, sallow
features. Again and again he saw the man throw a
quick eager questioning look at the office door, a
look which would be repeated in a few moments. For
some reason Joe was interested in the glass-enclosed
office.
Having nothing else to do, Rand picked up a maga-
zine and made a bluff at reading. It was only a gesture,
for he was watching the police character. Why White
[7]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
was in the library he knew. The wind and the storm
had driven him to warmth and shelter. But why he
should appear so interested in the glass-enclosed room
he could not understand.
That he was interested there was no doubt. Again
and again the narrow shifting eyes would dart a
quick look at the door. It was a curious look, filled
with both wonder and anticipation, as though he
was watching for someone to come into the larger
room. After each glance at the door, Rand no-
ticed that White would throw a searching look
around the tables, as if trying to see if he had been
observed.
That White was up to any serious mischief the
reporter doubted. There were at least fifty people
in the reading room, and one could not move without
being observed, but something had aroused the curi-
osity of the sneak thief, and he seemed to be a little
bit excited.
At last Rand rose slowly to his feet. Walking across
the floor, he paused for a moment before the maga-
zine rack and threw a long look at White. The little
figure had given Rand a suspicious glance, but when
Rand looked at him the thin face was quickly buried
in the paper. With a slight smile the reporter passed
behind the long magazine rack and a second later
stood before the door of the office.
The door was closed and he paused for a moment
[8]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
wondering if should open it. He was standing in an
open space behind the tall magazine racks. In front
of him were the frosted glass partitions, to his right
the wall with the two large windows. On every side
were bookcases.
As his hand shot out for the knob, he hesitated
for a moment. Again there swept over him the queer
uneasy feeling he had experienced a few moments
ago. It was an odd feeling, one he was unable to
analyze. It made him wonder what could be the
matter with his nerves. Above his head the rain was
smearing across the windows. He cast a sudden glance
toward the little table, and his look caused the watch-
ing eyes of White to drop quickly to the paper he
held in his hand.
With a shrug of his shoulders Rand opened the
door and looked into the glass-enclosed room. Across
from him was another door which he thought led
out into a hallway. On two sides of the room were
tall bookcases filled with bulky reference works and
piles of magazines. Three steps would have brought
him to the desk, littered with papers and book cata-
logues, but the eyes of the young man narrowed as
he saw the woman slumped down in the chair behind
the desk.
No one had ever called the reference librarian
good-looking; there were many who said she was just
the opposite. Eccentric in everything she did, like
[9]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
many of her type, her clothes ran to vivid, extreme
colors. The purple dress did give the room a touch
of color, but Rand did not notice the dress. There
was something which puzzled him.
The woman was seated behind her desk, but the
angular figure had slumped down far into her chair.
She was sitting in an odd and uncomfortable position
and something about her appearance caused him to
catch his breath suddenly. He could not see her face,
for her head had fallen forward, and only the close-
cropped hair could be observed. He noticed that she
was very still.
For a moment he stood silent in the doorway.
Then all at once the sound of rain upon the windows
seemed to die away. Nor did he hear the rustling of
papers in the reading room. A curious silence seemed
to brood over the little room—a silence which he
could feel pressing around him in a sinister man-
ner. Then suddenly giving a gasp he stepped quickly
into the room, carefully shutting the door behind
him.
By the chair he stood looking down at the still,
pathetic figure. Though he had made some slight
noise in crossing the floor, she had not raised her
head. As he looked down at the purple dress, and
saw the thin white hair upon her head, he suddenly
realized that she would never raise her eyes to look
[10]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
at him. It was at this second that he saw the cord
around her neck.
It was not a pleasant sight. Drawn tightly around
the swollen throat, it was pulled so taut that it was
hard to distinguish it. His eyes fell upon a knife lying
upon the desk, but as he picked it up and reached
down to cut the cord he knew that the effort was use-
less. The woman was dead and had been dead for
some time.
He managed at length to cut the encircling cord
· and silently placed it upon the desk. Accustomed as
he was to scenes of violence, yet he shuddered as he
carefully raised the woman's head with his hand.
One look at the wild, staring eyes, the pain-twisted
face, and he trembled.
His first instinctive impulse was to rush from the
room and shout for aid, but he did not move. He
was a reporter and had stumbled upon what might
prove to be the most sensational crime story of
the year. And it was his own personal story—a real
beat.
He had known the librarian for some years. To
others she might have been sarcastic, even rude; to
him she had been kindly and helpful. That any person
in the city would take her life seemed beyond belief,
yet before him, slumped in that odd attitude in the
chair, was her silent figure.
[11]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
That it was murder there was no doubt. The cord
had been drawn so tightly around her neck that it
had cut the flesh. What was more, the slip knot was
at the back. A finger shot out for a moment to touch
the swollen face. It was still warm. Death had come
within the past hour. As he thought this, he gave a
start.
Out in the reading room were at least fifty people.
All afternoon the room had been filled, the tables and
chairs occupied. It was a motley group that had been
driven to shelter by the rain, the outcasts and failures
and the petty criminals of the city streets. Yet it
seemed incredible that she could have been killed
with help only a few feet away, murdered only a
few minutes before without any of the fifty per-
sons in the next room aware of what was being
done.
He cast a slow somber look beyond the desk.
Against the wall stood a large green safe, its doors
partly open. In the dark interior he saw a row of
shelves, the backs of books. But the safe held his
gaze for only a second. The telephone upon the desk
was within reach of his hand. Sinking down in a chair
he took the receiver from the hook and called a
number.
As he waited for his connection, he felt grateful
for one thing. Across the street was the police station,
[12]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
and the head of the homicide squad was in his office.
Rand was glad of that, for Kent was a shrewd, effi- ,
cient police official. As he was thinking this, the con-
nection was made; a second later he heard the rough
voice of the inspector.
"Listen, chief,” came Rand's low voice, “it's Rand,
over in the library. Yes, the library. Now listen care-
fully. Someone has just done in Ruby Merton. Yes,
that's what I said. It's a killing. I stumbled on her
body. No one knows a thing about it yet, I just found
her. Rush over here and bring some dicks with you.
There's a big bunch in the reading room. You will
want to line them up. Yes".
He paused a moment to listen to the sharp bark-
ing questions, picturing the surprised official at the
other end of the wire. Just as Kent was about to slam
down the receiver Rand spoke again.
“Now listen to this, chief. If you see Joe White
sliding out of the building, pick him up. I'll give you
the low down later. Yes, it's the office in the read-
ing room. And hurry over. It's a bit lonesome in here
just now."
Rand held the receiver in his hand for several
moments after he heard the inspector slam down his
instrument. Soberly his eyes went traveling around
the little room. As they passed over the silent figure
in the chair he shook his head. People talked about
[13]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
the dignity of death. There was none here. An old
lady who had given her life to the service of the
public had died, died by violence, with more than
fifty people within sound of her voice.
[14]


CHAPTER II
The telephone receiver remained upon the hook only
a second. As Rand's glance fell upon the wall clock
he remembered that he was a reporter, and that the
last evening edition would be going to print in a
few moments. Calling the city room, he asked for
the managing editor, knowing that for the first time
in his career he was giving his chief a real beat.
The connection completed, there followed a short,
snappy conversation. There was much to tell; he had
stumbled upon a crime; that crime was murder. Before
the busy editor got off the line he told Rand to stick
to the story until the case was solved.
Replacing the receiver, Rand rose to his feet,
studying the room. So far as he could see there was
nothing out of the way. The doors of the big green
safe were wide open, and he tried to remember
if they had been open on the other occasions when
he had been in the office.
Out in the reading room there was a sound of
hurrying footsteps; the door was flung open and the
tall, raw-boned figure of the police inspector stood
on the threshold. Behind him was the police doctor.
[15]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
The gray eyes of the official rested for a second
upon the face of the reporter, then passed over to the
silent figure at the desk, and Rand saw the square jaw
shut tight as the dead woman came into the inspector's
vision. After a moment's silence he stepped into the
room, followed by the doctor. As the inspector raised
the woman's head he asked Rand to close the door.
With his back against the door Rand watched the
two police officials make a quick but careful examina-
tion of the body. No one spoke, and within the little
room was silence; but from behind the door came
the murmur of excited voices, loud whisperings and
shuffling feet. The reporter could picture the amazed
room watching the police walk across the floor. Per-
haps someone in that room had reason to fear them.
Straightening up, Kent made a quick inspection of
the little office with his keen gray eyes. The glance
ended at the surface of the desk, and the cord which
Rand had thrown upon a magazine met his eyes.
Picking it up, the inspector gave it one glance. For
a moment there was silence; then Kent turned to
the reporter.
"Tell me how you happened to find her," he com-
manded.
There was not much to tell and the story was soon
ended. Kent made no effort to break in, and while
Rand was talking the inspector's eyes were carefully
[16]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
studying the office. Not until Rand paused was there
a question.
"You say Joe White made you suspicious ?”
“Got me guessing why he was so interested in the
office. That's why I got up and came in. I knew the
old lady pretty well.”
Kent started to speak, then turned and looked at
his doctor. Rand knew the young physician and was
glad the police had someone of intelligence for their
medical man, instead of the usual inefficient political
appointee. As the doctor carefully allowed the wom-
an's head to fall back upon her breast, the inspector
spoke:
"What about it, Trent?”!
"Strangled. The murderer placed the cord around
her neck and just pulled it tight. Been dead more than
thirty minutes."
Rand saw the brows of the inspector knit as the
man looked in the direction of the reading room.
A puzzled look swept over his face as he slowly shook
his head.
"There were fifty or sixty people in that room when
we walked through. She must have been killed here,
yet I have a hunch we will find no one heard a sound.
That's what I can't see."
"But Kent," came the doctor's low tones. “It's my
idea she had a hand pressed down over her lips, so
[17]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
that she wasn't able to scream. You see she could not
have been very strong."
Whatever Kent thought of this statement his next
remark had nothing to do with what had just been
said. He asked the doctor to find the librarian, to
tell him what had taken place, and arrange to have
the library closed. No one was to be allowed to enter
the building nor was anyone to leave the place until
his name had been taken and he had been examined.
As the doctor started for the door the inspector called
him back.
"Trent, tell Mike to take all the people in the
reading room up in one of the rooms on the second
floor. Have them all examined. I want to find out
if anyone saw any person come in here or heard any
sort of a sound. Tell him to go the limit to get their
stories. If they won't talk, pinch them. Somebody
must have seen something during the afternoon."
When they were alone he turned to Rand.
“We are going to look this room oyer," he said.
“Then I will have White brought in. We got him as
we came up the steps. He was in a hurry; felt pretty
bad at seeing us. But this is not the sort of thing he
would pull off. Took nerve to kill her, with all those
people within sound of her voice—and nerve is not
Joe's long suit."
The examination of the office revealed nothing of
[18]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
any value. It was true that under a heap of papers
they found a hundred and fifty dollars. The sum
surprised Rand a little, but the fact that it was on the
desk seemed to show that robbery could not have
been the motive of the crime. Though it had been
placed under a heap of papers, the money could be
plainly seen by anyone who had looked at the desk.
As he watched the police inspector he began to
grow more puzzled. That the woman should have
been killed in her office was a startling thing. It was
very far from being a private office. Though the
librarian did not leave it often, all day long her as-
sistants were running in and out. The office seemed
to Rand to be the last place in the city for a pre-
meditated crime.
This aspect of the affair puzzled him, but to think
of a motive bothered him even more. For thirty-five
years the woman had been in the public library. Her
disposition had grown a bit sour during the years,
and people often grumbled because she was not as
courteous as she should have been. But that anyone
would plan her death seemed absurd. She might not
have been very well liked, but he doubted that she
had any real enemies.
Kent had dropped to his knees before the safe, and
for a moment peered into its interior. When he rose
to his feet he stood looking at the woman's body;
[19]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
then his glance went across the desk and his eyes
narrowed. So far as Rand could see, there was nothing
to cause the look; only a chair and behind the chair
a bookcase.
"Rand, you knew this woman. Did she let many
people come into her office ?"
Rand replied that the librarian was a stickler for
formality. Perhaps her long years of service at a
small salary had soured her, for there was no doubt
her disposition was not of the best. Few were the
people that would have come into her office uninvited.
"That's what I thought,” said Kent. “But look at
that chair. It's right across from her body, just where
it would be if someone had been sitting there talking
with her. It looks as though someone she knew was
in here, someone she was not suspicious of.”
Rand gave the chair a studied look. It was pushed
a little way out from the desk, in the position it would
be in if the person who had been sitting in it had risen
to leave the room. Kent was right. Whoever had
been occupying that chair was someone the librarian
had known. Strangers and people she did not like
were not invited to her office.
"Someone she knew," came Kent's dry voice.
"Someone who could rise and go around the desk
and get behind her without her thinking anything was
wrong. Then a hand was slammed over her mouth,
the cord whipped around her neck and—”
[20]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
The words died upon his lips as the door was flung
violently open. They turned to see the thickset figure
of the librarian rushing into the room. The round
red face was flushed, the large eyes frightened. For
a second he glanced at them, then looked over to
the desk. As he glimpsed the body, the librarian's
face went white, and he leaned against the wall for
support.
The silence seemed endless. Neither Rand nor the
inspector cared to say anything and the librarian was
too shaken to speak.
"How-how did it-happen?" he gasped at
length.
Kent briefly described how Rand had gone into the
office and what he had discovered. When he had ended
the librarian gave a long questioning look over the
room as he slowly shook his head.
"And to think that it is perhaps my fault that she
is dead.”
“Your fault?”' snapped out Kent.
Spicer nodded. A troubled look swept over his
round face. With a quick look at the desk he turned
to face the inspector.
"In a sense. She's been trying all afternoon to
get into the office to see me. I have been away for
a week, and got back only this noon. I found a note
on my desk saying she wished to see me at once, had
something very important to tell me."
[21]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
as a
OX
As he paused for a second Rand saw a keen look
sweep over the police official's face, but he did not
speak.
“You know," came the anxious voice, "she was a
queer woman and always did get on my nerves. I
thought she simply had some complaint to make, so
I put her off. There was a number of traveling men
from the book houses to interview, and I sent back
word that she could see me at five. But if I had only
seen her at once, perhaps—".
“You don't know what she wanted ?”.
“No. But she sent in a page three times during the
afternoon to see if I were free."
"And that was unusual ?"
“Very. I have an idea that when I was chosen for
this position she thought it ought to have been given
to her. We did not have very much to do with each
other, but all afternoon she was trying to get into my
office. There was something on her mind.”
Kent nodded. Slowly his eyes went over the book-
cases, coming to rest on the surface of the desk. The
sight of the money partly concealed by papers,
caused him to take two steps and pick it up. Then
he turned to Spicer.
“There was not much in here of any value," he
started, but the action of the librarian was so surpris-
ing that the words died upon the inspector's lips.
[22]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
There had come a sudden gasp from Spicer's lips as
he darted over to the safe. Dropping down on his
knees, he looked into the dark interior. It was a long
look and when he rose to his feet his face expressed
relief.
"Now what might that all mean?” began Kent.
“I just remembered that we have three or four
very valuable books in the safe, but I see they are on
the shelf, so that's all right."
There came a muffled expression from the in-
spector's lips. To Rand it sounded as if the police
official doubted the value of any books which might
be in the safe. After a look at the money in his palm
Kent asked a question.
"We found this on the desk, Spicer. One hundred
and fifty dollars. Now would you have any idea what
it might be doing here?"
The librarian looked at the outstretched hand. In
it lay a small heap of bills. Rand judged they were
all tens. Spicer straightened up; a curious look swept
over his face: he slowly shook his head.
“Of course it might be her own money. What it
means I don't know, but Miss White, who was at
the outside desk might."
He made a half motion to open the door. The
inspector stopped him. Kent wanted to see the
woman who had been at the other desk. He warned
[23]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
ments before, it had been filled, all the chairs taken,
every table occupied. Now there could be seen only a
blue-uniformed policeman by the door. The people
had vanished; the police had driven them out. The
sight of the wide expanse of floor, the unoccupied
tables and the deep silence which hung over the room
depressed him. Only a few moments before it had
been filled with people, now it was deserted. Kent
shuddered as he thought what they had left behind
them in the office.
A sound caused him to lift his eyes. The librarian
was reëntering the room and by his side was a young
woman, a woman who would have been very good
to look at if her eyes had not been red from weeping
and if she had been able to control the trembling of
her body. But this she could not do, for the assistant
had lost all control of her nerves.
As he saw her, Kent started across the floor, and
they met beside one of the tables. Pulling out a chair,
he motioned for the girl to be seated, and waited a
moment for her to pull herself together. As this
seemed something she could not do, the police official
was forced to speak.
“Young lady,” came his gruff voice, “I know you
feel bad and all that, but my time is valuable. Your
boss has been murdered and—”.
There came a muffled cry from the girl's lips, and
she rose in a frightened manner from her chair. With
[25]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
one hand gripping the table for support, she stared
at the office door as if expecting it would open. Her
lips were trembling, the blue eyes opened wide with
fright. As she looked, little trembling cries escaped
from her lips.
Rand saw an expression of disgust sweep over the
inspector's face. He knew what the man was thinking.
Time was valuable and before them was a hysterical
young woman, one who had lost all control of her
nerves and would be unable to answer any questions
until she had calmed down. With a gesture the in-
spector turned to the librarian.
"Take her somewhere and tell her I will see her
in a few moments."
The girl was led from the room with the librarian's
arm around her shoulders. It was not a dignified re-
treat, for she was letting herself go. They could hear
her voice, broken with sobs, dying away in the dis-
tance. As he listened, Kent swore; swore just once,
but that once was enough.
He might have spoken if two men had not come
through the door. One was a young patrolman, the
other, who carried a tin box under his arm, was the
fingerprint expert. Reaching the inspector's side they
paused. Receiving his instructions, the fingerprint
expert hastened toward the office door, leaving the
policeman behind.
[26]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
There came another interruption. A policeman was
pushing a shrinking figure into the room, a little
protesting man, who swore rather loudly and did not
wish to look at the inspector, a man dressed in a faded
brown suit, whose feet slid over the floor far more
than they walked.
As he stood before them, Joe White was not a
pleasing sight. He had not shaved for several days
and the rough beard gave his thin cheeks an unpleas-
ant color. The narrow, shifting eyes shot one fleeting
look at the inspector; then their gaze dropped to the
floor. There was no doubt the man was ill at ease
and, Rand thought, a bit frightened.
The inspector's hand fell on White's shoulders
and he pulled the little figure close to him. As the
captive did not look up, Kent's other hand threw
White's head back. For a moment the eyes of the
two men met. Then came the low, slow voice of the
official:
“Well, Joe, what's it been this time ?"
"Nothing,” came the whining reply. “I ain't done
a thing, chief. You have no right to pull me around
like this."
"No?" barked out Kent. “What were you trying
to sneak out of the building for?”
For a second White raised his head and Rand saw
a nervous, anxious look leap into the man's eyes.
[27]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
Then came the whining voice, and there was a trace
of fear in the tones:
"Had a right to leave the place if I wanted. It's
a public building."
Kent scowled, his eyes studying the figure before
him for a moment, then he took his hand from the
man's shoulder. His voice was like the barking of a
machine gun.
“Joe, in that office is Ruby Merton, dead. Just been
bumped off. What do you know about it?”
They saw the little figure sway for a moment; then
White dropped into the nearest chair. He did not
speak, neither did he raise his eyes. The thin hands
were clasping each other, and his face grew pale.
When he did lift his head, the look they received was
a mixture of fear and doubt. The shrill voice trembled
when he spoke.
"Dead?” he gasped.
Kent nodded, waiting for a reply. There was no
reply. Not until he had been asked again and again
the question:“What do you know about her death?"
did he speak. Then it was only to shake his head and
say that he knew nothing.
But he did know something. Rand was sure of
that. He remembered how he had watched White
studying the office door. There had been curiosity
on his face, then also anticipation. He had known
18.
[28]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
something. But that Joe White had the courage to
kill anyone Rand doubted.
Yet the man was afraid. It could be seen in his
trembling hands; it flashed forth in his eyes. What
Kent might be thinking Rand could not tell, but he
was pretty sure of one thing—White had been startled
when the inspector had told him the librarian was
dead, not only startled but actually surprised.
Try his best, Kent could not get the man to speak.
To every question he would shake his head, remain
silent and motionless. This stubborn spell surprised
both the inspector and Rand. There had been other
occasions when the law had reached out for White.
He had always been willing to talk then.
In the end, disgusted and angry, Kent's hand went
slamming down on White's shoulder and he pulled
the shrinking figure to its feet. For a moment the
police official scowled at the man before him; then
he turned to the policeman.
"Take him over to the station and throw him in a
cell,” he ordered.
The two started over the floor, and Kent watched
the tall policeman as he half pulled, half shoved his
prisoner along. White knew something, but what?
Then, as they had almost reached the door, Kent
remembered the look in White's eyes when he ordered
him to be taken to jail. It had been a look of relief.
[29]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
"Jake," he called out, “bring him back.”
The policeman stopped and brought his prisoner
back to the inspector's side. For a second Kent looked
down at the sullen figure, then reaching forth he
pulled him close to his side and, with the other hand,
began to search his pockets. There were several
pocket knives, pencils, bits of string, a paper of to-
bacco and two cheap pipes. These did not interest
the official, but they were all he found in the pockets.
Rand had noticed that the search was far from
pleasing to White, but, when Kent finished and stepped
back to throw a gloomy look at the objects on the
table, he saw a flash of relief sweep over White's
face. It passed away when the inspector ordered the
man to take off his shoes. He started to protest but
Kent shoved him down into a chair and motioned to
a policeman.
They were not very good shoes, or very clean.
As they were pulled from his feet, White started to
protest. His frightened eyes watched the long fingers
of the inspector go searching into the shoes. From the
look on the man's face, Rand knew that something
would be found.
The first shoe revealed nothing, but when his fingers
went into the toes of the second, Kent gave a little nod
of satisfaction. They saw his hand come forth, noticed
the quick glance he gave the object he was holding,
watched the look that swept over his face.
[30]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
"Well, Joe,” came the cold voice, “suppose you
tell us what you were doing with five ten dollar bills
hidden in the toe of your shoe? They look like com-
panions of the fifteen which were on Miss Merton's
desk.”
.
[31]


CHAPTER III
A DEEP silence fell over the room. The inspector
stood glaring down at the shrinking figure in the chair.
For the moment he did not care to speak. As for
White, he would have been unable to say a word if
he had wished to talk. With his face twisted into a
frightened grin, the blinking eyes gazed at Kent's
outstretched hand, gazed as though ten dollar bills
were some strange oddity he had never seen before.
"Well, Joe?" came Kent's voice again, and, though
the tone was low and even, the icy edge behind the
inflection caused White to jump. Unable to meet
Kent's gaze he looked at the floor as he stammered
out an excuse.
“I got that jack, working."
Kent gave a scornful laugh. That Joe White would
ever receive fifty dollars for any sort of work was
something that could not happen unless there had
been a miracle. For Joe White to work would have
been a miracle.
Kent's lips went suddenly tight. His hand shot out
to yank White upright from the chair. With a half
twist he sent the frightened man spinning into the
arms of the nearest policeman.
n
.
[32]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
eve
"Joe,” came the snarling word, "you talk, and you
talk damn quick. Tell me where you got that money
or over to the jail you go with a charge of murder
against you. What's more, I'll make it stick.”
White's face had grown pale and his lips twitched.
Throwing out his hands in a gesture, he tried to slip
from the clutching grasp which held him. Then sud-
denly words came tumbling from his lips.
"I never croaked her, not me, never. Don't hang
that on me, chief. I did swipe the jack, but I never
croaked her.”
The thin face was working nervously as he pleaded
with the inspector. He was deadly frightened. Rand
could see that, but he doubted very much if White
knew anything about the woman's death. If he had
gone into the office to steal the money, it could only
have been when no one was there. If he had found her
dead, he never would have remained in the reading
· room.
What White told them seemed to prove that
Rand's idea had been right. In a voice which broke
as he looked into the stern face of the inspector, the
captive told his story. Though the little man seemed
to have become even smaller, yet there was a fright-
ened sincerity behind his words.
He had seen Miss Merton come out of her office
and go over to the desk where her assistant was sit-
ting. Rand could see this desk; it was on the other
[33]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
side of the room from the private office. In a few
moments the librarian had returned. White had ob-
served that she was carrying money in her hand. En-
tering her office, she had remained there for a while;
then she came out again. This time she went out of
the reading room.
Rand could picture the sneak thief as he watched
the woman leave the room. In her office was money,
and for the moment the place was deserted. It was
too strong a temptation and, if he told the truth,
all he had done was to make a bluff of going to a
magazine rack and then suddenly to dart into the
little room. The money was half hidden under a
blotter, and he had taken five of the bills.
Kent had listened without a word. When White
paused for breath the inspector spoke.
"You say you saw her come over from the desk over
there, and that she was carrying the money in her
hand, then when she went out of her office you sneaked
in there?" he queried.
The eagerness with which White nodded was im-
pressive. For a second the inspector looked at him,
then, with a weary note in his voice motioned to the
policeman.
"Take him over to the police station and lock him
up. On your way out tell them to have the librarian
bring back that girl.”
Protesting loudly, White was pushed out of the
[34]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
reading room. As he vanished through the door, the
fingerprint expert came out of the office. While he
crossed over to their side, Rand saw there was a
pleased look on the man's face. He started to talk
while some feet away.
"I picked a half dozen or more prints. What else
do you want done?”
Kent shook his head in a dubious fashion.
ndred people in the build-
ing,” he said, "counting those who were in this room
and the girls who work here. I guess you better
make sure you stay in the station. There may be other
prints I shall want you to take."
With a nod the man left them. Kent turned to gaze
reflectively over the room. Now that it was empty it
appeared to be a large place. He sighed as he thought
of what was ahead of him. Every single person in
the building would have to be examined, and there
must be over a hundred. There would be little sleep
tonight. Rand's voice broke in on his gloomy thoughts.
"You believe White?" he queried.
“Yes," came the slow reply. “Joe would not have
nerve enough to kill her. He's no killer anyway, and
if he had sneaked in to that office and found her dead
in her chair, you can be sure he would not have stayed
around. Not he. Here comes that damned girl.”
Mr. Spicer was coming across the floor. Behind
him was the reluctant figure of the girl. Though her
[35]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
lips were trembling, yet she appeared to have gained
control of her feelings to some extent. They saw her
give one look at the private office, and for a second
Rand thought she would make another scene, but her
lips shut tight as she hurriedly glanced away. Pulling
a chair from the table, Kent motioned for her to be
seated. For a moment he studied her face, then spoke
softly:
“You can help us a great deal if you will only
answer my questions. There is nothing to be excited
about. No harm can come to you."
The girl's face grew very serious as she nodded.
Though her hands were nervously clasping and un-
clasping, she leaned back in her chair to wait for
the first question.
“You were on duty in the reading room this after-
noon?"
The girl nodded.
“Did you see Miss Merton during the afternoon?"
"Three of four times."
“When was the last time?”.
"I should say a little before four o'clock. She came
to my desk to get the money from the Women's Club."
The look she received caused her to add quickly:
"It was money given by the Women's Club for a
memorial picture to be hung in one of the branch
libraries."
She had gained control of her nerves and her voice
[36]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
To Rand's surprise, Kent did not pursue this line
of information. Instead, after one look at the girl, he
wanted to know if she had observed anything out of
the way in the dead woman's manner during the day.
A shrewd expression swept over the girl's face.
She cast a doubtful look at the floor, then raised her
eyes. The look was a keen one, filled with a little
trace of excitement. Now that her hysteria had passed,
the reporter could see that she was not only a very
pretty girl but also a rather intelligent one. When she
replied there was a half apologetic tone in her voice:
“It may mean nothing, sir, but she was very much
excited all day. Again and again during the morning
she tried to get some number on the telephone. I
think she must have gotten her party about one
o'clock, for she did not use the phone after that. I
thought that she was not only excited but also, per-
haps, a little shocked.”
"You have no idea whom she wanted, whom she
was trying to get on the telephone?"
The girl shook her head. The reference librarian
had a direct line outside the building and, as the tele-
phone system was automatic, the calls could not be
traced through the exchange. But the woman had
tried again and again to get a number, the girl was
sure of this, for during the morning she had been
working at a table just outside the office door. She
had heard the telephone being used.
[38]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
till the body is moved. I will give you what dope I
get later."
Rand walked over the floor, hesitating a second
before the closed office door. Straightening up his
shoulders he pushed it open and entered the room.
He tried not to give a glance at the still figure at the
desk, but was unable to turn his eyes away. The glance
was only for a second, however; the next instant he
was standing before the door which was opposite
the one he had just pushed open.
It was a wooden door, and there was a key in the
lock, but when he turned the knob the door swung
open. The girl had said that Miss Merton always
kept the door locked; what was more, one of her
assistants had tried the door earlier in the afternoon.
It was locked then. It was now unlocked.
Pushing the door open, he stepped out into a small
hallway. To his left was another door, its top glass.
He could see part of the large lounge, though the
view was broken by high pillars. To his right the hall
ran only about six feet, and there was a door which
he thought opened into the basement.
He stood there for a while thinking. If the door
was always locked, if it had been locked at three, then
the murderer had simply turned the key and escaped
through the hallway. It would be an easy thing to do.
Though he might be observed as he stepped into the
lounge, yet again he might not be. Anyone who was
[40]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
careful and picked the moment well, could dart to
one of the pillars and be unseen.
When he stepped back into the office, for some
unknown reason, he turned the key in the lock. He
gave it a moody glance, then stepped over to the
desk and sank down into the chair. One hand reached
out for the telephone. While he had the time, he had
better phone into the rewrite man what he had found.
But just as he was about to dial the number he gave
a start.
For some reason the desk did not look natural.
Why he thought this he did not know, but there was
something that should have been on the table, which
was not there. It was not the money that had been
under the blotter, for the inspector had taken that.
So far as he could see, nothing had been disturbed,
and yet-
Slowly his eyes searched every section of the desk.
He noticed the pile of magazines, the copies of the
Publishers' Weekly, the orderly row of book cata-
logues. For a second he even allowed his eyes to rest
upon that white head, a head sunk down upon a still
chest. Everything seemed to be as it was when he
first came into the office. But he knew that something
was missing.
Again his eyes started to travel over the desk;
then suddenly he gave a start. There was one thing
missing. The inspector had not taken it, and the finger-
[41]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
print expert would touch nothing. But one thing was
gone. He had watched the inspector examine the cord
which had been around the woman's neck. After one
look Kent had tossed it upon the desk. It had been
upon the desk when they left the office to go into the
reading room, but it was not there now. Nowhere
in the room could he see that bit of cord.
[42]


CHAPTER IV
LEANING back in the chair, Rand stared at the desk
as though he had never seen it before. When he rose
to his feet, he lifted each book, picked up every piece
of paper. After examining the desk, he searched the
rest of the room, and in the end he was forced to ad-
mit that the bit of cord had vanished.
Kent had not placed it in his pocket; he was positive
of that. The inspector had thrown the cord on the
desk and had not picked it up again. Spicer had seen
the cord but had not touched it. The fingerprint ex-
pert had not touched it Rand was sure; he certainly
would not have taken it from the room. However,
it was gone.
Rand's eyes rested upon the door which opened into
the hallway. He gave a start. The bit of cord was
missing, and none of the police had taken it, but some-
one might have come into the office from the hallway.
If this had happened, the cord had been taken while
Kent and Rand were out in the reading room. He
thought of this for a moment, as a shrewd look swept
over his face. That bit of cord had been the weapon
by which the librarian had been killed. It was of no
interest to anyone save the murderer. Then he gave
a little whistle.
[43]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
Whoever had taken the cord must still be in the
building. The inspector had stated that he had police-
men at all the doors, and that no one was allowed to
enter or leave the building until he had been examined.
There had been no time as yet to examine anyone.
Whoever had taken the string must still be in the
building.
His first idea was to rush from the room and tell
the inspector, but by this time Kent would be on the
second floor trying to discover what the people who
had been in the reading room had observed. Then he
had another idea.
Going into the hallway he turned to his left. He
paused by the door that led to the lobby and glanced
through the glass. Leaning against the post was a
uniformed policeman. Rand gave the thickset figure
one glance then pushed open the door and called out.
With a slight start of surprise, the man turned
around and gazed at the reporter. At the sight of
Rand's beckoning finger he came slowly across the
floor. Every policeman in the city knew the reporter,
and a half grin passed over the officer's face as he
reached Rand's side.
"Have you seen anyone come through this door?"
Rand questioned quickly.
The policeman slowly shook his head.
"No." was the very positive reply. Seeing that one
word was not enough, he went into details. “I have
[44]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
been back of that post for the last thirty minutes.
There is a man outside. My job is to see that no one
sneaks out. There ain't been no one past me, and if
they tried to come past that door I would see them.
What you want to know for?”.
There was an interested look upon the policeman's
face; he was willing to listen. With a little shake of
his head Rand murmured some excuse and stepped
back into the hallway. As the door closed he stood
silent a moment. One thing seemed sure; no one had
gone out into the lobby. It would have been impos-
sible to do so without being seen by the watching
policeman.
But there was another door in the hallway, and he
judged that it went down into the basement. Whoever
had taken the cord had to come through the hallway
door. Then the basement must be the place where the
murderer had vanished.
Walking to the end of the passage, he threw the
door open and found himself looking down into a pit
of blackness. It was after six o'clock and, because of
the storm, darkness had already fallen over the city.
The cellar into which he was looking no doubt passed
under the entire building. Just how large it was he
did not know.
Passing through the doorway, he went down two
steps and then stood listening. Not a sound came to
his ears, but after a moment he could make out the
[45]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
windows across the floor. High up in the wall were
two dim squares not quite so black as the rest of the
cellar.
To go down in the dark cellar, not knowing its
size or what it might contain, did not seem a very
sensible thing to do. There must be a switch some-
where, and he turned to see if it was on the wall be-
hind him. Not finding it, he decided that it must be at
the bottom of the steps.
There were just seven steps but when he stood
on the concrete cellar floor he found that the cellar
was even darker than he had thought. True, across
the floor he could make out the two small windows,
but they were only a trifle lighter than the cellar itself.
A hand went searching in his pocket for his lighter
and finding it he flipped the spring, but though there
came a tiny spark the wick did not ignite. As he thrust
the trinket back into his pocket he remembered that
he had been intending to fill it all day. He would have
to depend upon matches if he wished a light.
Matches were one thing Carty Rand was never
able to keep in his pockets. When he had made a care-
ful search, he held just five in his hand. They ought to
be enough, for all he wished was to discover the
switch for the electric lights. It must be on the wall by
his side.
He struck a match, and as the ficker of flame
leaped into being quickly looked about him. High on
[46]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
the wall was the switch; just as the match went splut-
tering out, his fingers touched the button. But though
he turned it over, the cellar did not leap forth into
light.
Again and again his nervous fingers tugged and
snapped the switch, but to no avail. Either the lights
were turned off in the cellar or there was something
wrong. He had found the switch but he could get no
illumination. The thing would not work.
With his back pressed against the wall he peered
out into the darkness. Like a huge tunnel of gloom,
the cellar stretched away before him. In the blackness
it had neither shape nor size, seemingly stretching
away into chaos—a sinister darkness, he thought,
which threatened to engulf him if he moved.
Just what to do he did not know. Two floors above,
Kent would be examining the library patrons, trying
to find some fact which might throw light on the
crime. He knew what Kent would say when told of
the disappearance of the cord, could see his face flush
with eagerness. Perhaps the best thing to do was to
go back up the steps.
Yet he hesitated. The cord had vanished. Whoever
had taken it must have come down into the cellar.
He knew there must be another entrance to the base-
ment; no doubt it was at the other end of the building.
If he went to the center of the floor, and picked his
way carefully, he ought to be able to find it.
[47]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
Suddenly there came over him the feeling that he
was not alone. Though he could see nothing, and no
sound drifted to his ears, yet a little shiver swept
over him. It was an indescribable feeling, as though
a sudden cold wind passed through the basement.
As he felt it he realized that he was not alone.
Pressed close against the wall he bent forward and
listened. For a moment he heard nothing. Then he
thought he could hear the rain hitting against the
windows, but the sound was so faint he could barely
hear it.
He tried to throw his nervousness aside, telling
himself that it was caused by the darkness and si-
lence, but he knew that he was simply deceiving
himself. Someone was in the cellar; though he could
neither see nor hear the person, yet he knew some-
one was there. The very air he breathed seemed
filled with a threatening presence. Again the shiver
passed over him and he gave one look at the steps.
They were overhead, but so dense was the gloom that
it was rather difficult to make out the shadowy out-
line. It was then that he was sure he heard a sound.
It was not much of a sound, yet it could not be
mistaken. A little to his right had come a curious
scraping on the cement floor, the dragging sound of
creeping coming in his direction, feet which were
trying to pick their way without a noise.
He had courage enough, but his heart took a sud-
[48]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
den pounding leap. Whoever was in the cellar knew
he was there, must have seen him come down the
steps, caught the flare of his match. Now this un-
known was stalking him in the darkness.
The sound had come from the direction of the
stairway. Rand tried to pierce the darkness with his
glance, but could see nothing. As he pressed against
the wall, he thought he heard someone breathe. Then
he gave one leap in the direction of the stairway.
As he leaped away from the wall he slammed into
the unseen body of a man. His hand brushed against
a shoulder; his face felt the rough cloth as it scraped
against his cheek. Then a hand came clutching down
upon his shoulder.
With a burst of strength he threw it off, only to
feel it clutching at his coat. A fist crashed against his
arm. Though it was only a slanting blow, yet the
force sent him backward. As he half stumbled, his
unseen assailant came rushing after him.
As they clinched, Rand knew that it would take
all his skill and strength to keep on his feet, but keep
his feet he must, for his opponent was larger and
heavier than himself. Once down on the concrete he
would be at a disadvantage. He must keep his feet as
long as he could.
A hand was creeping over his shoulder, searching
for his throat. Rand felt long sinuous fingers clutch-
ing at his flesh. Desperately he threw them off and
[49]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
sent his fist against the man's chest. The blow drove
him back, but only for a second. The next he had
rushed in again.
As they struggled back and forth in the darkness,
for some unknown reason Rand did not call out. He
could hear the heavy breathing of his opponent, feel
the hands which clutched and tore at his clothing, but
neither of them spoke.
Once the man's arms encircled Rand's waist, and
he was almost thrown to the floor. Shaking himself
loose, he reached out his hand, only to have his fingers
entangled in the pocket of a coat. As they slipped in
they clutched something, which, as he drew away, he
kept securely in his hand.
Leaping back he thrust the object into his pocket
as the man rushed him against the side of the stair-
way. Struggling to break away, he felt the pressure
of the strong hands upon his arms, sensed the cutting
edge of the stairway. Here he was at a disadvantage,
and he realized to his horror that the man had a
grip which he could not break.
The side of the stair was cutting into his back;
the pressure was getting stronger, and he felt a sud-
den twinge of pain. A hand crept up his arm, slid
over his shoulder, then the long fingers fixed around
his throat.
He shook one arm away, and struck out wildly
with his clenched fist. He felt it go smashing upon the
['50]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
man's throat and realized that the grip around his
neck had been broken. He gave a leap for the steps,
leaped again as the man jumped forward to catch him,
and managed to escape the grasp.
His feet reached the first step then the second.
Half creeping, half climbing, he dragged himself
toward the open door, and knew that the danger was
over. The man had given up the idea of following
him. He heard footsteps running over the cellar floor,
heard them die away as, with a gasp, he staggered
through the door into the hallway.
The first instinctive action was to lean wearily
against the wall. Next he closed the door and turned
the key which was in it. His wind was gone and he
was panting. By the light which came from the lobby
he saw that his clothes were in a sorry state.
For several moments he leaned against the wall.
Just what the episode in the cellar might mean he did
not at the moment try to fathom. His entire body
ached, and where the man's fingers had encircled his
throat there was a fiery pain.
As his strength came flooding back, he realized
that he must get to Kent at once. The man must still
be in the cellar, unless he had managed to escape
through the windows. Rand knew he must hurry to
Kent and have the cellar searched at once.
Suddenly he remembered the object his fingers had
clutched when they slipped into the man's pocket. He
[51]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY.
found the object and for a moment his fingers rested
on it. When his hand came out into the light he gave
a long look at the thing clutched in his fingers. It was
a sober look and at the same time a wondering one.
There in his hand was a piece of cord, a harmless
looking bit of cord, to look at, but Rand knew that
it was not as harmless as it appeared, for in his hand
he was holding the cord which had been around the
librarian's throat.
[52]


CHAPTER V
Only for a second did he look at the cord. Thrust-
ing it back into his pocket he turned and started for
the lobby. The policeman, still standing beside the
first pillar, gave him a friendly glance as he hurried
by, but Rand did not even nod.
Rushing up a wide stairway he came out on the
balcony which ran around the large court. To his
right were the art gallery and the special library,
and across the court was a lecture room. Both art
gallery and lecture room contained people, and after
a quick glance he saw that Kent was in the special
library.
He paused by the door and looked into the room.
In front of a book-lined wall, the tall inspector was
seated at a desk. Beside him sat a stenographer and
behind her was a policeman. A worried looking man
was answering the questions which were being
hurled at him.
It was several moments before the inspector
looked in the direction of the door. A scowl swept
over his face as Rand beckoned and for a moment
Rand thought he would not leave the desk, but at
last he rose and hastened out into the hallway.
[53]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
"It's no time to ask me any questions,” he
growled.
“Listen to what I am going to spill," was the
retort.
In a few words the trip to the cellar and the
fight were described. As Kent's eyes opened in as-
tonishment, Rand took from his pocket the piece
of black cord. With a shrug of his shoulders he
placed it in the inspector's outstretched palm.
Turning it over and over in his big hands, Kent's
eyes searched every inch of the string.
"It's the same cord,” he growled as he turned
to the policeman who was in the book-lined room.
“Come here, Hank," he commanded.
Short and vivid were the orders the man received.
He was to take another officer and search the cellar
from one end to the other. If they found anyone
there they were to bring him up to the second floor.
As the man started to leave Kent growled out that
if he had to shoot, then shoot.
Rand followed the officer to the first floor. There
was little interest in listening to a hundred people
being asked the same questions. That the man was
still in the cellar he doubted. Nor was he surprised
when, after the end of their thirty-minute search,
nothing had been found.
It had been a careful search. Every inch of the
cellar had been looked over. Packing cases had been
[54]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
moved, piles of old magazines disturbed. Under the
light from the flashlights the remotest corners had
been looked into. Even the dark furnace room had
been searched, and two tons of coal had been dis-
turbed. But there were no signs of anyone.
It was not until they began to look at the windows
that they found one was open. A packing case stood
below it, and the dust upon the sill showed that
someone had crawled through. There was no doubt
the man had left the cellar.
Rand crawled slowly back to the second floor and
again looked through the door. Kent was still at
the table and a look into the art gallery showed
there were at least thirty persons yet to be examined.
As the inspector turned to glance in his direction
Rand shook his head, only to have his gesture re-
peated by Kent.
Digging into a pocket he found a loose cigarette
and slowly lighted it. He knew what Kent's shake
of the head meant. Nothing had been discovered
from the persons who were passing before the desk.
He had an idea nothing would be discovered. With
a half sigh he glanced at his wrist watch, scowling
when he saw the time.
It was after seven. By all rights he should be at
the paper, for his chief had said he would wait at
the office for him. It would be several hours before
the inspector would be through with his examina-
[55]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
Cds
tions. Rand decided to go to the office and send a
cub back in case anything should break while he
was away.
As he slipped out of the building and felt the
rain dashing over his hot face he realized that he
was a little tired. Night had fallen and with the
coming of darkness the storm had increased. The
wind was howling across the river, hurling the rain
in blinding sheets over the pavement. Upon the
flagpole in front of the library, the flag, which
should have been pulled down at sundown, was being
whipped to shreds by the wind.
He was lucky enough to find a taxi across the
street and after giving the address, he sank down
on the seat with a sigh of relief. Lighting another
cigarette, he started to run over in his mind the
story he would write. He was still thinking of it
when they stopped before the Star building.
The Star filled a unique position in newspaper
circles. It was the only newspaper in a city of a
quarter of a million, and had both a morning and
an evening edition. Rand did not have to fear being
scooped by other reporters, but when he reached the
fourth floor, and went into the office of the city
editor, he was surprised to find the big boss himself
sitting behind a desk.
He gave his story, was asked a few questions,
then was told to write what he had discovered and
[56]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
He had wet for lihrough ned exam they wouc ftv per
stick to the case. There was a twinkle in the editor's
eyes when he asked Rand if he wanted another man
to help him out. The reporter's hasty refusal caused
the editor to laugh.
It was nine o'clock when Carty Rand came out
of the restaurant next door to the Star building and
hailed a taxi. Giving the police station as an address,
he climbed in and put his legs up on the other seat.
He had written his story, had something to eat and
was now set for the night.
As they drove through the rain-swept streets, he
wondered if Kent had finished examining the people
who had been in the library. That they would know
anything he doubted, yet there had been fifty per-
sons in that reading room, some one of them must
have seen something.
At the police station he went at once to the office
of the homicide squad and pushed open the glass
door. Though the lights were on, no one was behind
the desk. A sergeant stuck his head through the door
and said that the inspector was just leaving the li-
brary. Also, he had asked that some supper be sent
into his office.
When the tall figure came through the door,
Rand needed but one look at the official's face to
tell that nothing new had been discovered. There
was a weary expression upon Kent's face, a per-
plexed look in his eyes. With a sigh he sank down
[57]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
in his chair and slowly packed a much worn pipe.
Before he could strike the match, a messenger boy
came into the room bearing a covered basket, from
which the boy produced a plate of thin sandwiches,
a thermos bottle filled with coffee, and two pieces
of rather sorry looking pie. As a supper it was not
much, but it seemed to satisfy the inspector. When
the last crumb of the pie had vanished, Kent lighted
his pipe and threw a long reflective look at the
reporter.
"We know no more than we did when you called
me over," was the dry comment. Then, after the pipe
was drawing to suit him, he shook his head and
added, “But Joe White can't be the boy."
One of the patrons of the library had seen White
slip into the office. This witness was positive that
the librarian had left the reading room and that,
when she did, White had risen from his chair and
entered the office. He was there only a moment and
it was some time after he had taken his seat that
the woman had returned to the room.
"That let's Joe out. At that I never thought he
had nerve enough to commit a murder.".
That Kent was worried was apparent. Angry,
quick puffs of smoke were coming from his mouth,
around which was a tight line, and he scowled at
Rand as though expecting him to speak and throw
are
[58]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
some light upon the crime. Seeing the look, the
reporter asked one question:
"What about the bit of cord that was taken from
the office ?”
“That string may prove to be the only clue we
have. It's a good hunch the bird who sneaked back
to get it was the murderer. He must have been in
the building all the time. What's more he was afraid
to leave the cord there."
This was a little too much for Rand. Sarcastically
he inquired if the inspector thought the murderer
had waited around the building until the body had
been discovered and the string placed on the desk.
To his surprise that was just about what Kent did
mean.
Placing his pipe on the edge of the desk, the
official grew serious. In his opinion, the murderer
had realized that it was a question of only a few
moments before the crime would be discovered. He
wanted the string, because he was afraid it might be
traced. Rand gave a scornful laugh.
“Trace a bit of strong cord ?” he queried.
“Sure, when the cord is the kind it is. Not so many
people of the city would have that sort of string
with them. It's the sort of thing you find on fishing
boats.”
Though the cord had been in his possession and
[59]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
he had looked at it several times, it had suggested
nothing to Rand. Now he repeated Kent's words:
"It's the sort of thing you find on fishing boats."
The thought of his stupidity was not pleasing. Kent
was right. It might be possible to trace the cord.
For a while they talked of the motive. The police
had failed to find any reason for the woman's death,
and even to think of one seemed beyond their im-
agination. A hundred and fifty dollars was on the
desk—it had not been touched. Robbery was not
the motive, and the woman had no real enemies.
Rand was informed that though every person in
the library had been interviewed, their testimony
was of no value. Not one individual had heard or
seen anything out of the way. Even the man who had
noticed White slip into the private office had not
thought anything of the action.
There were thirty-one individuals 'on the library
staff and all but two of them were women. Not one
had the slightest fact which would throw any light
on the crime. As he said this the inspector shook
a very gloomy head.
But Rand was not so certain the official was right.
He knew Kent and had a great deal of admiration
for his ability, but, after all, the inspector was an
unimaginative man, trained in the old-fashioned
methods of police work. That meant that certain
things were done as a matter of course. Witnesses
[60]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
were examined, fingerprints taken, such clues as
could be observed, run down.
But in this affair, the usual detail work had run
into a blind alley. There were no clues to be ex-
amined, the persons who should have been witnesses
knew nothing, and there was little doubt that they
had told the truth. As for the fingerprints, the in-
spector had just said, there was not likely to be any
help there. True, all the persons in the library had
been fingerprinted, and later there would be a re-
port, but Kent had no hopes in that direction.
Rand felt there was one thing overlooked. The
assistant librarian had said that her superior had
been excited and nervous all day. During the morn-
ing she had tried again and again to get a telephone
number. She had wanted to see the librarian, and
several times had sent in to see if she could have
an interview. It was Rand's opinion that if Spicer
had seen her when he first came into the building
there would have been no murder.
Voicing these opinions, he had the satisfaction of
having Kent listen, though his face did not change
in expression. When Rand ran out of words, there
came the inspector's curt query:
"It's all so, but what do you make out of it?"
Rand threw his cigarette into an ash tray and
rose slowly to his feet. He was a tall young man
whose body could stand at least twenty more pounds.
[61]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
As he gazed down at the slouched figure of Kent a
little gleam of excitement flashed into his gray eyes.
"Nothing, Kent. But I know this. Ruby Merton
was an emotional old soul. She was always excited
about something. But we heard today that she was
very much excited. First she tried to see Spicer. Why
that bird did not see her when he first got her note
is a thing he may regret. But something bothered
her. Maybe she discovered something when she came
down to her office.”
The figure in the chair straightened up to cast one
look at Rand. Seeing the question upon his face the
reporter threw out his hands in a helpless gesture.
"God knows what it might be, but there was some-
thing which scared and bothered her. She knew
something. It's a good hunch the murderer killed her
to keep her mouth shut.” Kent puffed away silently
and Rand added a question: "Kent, who is in the
library?”
"I left Blake on duty. Thought I'd better keep
someone in the building all night. Why?".
"Why?" came the retort. “Just this, Kent. The
entire answer to this murder must be in that library.
Whatever it was got the old lady disturbed, it hap-
pened right there in the building. If I could stumble
upon what it was, then we could get somewhere."
Kent gave him a serious look. There was a good
deal of sense in what he said. It was no ordinary
[62]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
murder, one which could be solved by the usual hit
and miss method. Until he had some idea as to the
motive behind the crime, he could not get very far.
Rand was a pretty shrewd reporter; he might
stumble upon something.
Dropping down into the chair he wrote out an
order. When he rose to place it in the outstretched
hand he uttered a word of warning:
"Give this to Blake, but if you find anything, call
me up."
[63]


CHAPTER VI
A very pleased policeman opened the library door.
His pleasure was due to the reporter's saying that
for the next hour he would not be alone. That he
was to have company caused a wide smile to break
across Blake's face. The deserted building had been
getting on his nerves, and the gloomy sound of the
rain dashing against the many windows had been far
from pleasing.
Rand could tell that the policeman was not enjoy-
ing his assignment. Lights were on in the lobby and
the reference room was not dark. Even the long
rows of stacks behind the delivery desk were illu-
mined by lights in each aisle. Blake had evidently de-
cided that if he had to be alone in the building, at
least he would not be in the dark.
Telling him he wished to be alone in the private
office, Rand went into the reading room. Because it
was unoccupied, it seemed much larger than usual.
As he crossed the floor, the orderly rows of chairs at
the vacant tables reminded him of the scene in the
late afternoon. Then the room had been filled.
With the policeman at his heels, he paused by the
[64]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
door which opened into the private office. For a
second the thought came to him that he was doing
an absurd thing. Kent had examined the room and
found nothing. That he could succeed where the
police had failed seemed doubtful. Yet he felt certain
that the office held the solution of the crime.
Pushing open the door he found the switch and
turned on the light. As the room leaped into vision,
instinctively he threw a glance at the desk. But the
chair which had contained the body was now empty.
He knew the policeman was wondering what he
was doing in the building, so he turned and said that
he wished to examine the room. With a shrug of his
shoulders, the officer replied that he would look over
a magazine, and, digging into a pocket, brought
forth a pipe. Lighting it, he ambled away in the di-
rection of the magazine racks.
Sinking into a chair, Rand lighted a cigarette and
began to study the little room. Across from him was
the green safe, the doors still open. Around the walls
were the bookcases, their shelves crowded with mag-
azines and reference works. The desk seemed undis-
turbed, except that the money, which had been half
hidden under a paper, was no longer there.
The more he glanced around the room the more
puzzled he became. It was an incredible sort of a
crime. That anyone in the city should have murdered
Ruby Merton was beyond belief. That the murder
[65]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
should have taken place in a building filled with
people seemed impossible.
Lighting another cigarette, he decided to start at
the beginning. What could be the motive? The more
he thought this over, the more puzzled he became.
The woman had been a public servant, without either
enemies or friends. Revenge, passion, theft, all the
things which may enter into the usual crime could not
have applied to her death. Yet there had been a mo-
tive, and the murderer must have been desperate, so
desperate that he had taken the chance of being de-
tected. Why? Then he began to remember what the
assistant had said.
From the time she came into her office the woman
had been excited. All morning long she had tried to
get someone on the telephone. Then there was her
attempt to see the librarian. If Spicer had not put the
woman off, no doubt she would still be alive. What
had she wanted to tell him? What had she dis-
covered?
He thought of this for a while. When she came
into her office she had made some discovery. Then he
gave a start. Had her telephone calls been attempts
to have the murderer come down to her office? They
had been told that she failed to get the party she was
calling, and the assistant did not know who it was.
In the end he reached a conclusion. Not only had
[66]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
Ruby Merton made a discovery that morning, but
it had been made in her own office. What was more
it had been of such importance that the individual it
concerned had killed her, rather than have it made
public.
If this reasoning was correct, then, some time dur-
ing the day, the murderer had become informed of
what the woman knew. She had been murdered in
order to stop her tongue. But he wondered a little.
It hardly seemed credible that any discovery she
might make in the little room would be of great im-
portance.
His glance fell upon the door which led to the
hallway. There was no doubt the murderer had
come through the door. This raised another ques-
tion. That door was always locked, and they had
been told that around three one of the girls had
come down the hall and had tried the door. It had
been locked then.
With a sudden shrug of his shoulders, he rose to
his feet, and stood staring at the safe. If the library
door had been locked, then the murderer must have
entered the office from the reading room. Perhaps
Kent had discovered a witness, who, while seated at
a table, had seen someone go into the office. If he
had, the inspector had kept the information from
him.
[67]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
He was half decided that it was foolish to spend
any more time there. There was nothing in the office,
not the slightest thing which could aid him. Turning,
he started for the door, but before reaching it
paused. He might take a look at the safe.
It stood between two windows, its steel doors
partly open. Getting down on his knees, he peered
into the gloomy interior. There were the usual com-
partments, but there was one difference from the
usual safe. One half the space was divided into
shelves which were filled with books.
The compartment drawers were locked, and when
he discovered this he laughed. After all, if they had
been open he would have found nothing of value. He
started to rise to his feet, but dropped down on his
knees again. It was a good time to look over the
books.
If he had one complex which stood out above all
others, it was his love for books. Hours of his spare
time were spent in reading. Everything written about
books thrilled his soul, and his mind was filled with
a store of what he often thought was useless knowl-
edge.
There were about twenty books on the narrow
shelves. They were the rare editions which the li-
brary owned, and, because they were valuable, they
were not placed in general circulation. Few people
had ever seen them.
[68]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
Reaching into the safe, he pulled out the first
books his hands fell upon, and for a few moments
turned the pages. He found a first edition of Keats,
four Conrads, which he knew were mounting in
value, and three Hardy first editions.
There were four shelves in the safe, and he started
at the first. When he reached the last one, he pulled
forth five items. They had been placed in slip covers,
and were small pamphlets, very old, and yet in a
rather remarkable state of preservation.
The first one which he took from its case con-
tained but seventy-two pages. He glanced at the
title with a little awe, for he knew it was very valu-
able—"A Relation of Journal of the Beginning and
Proceedings of the English Plantation settled in
Plymouth"_began the very long title.
It was the very famous Mounts Relation. Many
collectors called those seventy-two pages the rarest
of all New England books. It contained the first
printed account of the Pilgrim fathers, and was writ-
ten by John Bradford. Not only was it rare, but he
knew that, at the last auction sale, it had brought a
price of thirty-five hundred dollars. And the library
owned two copies.
He gave the pamphlet a glance, then picked up the
next one. This was much smaller than the first
though almost as rare. John Davenport's “Dis-
courses about Civil Government.” It had been
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
printed in England in 1663. Over a year ago it had
sold for sixteen hundred dollars.
Leaning against the safe, Rand let his thoughts
wander. Like all book collectors, he wondered if he
would ever, say in some old dusty box, discover the
rare items he had glanced at—just a few faded
pages of paper, covered with old yellow letters, yet
worth hundreds of dollars.
Slipping to the floor, the pamphlets lying in his
lap, Rand allowed his thoughts to wander. For the
time being he had forgotten what had taken place
in the little room, forgotten what he had discovered
in the chair by his side. His imagination was running
wild.
There were five thin pamphlets in his lap. How
much had happened since John Bradford first
set down his quaint story of the Pilgrim fathers.
Millions of men had been born, suffered, loved
and died since those few sheets of paper had been
covered with black letters. They were worth a
great deal now, some day they would be worth a
fortune.
With a little sigh of envy he bent forward to
thrust them back into the safe. Closing the steel
safe he stood for a moment looking down at it. It
ought to be locked. No doubt in the excitement of
the afternoon this had been overlooked. For a
[70]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
second he wondered if he should turn the dial of the
combination, but decided that it was better to leave
things just as he had found them.
Lighting a fresh cigarette he stood silent a mo-
ment, then walked over to the door and looked out
into the reference room. Though Blake had turned
on all the lights on the lower floor, yet the long
empty room seemed very desolate and lonely. To
shut out the sight, he closed the door, and walked
back to sit in the chair by the desk.
Slumped far down in his chair, he tried to recall
how the rare, early Americana had come into the
possession of the library. Public libraries of small
cities did not as a rule collect valuable books. Yet
the five pamphlets in the safe were worth at least
ten thousand dollars, perhaps more.
In the end it came to him. A wealthy resident of
the city had given them to the library. There had
been a clause in the will which said that they could
not be sold until ten years had elapsed. That was
nine years ago, and a year must pass before the
library placed them on sale.
For a while his mind played with various conflict-
ing theories. Then a question began to frame itself:
Suppose the librarian had invited someone to her
office that afternoon. Perhaps this was a wild idea,
for to save his life he could not think of any reason
[71]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
why it should be done. But suppose she had, some-
one whom no individual in the crowded room had
seen go into her office.
The thought seemed absurd, for there had been
no hint of this, yet all morning long she had been try-
ing to reach someone on the phone. Tried again and
again. Whom had she been trying to reach, why had
she been so determined to get her party, and for
what reason?
Across from him stood the desk telephone, he
gave it a somber glance. If inanimate things could
only speak once in a while, how much more simple
life would be. But she had failed to get her party,
though she had tried again and again.
Rising, he crossed over to study the telephone.
There was a little switch on the side of the desk. A
smile crossed his lips as he noticed it. They had
been told that Ruby Merton's telephone was a di-
rect line outside the building. That was true, but the
switch showed that she could change over to the
library exchange if she so desired.
He knew most of the girls in the building, so,
dropping down in the chair, he rapidly dialed a
number. When the voice came over the wire, he
asked a question. Who had been on the library
switchboard that day? He was given two names, one
for the morning, the other for the afternoon. Leav-
[72]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
ing a very astonished girl at the other end of the
wire, he rang off without a word of thanks.
The young woman who answered his second call
assured him that she had been at the switchboard
until noon. To his inquiry if Ruby Merton had made
any calls outside the building, she answered “No,"
and added the information that, as she had a pri-
vate line, she rarely made any calls through the
library exchange.
Replacing the receiver, he wondered if it would
be worth while to call the other girl. She had been
on duty during the afternoon, and there was no
doubt she would make the same reply, but because
he was a good reporter he dialed the number.
To his first question she answered that she had
been on duty all afternoon. He could tell from the
inflection of her voice that the girl was wondering
why he desired the information.
“Did Ruby Merton make any outside calls dur-
ing the afternoon?"
The answer surprised him. The girl said that she
had, adding that the outside connection in the office
of the reading room had been out of order all morn-
ing. Miss Merton, when she had called for a num-
ber before one o'clock, had informed the girl that
she had just discovered her outside line was out of
order.
[73]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
“Do you know whom she called?”.
"She tried only two numbers,” came the reply.
“The first one she called not only by the number,
but gave the man's name. It was Judge Allen; and
he was out of town. The second one was a number
only, but what it was I do not remember; she did
not get her party.”
Thanking her, he hung up the receiver, then cast
a scowling glance at the dripping window. The in-
formation he had received was of no value. Judge
Allen was out of the city, but then the Judge would
know nothing of the murder anyway. He was almost
the best liked man in the city. There was that other
call, the uncompleted one.
With a shrug of his shoulders, he concluded that
one fact at least was true. All morning she had tried
to get into communication with someone, tried again
and again, only to discover around one o'clock that
her line had been out of order. When she put her
call through the library exchange, about one o'clock,
she failed to get her party.
An idea struck him. At one o'clock she would go
out to lunch. She might have reached the party she
wished at that time. No doubt she had tried to do
so, perhaps succeeded. But why this keen desire to
talk with the unknown individual ?
He had known Ruby Merton well, a funny, re-
pressed neurotic, whom life had soured, who, to say
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
the least, was not well liked. It was also true that
there were very few people whom she called friends.
It seemed probable that, if she had spent a good
part of a morning trying to reach someone on the
telephone, she must have been angry.
He broke off his thoughts to light another cig-
arette. As he blew a smoke ring across the room,
his eyes fell upon the door leading into the hall, a
door open several inches, in whose lock he could
see the key.
Here was another problem. The murderer' must
have entered through that door, yet around four
o'clock the door had been locked—and locked on the
inside. Who had unlocked it? He wished he could
answer that question.
Ruby Merton might have unlocked the door. If
she had, was it because someone was coming to see
her, someone whom she did not care to have come
through the reference room?
This was possible. Somebody had unlocked the
door, and he knew Ruby Merton well enough to
feel sure that no one would touch her door while
she was in the office. People took no liberties with
her belongings.
Leaning back into the chair, he gave a long sigh.
Suddenly he felt very weary and wondered why he
had returned to the library. The visit had been of
no importance; he knew no more than before he
[75]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
had returned to the building. He would go back
to the paper, write out a short report, then go to
bed.
But, for the moment, he relaxed. Then, suddenly,
there came sweeping over him a great wave of lone-
liness. The building seemed to become very large,
a desolate and empty place. It was very still. Only
the rain dashing against the window broke the
strange silence.
He was not a very imaginative young man, yet
he felt uneasy. It was an odd uneasiness, impelling
him to rise and rush from the little room, out of the
silent building. What caused the feeling he could
not tell, but as it again passed over him he rose to
his feet. Just as he stood upright, the lights in the
reference room suddenly went out.
One moment the room beyond the little office
had been a blaze of light, the next it had be-
come a pit of darkness. The square glass of the
door was now a black outline, a sinister darkness
he thought. As he stood staring at the glass, he
caught himself listening-listening with every nerve
tense.
He heard nothing and after a moment gave a
faint smile. The lights had gone out in the reference
room, but the bulbs in the office were on. Turning,
he reached his hand down to the desk for his hat;
[76]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
as he picked it up, his eyes fell upon the safe.
It was a dark.green safe, not very large, not more
than five feet high. As he glanced at it a scowl came
between his eyes. That door was unlocked, inside
was over ten thousand dollars' worth of rare books.
The safe ought to be locked, but, after all, it was
not his affair. That the door was unlocked was of
course an oversight. In the excitement it had been
overlooked. As he thought this, he decided he would
lock it himself.
Crossing the floor he knelt and made certain that
the door was closed; then his hand reached for the
dial, and he heard a faint clicking sound as it locked.
With one hand on the knob he was on the verge
of rising to his feet when a sound caused him to
become tense.
It was only a faint sound and for a second he
thought it must be the rain against the window,
but almost as soon as he thought this he knew he
was wrong. No rain could make that sound, that
soft sinister dragging noise which seemed to be
behind him.
With a start he made an effort to rise to his feet,
began a motion which would have turned him
around. Then came the blow, and pain, trickling
like a white-hot iron, went searing through his brain.
He felt himself sinking, sinking down into a soft
[77]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
darkness, a great pit of blackness, which rose to
meet him; then the darkness wrapped itself around
him, something seemed to explode in his brain and
after that he knew no more.
[78]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
light bulbs failed to take away all the gloom. There
were dark shadows in the corners, odd splotches of
darkness playing over the doors he passed by. Not
until he reached the end of the passage did he stop.
With a little shake of his head he glanced at the closed
door before him.
He was not only mentally tired but physically
worn out. There had been no sleep the previous
night, no chance to rest during the day, nor was
there any rest in sight. It would be hours before he
would be able to leave the station, and even when
he did get to bed he doubted if he could sleep.
He hesitated a moment before the closed door,
then pushed it open and entered the chief's office.
The room was below the level of the street, with
three long, narrow windows at the rear.
Seated in a large chair, behind the desk in the
center of the room, was a short, stocky figure with
snow-white hair. The hair was in wild disorder, as
though the big hands holding the newspaper had
been run through it again and again. Moreover Kent
was far from being encouraged by the look upon
the round red face.
Rogan's eyes were glancing at the headlines in
the paper. It was not necessary for him to look very
closely, for the heavy black letters could be read
across the room, yet Rogan was looking at them
[80]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
еге
with the incredulous gaze of one who did not be-
lieve what he saw, the look of a man shocked into
startled wonder by what he read.
As Kent came across the floor, the paper was
thrown upon the desk, and the chief coldly stared
at his inspector. He said nothing however, waving
a hand to a chair as he turned to reach into a drawer
of his desk. When he found a stogie, his white teeth
snapped off the end with a quick, angry motion,
and the first gust of smoke was vigorous.
Kent knew his superior well enough to realize
that it was no time for him to speak. There were
those who said the chief was tough and hard, others
who claimed he was without sympathy, but one thing
was never said—that he was unfair or dishonest.
That he was efficient was admitted even by those
who disliked him. Growl he might, but his men loved
him.
Silence lasted for almost five minutes. Once Kent
saw Rogan's eyes glance down at the paper upon the
desk, observed the angry scowl which swept the
smooth red face at the sight of the headlines; then,
suddenly, the stogie was yanked from the tightly
shut lips, as the thick-set body leaned forward in
the chair.
"In the name of God, Kent," came the rough
voice, “what does all this mean?" A wave of his
[81]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
hand accompanied the question and he did not wait
for the inspector to reply. “I go away for my first
vacation in years and your telegram wakes me up
at three in the morning and tells me of a murder
in the public library.”
There came a wondering shake of the white head,
as a half scowl crossed his face.
"A murder in a public library. Never before in my
life have I heard of one in that setting. And right
across from the police station at that. When I get
back here at seven, the papers are yapping that their
police reporter almost got bumped off in the very
same room. And then—then in my own office, wait-
ing for me, was the police commissioner with the
owner of the Star, just waiting to yell, wanted
to know what the hell was the matter with the po-
lice.”
Out of breath he paused, gave Kent a long, keen
glance then shot out:
"Now what have you found ?"
The inspector did not reply for a moment. What
had he found? Twenty-four hours of activity had
resulted in nothing. Clues there were none. Motive?
Not even in his wildest thoughts could he think of
one. Though his department had been busy, yet
after all he had little to report to his superior.
His eyes wandered over to the windows. From
[82]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
the street came the noise of passing cars, the shrill
call of a newsboy. For a moment he glanced at the
wheels passing above the windows, and the hurrying
feet upon the sidewalk; then he turned and looked
at Rogan.
The look he received in turn was shrewd, com-
prehending, with even a hint of sympathy. There
was keen understanding in the dark-gray eyes which
looked across the desk. The stogie had been thrust
into a corner of the chief's mouth and stuck up-
ward at a queer angle. For a moment the glance
of the two men held and it was the chief who spoke
first.
“You know, Kent," and there was a tone of weari-
ness in the voice, “people just don't get murdered
in public libraries. It's not done. This is the first
thing of its kind I ever heard of. Of course as the
library is a public place it will set the entire city
talking. Tell me what you found.”
It was a long story Kent had to tell; he knew
Rogan would demand every detail. Starting with
the call of the reporter, he swept on to the discovery
of the body, the detailed police work, the finger-
printing of everyone in the library, the photograph-
ing of the room in which the crime had been
committed. When he stopped for breath Rogan gave
a grunt. There was surprise in the short expression,
[83]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
amazen
TOS
amazement upon his face. Bending across the de
his voice snapped out:
“You mean to tell me that woman was killed
her little office, while that big reading room w:
filled with people?”
Kent simply nodded. There was nothing he coul
add.
“That seems impossible," was the quick retor
“How many were in that room ?”.
“Fifty-three in the reference room, twenty-seve
others in the building, and thirty-one of the librar
staff.”
There came a short ugly oath from Rogan's lips
“Hell, Kent, that means there were one hundrei
and eleven people in that building at the time o
the murder. There were fifty-three sitting less thai
fifty feet from where she was killed. You say non
of them heard or saw anything."
“Yes," was the admission. "No one in the refer
ence room saw anything out of the way, and I'n
afraid it's true.”
There fell an uneasy silence. In it Rogan took :
pencil from his pocket, apparently to draw a serie
of small circles upon the edge of the newspaper
He was thinking, but his thoughts did not appea
to be of great value. What could he think? A lovi
affair in this case was absurd. The woman was over
sixty.
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
the é Another thought swept over him. One hundred
and eleven persons were in the library when the
kille murder was committed. Fifty-three were almost
com i in the very place of the murder. Not one heard or
saw anything. No one could make him think that
he cx was true. What he was facing was a hundred and
eleven suspects. A hell of a crime, was his conclu-
retu sion.
Dipping into the desk, he found a fresh stogie
ty.seri and, as he lighted it, he glanced at Kent. The in-
libra spector was tired, with deep weary lines etching
his face. Must have had rather an active twenty-
's li four hours. Plenty of grief and no sleep. He needed
undri rest and ought to be in bed.
ime i “Kent,” he questioned, "you have no suspects at
is the all? Yet, on the face of it only one person could
no have committed the murder."
A startled expression passed over the inspector's
refa face. Rogan's tone had been serious, yet at the same
d li time there was irony in the tone. As Kent's aston-
ished eyes met those of his superior, Rogan gave a
20k chuckle.
serie “Well, Kent, you told me no one was seen going
aner into that little office. Then you have that reporter
Dea Rand walk into the place, and the next thing that
Tort happens was his calling the station. To make it
over look worse, you tell me the door leading into the
passage-way was locked, so presumably the mur-
[85]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
derer had to walk through the reading room. Now
the last person going into that office was Rand."
"You're crazy."
“Well, I don't think what I am saying is true. But
what a case our District Attorney would build up
out of those facts! Of course Rand knows noth-
ing about the crime. Yet, under your story, there
seems no one else who had the opportunity. And I
remember a murder where the killing was done by
a person who broke down a door to get into the
room."
“How?"
"Well,” said Rogan, "that happened a long time
ago. It was in a rooming house in New York, about
the time I started out in police work. A roomer on
the top floor drugged his victim, locked the door,
then told the landlady he heard a struggle in the
room next to him. She went up with him, had him
break down the door, and while she stood outside
the door afraid to go in, he cut the throat of his
man."
Kent shook his head. He had been startled by
the chief's remark, but the twinkle in Rogan's eyes
told him the chief was simply fooling.
"It's silly," Rogan went on, "to think Rand knew
when he walked into that room what he was going
to discover, and it's just as foolish to say he killed
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
her; but, on your own story, no one else seems to
have had the opportunity."
Kent nodded wearily, a gesture which had no
meaning at all. The chief could do the talking; in
his tired condition Kent would rather listen than
speak. After all he had nothing of much importance
to say.
“Now, Kent," was the question, "how did Rand
happen to be over in the library last night?”
"I gave him the order which would let him into
the building. He said he thought the clue to the
murder must be in the building, so I let him go
over.”
“And he gets himself almost bumped off," was
the dry comment.
“Yes. The lights suddenly went out in the read-
ing room and Blake started to find out what the
trouble was. He noticed the light was on in the little
office, called out Rand's name, got no answer, so
opened the door and found him on the floor, dead
to the world.”
"Humph," came the growl, “and no signs of who
hit him?"
The inspector shook his head. They had searched
the library again, discovering no one, nor was the
weapon with which the assault had been committed
found. Rand would recover from the assault, but it
[87]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
would be some hours before he could speak. It was
Kent's idea that when he did he would be unable to
tell anything of importance.
Rogan listened with his face expressionless. His
eyes had darted over his inspector. Kent was a good
man, slow, and careful, one that could be trusted to
see that the usual police work was done, but it was
creeping into Rogan's mind that the usual police
work was not apt to get the department very far-
not in this case.
To start with, the public library was an odd place
in which to commit a murder, and the killing of a
harmless woman, one over sixty years of age, did
not appear to be explainable by any ordinary so-
lution.
"You have no idea what was behind Rand's being
assaulted ?” he repeated.
“No, chief,” Kent replied. “It seems goofy. Noth-
ing in that room was disturbed. There is nothing in
it anyway but books. No money. The safe was
locked. But at that Spicer told me there was nothing
in the safe but a few old books.. Why Rand got
bumped and who did it we don't know."
Rogan gave vent to a short oath. Rising from his
chair, he walked over to the windows, through which
he glimpsed the lower part of the library. This held
his attention for a while, then he turned.
"Got anyone over there tonight?"
[88]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
must glance through before he could even know just
what had happened.
As he lighted his stogie, he thought that after all
he was getting to be an old man. Once a new crime
would have aroused an eager spirit of excitement in
his mind, but crime today was more or less a com-
monplace, sordid thing. He had seen so many sudden
deaths in the past thirty-five years. Now here was
another one to investigate. He realized that he was
getting old.
Pulling his chair close to the desk he picked up the
first report and started to read. For over an hour
silence reigned in the office, broken only by the rus-
tling of the papers or the drifting noises from the
outside. When the last report had been read and
placed back upon the desk, the chief made the first
sound since Kent had left the room. The noise was
a low suggestive whistle.
He had gone through the reports and it was even
worse than he had feared. There had been plenty
of information in the papers he had read, yet, now
that it had been digested, it seemed of little impor-
tance. To try to reach any conclusion was useless.
The detectives' reports were of no value.
Leaning back in the chair, he reached out to pick
up two sheets of paper upon which he had written a
few notes. The sheets were not large, nor was there
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
hunch or intuition, Rogan felt that the two things were
connected.
Rising he walked to the window and for a moment
stood looking out into the night. Then he turned and
started to pace his office. Back and forth he walked,
pausing a second each time he reached the wall. He
was worried, and he had an idea he would be wor-
ried a great deal more than he was now before the
case was over.
The article in which the paper had told of the
assault upon their reporter had been a vicious, ironic
bit of writing. With sarcasm and bitter scorn the
paper had attacked the police department. Rogan.
knew there was more than the crime itself behind
the attack. For two years the Star had been trying
to have him retired. Politics were behind the move.
There were people who hated the chief because he
could not be controlled. Until now the paper had
been forced to keep in the background, but what a
club they could use from now on.
The library was a public institution, everyone in
the city entered it some time or another during a year.
The murdered woman had been known to almost
everyone. The paper was putting the hypocritical
question: "Are public servants to be left unpro-
tected ?"
Trouble was ahead, Rogan knew that. He could
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
picture the unjust criticism which his department
would have to bear, criticism which might even
break down the morale of his men. He had taken
years to shape his department, a police department
of which he was very proud.
His eye fell upon the telephone, and the sight of
the black instrument caused a thought to flash over
him. Harley Manners had been out of the city all
summer, but he must be home by now, and Rogan
wanted to talk with Manners.
That the sixty-year-old police chief should be a
friend of the wealthy and popular professor of ab-
normal psychology was a thing which caused many
to wonder. But friends they were, the friendship
going back to the days when, as a patrolman, Rogan
stopped to talk to the little boy who played on his
beat. More than once, out of his store of weird and
odd knowledge, his psychological insights into the
motives of people, Manners had proved of great
help to the chief. Rogan had not forgotten the mur-
der solved by Manners alone only the year before.
He knew he needed help now, needed it badly.
Looking at his watch he saw it was ten-thirty. A
trifle late, but then, Manners never went to bed until
the wee hours of the morning. He must talk to
someone, someone who could bring a fresh insight
into the queer crime. There was no one better than
Manners.
[94]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
With a determined shrug of his shoulders he
made up his mind. Walking to the desk he reached
down and dialed a number. Then he waited till
there came a drawling voice over the wire.
[95]


CHAPTER VIII
With a long sigh of relief, Harley Manners threw
the last letter upon the surface of the desk as his.
hand went fumbling into a pocket for his pipe.
Slowly the long, expressive fingers patted the tobacco
into a worn bowl, more slowly was the lighter used.
Not until many smoke rings had floated away in a
mist did he glance at the surface of the desk.
What he saw caused a disgusted scowl to sweep
over the sensitive face. It was a long desk and the
rosewood surface had been clear when he entered
the house late in the afternoon. It was not clear
now; instead it was a jumbled disorder of letters,
magazines and book catalogues thrown everywhere.
Just how many letters he had opened and glanced
at only to throw the sheet back upon the desk, he
did not care to think. Mail piles up if one goes away
for a month, and during the four weeks refuses
even to read a paper, mail which must be read when
one returns home; and he had returned only three
hours ago.
A hundred letters had been read, and he sighed
thinking of the labor involved in the reading of them.
[96]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
There had been a few bills, seven invitations from
societies and clubs which insisted he must speak
before them, the usual announcements of the or-
ganizations to which he belonged. The magazines
had been simply thrown to one side, as for the book
catalogues from every part of the world, these he
had never even opened. Later he would spend a
happy evening with them.
With a sigh he leaned far back in the big chair
studying the room as though he had never seen it
before. It was a room which was very dear to him,
the place where he worked and dreamed a little, a
room containing both the books and etchings which
he loved. Yet, somehow, on this, the first evening
he had been in it for a month, it seemed lonely and
silent.
There were tall built-in bookcases on every side,
where, behind glass, could be seen the books he had
spent years in collecting. Black and white etchings
mingled with gayly colored French prints; over the
fireplace was the ship model he had bought in Lon-
don. Flanking it, a long row of jade elephants
marched to the end of the mantel.
The somber, studied glance which traveled down
the long lengths of the bookcases would have sur-
prised those who thought they understood the popu-
lar professor of abnormal psychology. For books
were perhaps the great interest in Manners' life.
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
But tonight he was not so certain that he ever wished
to look once more inside a book.
Years had gone into the making of that library.
Every strange and curious social custom of humanity
had its place on those shelves. Books upon the de-
velopment of religious ideas stood close to the vol-
umes which told of the Black Mass and the History
of the Devil. Long rows of psychology were flanked
by longer rows of history, and then of course there
were the books on crime.
Harley Manners had always been a disappoint-
ment to the social group to which he belonged. Why
a young man who had all the money he needed should
spend his time in teaching was a mystery discussed
time and again. That one should work at all when
it was possible to play was a problem far beyond
the understanding of many who would have liked
to call him friend.
At the University there were many professors
who were more popular in faculty circles than Man-
ners, but none so well liked among the students.
There were scholars, who, when they mentioned
his name, added that some day he would be the
leading authority upon abnormal psychology in the
country. But why this dreary subject should interest
him his friends could not comprehend.
What they failed to realize was the great curi-
osity with which Manners had been born. Everything
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
people did, and more especially the reasons for their
actions, interested him. There was only one fear
within his heart, and that was the fear that he might
not know enough about everything.
This curiosity explained the many sections of his
bookcases containing nothing but books upon crime.
Every book dealing with the weird and curious by-
paths of human behavior, all the accounts of famous
crimes soon found a place upon his shelves. Crime
had held his interest for years.
But tonight, as he glanced over his big living
room, nothing about it gave him any pleasure. He
had been away for a month and one might think
that, after four weeks sailing the rough waters of
Nova Scotia, the peace and the quiet of his room
would appeal. There had been moments during the
last month, when the little sloop had been outriding
a gale, that he had longed for his library. Now he
was in it and he was bored.
With eyes closed he sat half dozing in his chair.
He was aroused by a growl from his dog. A log had
fallen in the fireplace and the sound had roused the
big Airedale, who had uttered a low, throaty re-
monstrance. Seeing his master move, the huge ani-
mal, twenty pounds larger than the usual dog of
his breed, rose to cross the floor and thrust a cold
nose in the man's hand.
For a while Manners let his fingers run through
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
the wiry brown hair, then he rose to his feet. Cross-
ing the floor, he pulled aside the drapery at the
window and glanced out at the night. As he did so
the dog, aping his gesture, thrust his nose against
the window and gave a little whine.
The house was on top of a hill, and far below
could be seen the lights of the city. He could trace
the long outline of State Street, a narrow streak of
flame, ending at the lighted tower of the municipal
building. Lights were everywhere, street lights, house
lights and the little creeping splotches of brightness
from the headlights of moving cars.
For a while he stood glancing down at the city,
then turning his head he looked in the other direc-
tion. The lake could not be seen, but the steady
glare of the lighthouse upon the point was a glitter-
ing circle of yellow flame. Beyond it, far out on
the water, seemingly motionless upon a great ex-
panse of blackness, was the tiny starlike illumination
of a boat at least twenty miles away.
He had purposely built his house for this view,
and there never was a time, be it day or night, that
it did not give him peace. By day the lake lay a
shimmering mass of silver, stretched away to the
horizon's rim. By night the city lights twinkled the
activities of two hundred thousand people.
But as he looked out of his window, sensed the
blackness of the night, there crept over him a feeling
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
of loneliness. Not only was he bored, but there was
a sudden need for companionship. Anyone with
whom he could talk would be welcome, and, as he
thought this, suddenly out in the hall a telephone
broke into a long shrill ring.
Both Manners and the dog were startled by the
sound, the animal expressing his opinion of the bell
in his usual manner, a loud bark which rang through
the room. Manners walked out into the hall wonder-
ing who could be calling. So far as he knew no one
in the city knew that he was home.
The voice which came over the wire he knew,
though it was a surprise to hear the rough tone. No
one else had that heavy slow gruffness which was
Rogan's. Before leaving the city Manners had been
told all the details of the chief's coming vacation.
Yet here was Rogan's voice coming over the wire.
“So you are back," Manners said. In a momentary
wait for Rogan's reply, Manners decided that the
chief was worried. Not only was he worried but he
must be greatly perplexed. When Rogan at last
spoke, he said that if Manners did not mind he would
run up and have a talk with him. Then Manners
knew something had gone wrong.
Hanging up the receiver, he stood a moment glanc-
ing at the French phone. There was a perplexed
line between his eyes, a little frown upon his face.
Rogan had no business to be in the city, but he was.
TU
[101]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
There had been a worried doubt in the gruff voice,
while the fact, that he would drive six miles at al-
most eleven o'clock at night showed that it was
something important.
There was an odd friendship between the rough,
uncultured police official and the intellectual pro-
fessor. As a boy Manners had watched every day
for the young policeman who came patrolling past
his father's yard. Years later he had a good deal
to do with the promotion which had come to the
chief.
There had been many occasions when the chief
dropped into the big library to present the problem
he was facing. On two such evenings the advice given
by the tall, quiet professor had been the thing which
made it possible for Rogan later to announce that a
crime had been solved.
Manners shook his head as he walked back into
the room. Something was up; the chief rarely came
around unless he was in trouble. What that trouble
might be he did not know. For a month he had read
no papers and what had happened in his city while
he was away was outside his knowledge.
Sinking down in his big chair, he let his eyes fall
upon the cluttered surface of the desk, and he rose
again. Somewhere in the midst of the confusion was
an evening paper. He had bought one as he drove
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into the city, but had tossed it upon the desk with-
out giving it a glance.
Rummaging through the papers and letters, toss-
ing aside magazines, shaking his head at the many
book catalogues, he at last found what he was look-
ing for. He sank down in his chair, lighted his pipe,
then slowly unfolded the paper. One glance at the
big headlines, and he sat upright, forgetting to keep
the pipe going.
When he allowed the paper to fall to the floor,
its slow descent was marked by a shake of Manners'
head. Not only had he read of the murder of Ruby
Merton and the assault upon the police reporter, but
he had read something else—a vicious, sarcastic at-
tack upon the chief of police, the question why Rogan
was out of the city, the hint that the time had come
for a shake-up in the department.
Knowing his city paper, and having neither re-
spect for its policies nor the way it was edited, the
attack upon the police failed to move him. The paper
was angry and would use the tragedy to strengthen
its political alliances. But he sensed something the
flaming headlines and the long news story did not
say—that the police were confronted with a crime
which was beyond them.
Murder in the public library of a large city, the
victim a woman whom everyone knew. Manners knew
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his crime history, but try as he might he was unable
to recall any previous case where a library was the
scene of a murder. Murders and public libraries
did not go together. Not one of the many books upon
his shelves contained such a setting.
His glance traveled down to the paper upon the
floor. It was the evening edition, the first story of
the crime had come out in the morning issue. Some
details no doubt had been omitted in the second tell-
ing of the story, but there were enough to make
him wonder.
The woman had been killed in her own office,
with over fifty people within sound of her voice.
The police had no clues. That seemed incredible.
How could a murder take place without the people
in the reading room knowing something about it?
And to kill Ruby Merton!
Though Manners never used the library much,
having a complex about handling books which had
passed through many hands, yet he had known the
reference librarian. Why should anyone kill that
harmless, neurotic old maid? True she had a sharp
tongue, caused no doubt by the fact that most of
the prizes of life had passed her by, but to murder
her—the thought was absurd.
Yet she had been murdered. That reality could not
be escaped. For a few moments he allowed his won-
dering mind to work on the problem, only to give
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it up as a useless task. Until he knew all of the de-
tails there was no value in thinking. He would have
those details when Rogan arrived. Now he knew
the reason for the visit.
The thought caused him to rise from his chair
and hurry out to his dining room. When he returned
there was an odd shaped bottle under his arm and
a glass in each pocket. Bottle and glasses found a
resting place on the desk. As he placed them there
he heard the sound of a car out on the driveway.
Before Rogan reached the door it was flung open.
As Manners glanced across the veranda he saw a
taxi vanishing down the drive, then turned to watch
the thick-set individual who was climbing the steps.
The chief was moving slowly, as though he were
either troubled or weary. Manners concluded he was
both. He glanced into the kindly round face as their
hands met, then led Rogan into the hallway.
Without a word the chief allowed his hat to be
taken, and, not waiting for Manners to lead the way,
walked into the living room. His glance took in the
bottle and the glasses upon the desk, and, as he sank
down in the chair, the paper lying upon the floor
met his eye. Manners had seen the news story. Rogan
was glad of that.
He watched his host open the bottle, saw the
yellow liquid poured into the glass. As his hand
clasped his drink he gave a little sigh. He was tired
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Harley, and it's nothing to what they will be saying
tomorrow. I know that gang on the paper, they
will use this crime as a club with which to hit the po-
lice."
Manners agreed; then for the next few moments
they talked very much at cross purposes. Though
Rogan expressed his opinion of the newspaper, Man-
ners knew that it was not this which had brought
him to the house. He was simply talking to hide his
thoughts. Sooner or later he would reveal them. At
last he started to talk about the murder.
It was a long story he unfolded, a story of absorb-
ing interest to the psychologist. From the very first
there was wonder in Rogan's voice. Murder did not
shock him; that had been a commonplace event in
his life. But that a murder should be committed in
a public library seemed more than the chief could
comprehend.
“Think of it, Harley. Did you ever hear of a fool
crime like this, in a library, a place filled with books,
with nice young girls and cranky old maids ? What
under heavens is there in a library to bring a crime?"
The grieved tone caused a smile to play over his
listener's face, but he made no reply, and Rogan
went on to give the details. From beginning to end
the story was unfolded, and as the tale progressed
there was one thing Manners could see very clearly.
The police had no idea as to the cause of the mur-
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der, no suspicion as to who might have committed
it. Not until Rogan's voice died out did he speak.
“A library as the setting for a murder is a rather
unusual place—that is, a public library. But you are
wrong about libraries being calm, restful places,
simply filled with nice girls and nice old ladies. From
the standpoint of a psychologist, anything might
happen in some libraries I have known."
A stogie was being fished from Rogan's pocket,
but at Manners' words his hand replaced the smoke
and an amazed look swept his round face.
“Anything might happen in a library," was the
startled comment. “What was that word you used?
To a psyc—"
“Psychologist.”
“What the devil do you mean by that?"
“Just this,” was the reply. "You see, Rogan, the
women in the libraries are nice women, as you say,
and the building is very much a public place. They
are dealing all the time with what we call the 'dear
public,' and sometimes the public is not so nice. All
day long they meet various types of people; some
who are intelligent, and some—the majority—who
are not. Nice people, as you say, but also neurotics,
cranks, selfish people. It's not an easy task and often
it does things to them.”
"Does what?”
"I mean this. Many of the women in that building
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have been there for years. Their lives are cramped
to the extent that they are a bit unnatural. As they
grow older, like all people who have put away from
them a home and children, they become a little self-
centered. Once, I suppose, there were more jealousies
and more neurotics in our public libraries than in
any other place, unless in the churches."
Rogan had listened at first with an amused twinkle
in his eye, but it soon faded, and he glanced at his
friend as though not just understanding what he
was talking about. When the voice ceased, he took a
stogie from his pocket, clipped the end, lighted it,
then made a gesture with his hand.
“It's all very fine, Harley,” he said, "but I don't
see just what you are talking about."
“This, Rogan; once libraries were run only by
women and by women who were given the jobs be-
cause of two things—family or position. They must
earn a living and it was thought anyone could hand
out books. So the libraries were filled with narrow,
repressed, neurotic women, whose outlook on life
had become a bit warped and soured. You see, in
that case, instead of saying nothing could happen in
a library, you should have said, anything might
happen."
Rogan's face was a study of conflicting emotions.
His brow was knit as if he was trying to decide
whether he really knew anything about the public
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library which was across the street from his office.
The look caused Manners to give a hurried explana-
tion.
"In a sense that does not apply to our library.
Spicer is one of the best men in his line in the coun-
try. The girls are all trained, girls who took up the
work as a profession. It's a rather happy place, they
tell me. Of course you cannot throw thirty some
people together all the time without having some
odd feelings develop, but—".
"Harley," broke in the chief, “I told you all the
stuff Kent had picked up. Do you think that anyone
in that building, anyone who worked there, could
have killed that old dame ?"
Manners had thought of that, but had dismissed
the idea as improbable. He shook his head as he
replied “No” to the chief's question. There fell a
silence, broken by Rogan giving a sigh.
: “You know, Harley,” he said, “I don't like this
sort of a crime. These odd crazy things are hard to
solve, they do not fit into any picture you have. Give
me the simple crimes, the ordinary killings.”
"It's not the odd, the unusual, bizarre crimes
which are the difficult ones to solve, Rogan. They
are so unusual that as a rule their very oddity causes
their solution. It's the commonplace killings, the or-
dinary shootings, which often are never cleared up.
You know that, Rogan. The murders you have found
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"Harley, can you figure out any reason why that
woman should be killed, would there be anything of
value in the place?"
The question caused Manners to smile. In that
library was all the beauty and intelligence which the
mind of man has discovered during the entire history
of civilization. Was there anything of value? Why
the most glorious heritage of the world's life was on
the shelves of that building. In another sense the
chief was right. Was there anything of value in that
library? He doubted if there was.
Rogan was reminded that though the several hun-
dred thousand books had cost a great deal, yet, in
the strict sense of the word, they were of little value.
All could be replaced, and no one would commit a
murder for any book the library possessed. As for
money, there could be very little. Libraries never
handled much money.
"Well," came the perplexed voice, “if there was
no money and, as you say, no one in the place would
kill her, that lets out the usual motives for murder.
We must write off revenge, greed, and, in this case,
there certainly could not be any sex motive. She was
way over sixty. What's left?”
"Fear," was the retort, a remark which caused
the chief to ask just what Manners meant.
"Fear often lies behind a crime," the psychologist
replied, “fear of the consequences of exposure. Did
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she know some secret, so dangerous a secret that
someone would risk murder rather than have it come
out?"
“Humph," the chief growled. “Maybe fear did
have some part in the thing. But who would be
afraid of her?"
This was a problem Manners would have liked
to have answered. He ran over in his mind what the
chief had told him. Why had Miss Merton been so
insistent in her demands to see Spicer ? Whom had
she tried to get on the telephone ? Why had she been
so excited ? He put these questions into words, but
received no reply. Rogan showing no disposition to
speak, Manners went on:
“That might throw some light upon what hap-
pened. She had discovered something and that some-
thing excited her. She was, of course, a woman who
was easily aroused, quickly excited. She tried to call
someone on the telephone. Who and why?”
Rogan shook his head, saying he wished he had
been in the city when the crime was discovered.
There were loose ends to the affair, things not cov-
ered by the reports he had read. Among the threads
to be unraveled was the matter of the telephone
calls. He had an idea they would be hard to run
down.
Silence fell between the two men. Manners lighted
his pipe and through the smoke looked at the figure
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
doctors, to talk, they would be in the dark as to
what he had found.
Saying this, Manners insisted that he would drive
the chief down to the city, a suggestion which was
pleasing to the gruff official though he did make a
half hearted refusal. Out of the house they went,
the dog at their heels. It was the Airedale who
climbed first into the big coupé, a gesture which did
him little good as he was forced to get into the
rumble seat.
The ride back to the city was a silent one. They
turned out of the driveway to run down a steep hill.
Far below could be seen the street lights, stars of
flame against the blackness of the night. Like a
flaming arrow, the main street divided the city into
two sections, and the crawling lights of the cars
glimmered like creeping lightning bugs.
At the bottom of the hill they started to run past
the estates of the more wealthy citizens. Houses
peered above high hedges; dark, tree-covered lawns
were glimpsed, then, just as they reached the city
limits, Manners turned to drive through the campus
of the University, a campus dark and silent, with
great buildings enclosing it on three sides.
Not until they reached the police station did
Rogan speak, then it was to remind Manners of the
inquest. With the promise that he would be there,
the professor stopped the car, heard the chief say
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good night and watched him walk slowly into the
station. With his foot on the gas he was just ready
to start, when his eyes fell on the building across the
street.
There had never been a time when anyone had
said that the public library was a beautiful building.
In the darkness it appeared a squatty, indistinct
structure, which the lights from the street made a
mass of vague shadows, a dark building, showing
only one faint light; the last place in the world, he
thought, where a murder would be committed.
With a start he realized that he was wasting time
looking at the library, and started the car. Swinging
into State Street he noticed that it was almost
twelve. The street was deserted; only one building
was a mass of lights. That was the office of the Star.
As he saw it, he decided to stop.
There was but a block to go, and when he drew
up to the curb to climb out, his first concern was to
get the dog from the rumble seat and inside the car.
As the reluctant animal climbed clumsily into the
front seat, Manners grinned. Let anyone try to steal
that car with Satin sitting behind the wheel.
He had been bored earlier in the evening, bored
and lonesome. But as he pushed through the swing-
ing doors of the entrance to the Star building, he felt
very much alive. For a month he had done nothing
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but sail the coast of Canada, doing little thinking
and no reading. Now there was a keen interest in
his mind. Rogan had unfolded an odd tale. He might
be able to help him in writing the ending.
[117]


CHAPTER IX
The city editor of the Star was discovered in a long,
narrow, cluttered-up office, tucked away just outside
the reporters' room. The air was blue with the smoke
from a corncob pipe, and the thin, red-headed gen-
tleman pounding upon a noisy typewriter did not
even raise his head at the intrusion. Not until Man-
ners had spoken did he lift his eyes; then it was to
stare at his visitor as though surprised to see him.
“Thought you were up in Canada.”
Manners shook his head, reaching a hand down
to the desk for the package of cigarettes which lay
half hidden under a heap of copy. The red-headed
editor was a close friend, and, though at times
Manners wondered how Hart stood the never-
ending grind, yet he realized that if the editor were
placed outside of a newspaper office life would seem
barren.
"Got back today," was the admission, as, lighting
the cigarette, he sank down in the chair by the desk
to ask the brief question:
“Busy ?"
The answer he received was short and terse. Hart
sneered at the intelligence of a friend who at mid-
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
night wandered into the office of the editor of a
morning newspaper and asked such a stupid ques-
tion. With the remark that he would be through in
a moment, he started to pound the keys of the type-
writer with his long fingers.
Leaning back in the chair, Manners watched the
creeping carriage, then noticed three new drawings
tacked on the wall since his last visit. There drifted
to his ears the noise from the city room, the low
rumble of conversation, the clattering sound of the
typewriters. Cutting through the discord was the
sharp, metallic clamor of a ticker.
Ten minutes passed before Hart, with a jerk,
pulled the paper from his machine, reaching with
the other hand for a push button. His pipe was re-
filled, a match applied, then his chair creaked around
as he looked at Manners. “He is after something,"
was the editor's thought. “Never knew him before
to come into the office at midnight."
Seeing the glance, knowing what was behind it,
caused a smile to pass over Manners' lips. Better
get to the point at once. Hart was busy, but there
was a brief pause in his work. Dropping his cigarette
into an ash tray, Manners bent forward.
“Billy," he said, “I'm interested in that library
murder."
“Well, who's not?" was the sharp retort, fol-
lowed by a questioning glance. “Are you in on it?"
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Manners admitted that Rogan had been to see
him, an admission which caused a grin to sweep over
the face of the city editor. The professor's next
statement, that the crime puzzled him, caused a
little explosion.
“That's a fine line. It puzzles us all. And that
bunch over at headquarters are more mixed up than
anyone else. They don't know why it was done or
who did it, and it's been my idea some of those
fool dicks think Rand himself did her in."
Rand's name gave the opening Manners was after.
"Billy, did Rand give you all the dope he picked
up ?"
"Harley," came the disgusted voice, “Rand picked
up in that library the kind of story a young reporter
always dreams will break. He discovered the corpse
in a sensational murder. First we got was his tele-
phoning in. He was told to stay on the spot until
there was nothing more to pick up, then come back
to the paper. I took him off his beat and let him have
the story for his own to play with; it was his story.
He wandered over to the station, after seeing me,
then went back to the library. Somewhere around
three in the morning the police were good enough to
let us know he had almost been bumped off.”
The last remark caused Hart to pause, and for a
moment he expressed his opinion of the police. It
had been five hours after the assault before his paper
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
had been notified. To Manners, this partly explained
the vicious attack upon the department.
"Why did he go back to the library?”
“God knows. Kent said Rand had an idea the ex-
planation for the crime was in the building. So he
was allowed to go over. You know Rogan likes him,
and that's about all that we do know. Someone tried
to bump him off. Why? Don't ask me. Until Rand
is allowed to talk we don't know if he has any idea
what happened. That's all we know."
Slowly Manners reached for his pipe, more slowly
packed its brim with the strong English mixture he
preferred. Rogan had been right, though the chief
had expressed his opinion in the form of a question.
The assault upon the reporter had something to do
with the murder. The assault-his hand paused in
applying the match—it was not an assault; someone
had tried to kill Rand. Why?
As he lighted his pipe, he could see that Hart was
very eager to return to his work, and knew that he
must not delay him any longer. City editors had little
time to spare when the paper was going to bed in an
hour. But there was one more question to ask:
"All right, Billy, but was there anyone round here
with whom Rand talked after the crime ?”
The editor scowled as though trying to recall. He
started to shake his head, hesitated, then spoke:
“When he left here to go to the police station I
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
saw him talking to Wilson. But he's gone out to the
Bagdad, trying to dig up a story there. I don't think
Rand told him anything, don't think he had anything
to tell.”
Nodding, Manners rose to his feet, joked for a
moment, said good night and left the room. Out on
the street he stood beside the car trying to decide
what to do. The wisest action would be to drive home
and go to bed, but he did not feel like doing this.
Three hours before he had been bored; now he felt
keenly alive, very much awake. He would go to the
roadhouse.
Starting the car, he went a block, then turned to
go down toward the lake. Ten miles away, on a
narrow, sandy point jutting out into the water, was
the roadhouse. The proprietor was one of the many
odd acquaintances whose names caused Manners'
friends to shake their heads. Other speakeasies were
raided once in a while, but Joe Zuko was like the
morning sun; nothing ever bothered his place.
The streets, long vistas of dim light, were al-
most deserted; it did not take long to reach the
outskirts of the city. By his side, the big head thrust
far out of the open window was the dog, who once
in a while whined in anticipation. The Airedale knew
they were going to the lake; no doubt he thought
he was to have a swim.
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Once outside the city Manners let the car out.
The road was a smooth white ribbon before the
rushing headlights, which seemed to be piercing a
black tunnel on each side of the machine. Trees lined
the highway, trees he glimpsed as black lines as he
sped past. Soon the road began to skirt the side of
the lake and he caught the glimmer of a lighthouse
far down the shore.
He turned off the road after a while to run over
what seemed to be a narrow country lane, but the
headlights showed that the dust had been oiled and
bore evidence that many cars had passed that way.
For a third of a mile he traveled, then stopped be-
cause the way was barred by a high wooden gate.
Here he blew his horn three times.
He had to wait several moments before the gate
was opened. Then a figure drifted out of the gloom
and, under the glare of the headlights, he saw a
short, stocky man lift a catch, slip through the gate
and come to the side of his car. Before Manners
could speak, a flashlight was played over his face.
The scrutiny he received was brief. As though
satisfied by what the light had revealed, the man
walked back to the gate and swung it open for
Manners to drive through. Not a word had been
said, or motion made. As he drove past the wire
fence he saw the heavy, thick-set figure leaning
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
languidly against the gate waiting for him to pass.
The road he was now driving on was simply a
rough path through the fields. Across a meadow
high with grass it led, twisting and turning every
few yards. Then came a stone wall, another gate,
another field to be crossed, the second stone wall,
and then he could see, far below, a building faintly
revealed by two dim lights at widely separated
windows.
The road sloped downward at a steep pitch, and
as he neared the building the meadow gave way to
a graveled parking space. Over this the wheels of
the car crunched, then came to a stop before a high
wooden fence. At least twenty cars were parked
along the fence.
With a word to the dog to wait his return, Man-
ners stepped from his machine. For a moment after
his feet hit the ground he stood motionless. Before
him was the long uneven outline of a one-story
wooden building, from which no sound drifted and
which, from where he was standing, showed no light.
For a moment he studied it; then started to walk
to its farther side.
Turning the corner, he saw a light. As an illu-
mination it was a feeble thing, simply a single low-
powered bulb, placed high above the outlines of a
door. To his right the ground sloped down to the
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
lake. Though the water could not be seen, there was
a soft murmur against the shore.
At his touch the door opened, and as he passed
down three steps he heard from far within the house
the faint sound of a buzzer. The clatter lasted but
a second, dying suddenly away. Before him was an-
other door, with a closed slot at the level of his
face. Overhead a brilliant light made the entry he
was in as bright as day.
There came the sound of footsteps beyond the
door and the sliding back of the shutter which closed
the slot. A man's eyes were staring out at him, cold,
impersonal eyes, searching every line of his face;
then followed the sound of a bolt being withdrawn,
the moving of a clasp, and the door swung silently
open.
As he stepped into a hallway, he heard the door
being closed and bolted behind him. He had been
in the place before, had spent many hours listening
to the life story of the proprietor. The doorman
knew him. To the question whether Zuko was
around, he nodded down the passage.
As Manners walked to the end of the hallway,
he heard the sound of music from some part of
the building. There was a small dance hall off the
bar, and he knew that a three-piece orchestra was
playing. But until he pushed open the door at the
SWI
[125]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
end of the hallway he saw no one save the lookout
who had let him in.
Opening the last door, he came out into a room
which was at least thirty feet in length. Down one
side, with a frosted mirror behind it, ran a mahog-
any bar, with three white-coated bartenders on duty.
Seven men and two women were drinking, talking
rather quietly as he entered. Across from the bar
four tables were partly filled. He walked through
this room, thinking, as he walked along, that though
this was the best known speakeasy in the city, yet
it was as orderly as a church. Noise and disorder
were things Zuko never allowed in his place.
The room ended in a little hallway. The noise
coming from the farther end told that there was a
dance floor beyond. It was a short hallway, narrow
and dingy. In the very center was a closed door.
Here he knocked, opening the door when a gruff
voice called out.
The room he entered had seen his presence many
times, yet it always made his eyes open a little and
caused wonder to creep into his mind. It was a large
room, furnished with deep, expensive easy chairs,
with a rare Persian rug upon the floor. Bookcases
crowded with books, ran around three sides of the
room. Upon the walls were a score of costly etch-
ings.
He did not glance at these, looking instead at the
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
short, fat figure seated in a chair by the big fire-
place, a very short figure indeed, with round, droop-
ing shoulders, a mountain of a man, oversized in
weight and undersized in height. It had taken Man-
ners a long time to make this room, with its etch-
ings upon the walls and the overflowing bookcases,
a suitable background for Joe Zuko.
. As he came through the door the man in the chair
turned to give him a look. The eyes which glanced
across the floor were sharp and glittering. Steel
gray in color, they hinted of a will which would
brook no interference, of a power which might be
overwhelming; but as they looked at the professor
there crept into them a happy expression.
With a bound which was very rapid for so fat a
man, Zuko was on his feet, advancing with out-
stretched hand to greet his guest. The smile which
played over the fat face was one which held a hint
of tenderness, if such a thing could be in Zuko's
makeup. Though the palms which clasped Manners'
hand seemed flabby, yet the grip was of steel, hint-
ing of untold strength.
"Professor, I am much honored; it's been months
since we talked here." A wave of the hand swept
over the books along the walls, as the low voice
went on. “Now you sit here and I will get you a
bottle of wine I have been keeping for you—Barsac,
of the rare year, kept waiting for you."
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The soft hands patted Manners' shoulders, push-
ing him down into a chair, stopping any words by a
shake of the big head. Turning, Zuko waddled to
the door, vanishing out into the corridor. His foot-
steps could be heard as they went down the hallway.
Sinking back into his chair, Manners took in the
room. He knew what was in the bookcases—not fic-
tion, not crime stories, but history, biography and,
oddest of all, row after row of poetry. His glance
rested on an etching, a Rops he would have given
a good deal to own himself. Then his hand reached
for the book Zuko had been reading, and the title,
“The Early Romances of William Morris," caused
him to shake his head.
Truth was stranger than fiction. Zuko was sup-
posed to head one of the most notorious gangs in
the country. At least, he had this reputation, though
it had never been legally proved. His roadhouse had
such strong political protection that, no matter what
might happen to the others, he went along without
trouble.
Yet here he was, in a book-lined room, whose
walls were filled with rare etchings; and the owner
of them all was the most notorious citizen of the
state, a man whose name was synonymous with all
vice and crime, yet a man who had one of the finest
minds for literature Manners had ever known. Pro-
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
fessor of psychology he might be; explain this streak
in Zuko he could not.
An odd relationship had been established between
the two men. Curiosity had caused Manners to seek
the proprietor of the roadhouse. Something almost
like friendship had been the result. Out of their
conversations he had glimpsed vivid insights into
human nature, which come to few men of his social
class, pictures of almost another world, a cruel,
hard-living world, of men at war with society, fac-
ing sudden death almost every hour. He had ended
in liking the man, whom, no doubt, he should have
despised.
The door swung open as Zuko came hurrying
back into the room. Under his arm was a long bot-
tle, in his hand two glasses. As he placed the wine
upon the small desk, the round face broke into a
smile. For a second his fingers caressed the bottle,
then, deftly, he pulled the cork. Soberly he watched
the golden wine fall into the glass. Then Zuko half
laughed.
"Saved this for you, Professor. Don't often find
this wine nowadays. Old, rare, aged, every drop a
romance.”
He paused, looking down at the bottle with a
thoughtful air. There came a shake of the big head.
“This bottle, Professor, came a long way. Bot-
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tled in France, then crossed the sea on a ship. Re-
shipped to the French islands, then on another ship.
Some dark night a boat puts out from Long Island,
creeps softly up to the ship; the bottle goes in the
little boat. Then a wild dash for the shore, into a
car, a fast ride into the big city. Then, some night,
driving on and on in a car. Now you drink it. Ad-
venture, romance all here."
There had been an eager sweep to Zuko's voice,
and once, as he paused, his round face grew thought-
ful, as though he were picturing the thousands of
miles the bottle had traveled. When his voice died
away, he gave a start; then he picked up the glass
which he handed to his guest.
From his chair by the fireplace Zuko watched
Manners take his first sip of the wine. He liked this
man, admired his brain, enjoyed talking to him
about the books he read, but at the same time he
wondered what he was doing in his roadhouse. The
professor had been out of the city for some time
and as a rule never spent an evening with him un-
less he first called on the telephone and made the
appointment. He wanted something; Zuko knew
that. In a moment he knew what it was.
Placing the glass on the desk, Manners turned in
his chair. The sharp gray eyes were upon him and,
though the glance was warm and friendly, yet there
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was a question in the look. Taking a cigarette from
his pocket, he lighted it before he spoke. Then, with
a grin which made his face very youthful, he spoke:
“Joe, you know about this murder in the library?"
A surprised look Aickered across the round face.
Of course he had heard about the murder but he
said nothing. Zuko never did say anything unless he
was sure it was the time to say something.
“What I mean is this, Joe,” Manners went on.
"I know you hear a great many things that—that
others do not hear. And, as you know, or read, the
library was filled up with a pretty sorry crowd at
the time the woman was killed. Did you hear any
stories about the affair ?"
The glance Manners received was a long, calcu-
lating one, but the response came at once:
“You know, Professor, I do hear things." Not a
muscle of his face moved as he spoke. “But this is
a funny killing. No sense killing the old bird, none.
No money, nothing to put her on the spot. Was a
lot of bums in the library. Bums." He made a ges-
ture of disgust. “None of them would have had the
nerve to croak anyone. Not unless they could get
them all alone. Do it quick when filled up with coke
and cheap booze. Listen, Manners, no one in that
room killed her.”
"What makes you say that, Joe?”
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The gangster was silent. A contemptuous look
swept his face. Without speaking, he rose and
crossed to the desk, refilled the glasses, handed
Manners his own, then went back to the chair. Not
until he had finished the drink did he turn to look
at the professor.
“Just this, Professor. News creeps out in our
circles. Somebody always talks; rumors get going.
But not a thing of that kind have I heard about that
murder. It was a rotten trick, killing an old woman
in a library. You can be sure that none of the bums
in there did it. If they had, I would tell you what
I heard. I don't like that sort of thing."
From the contempt in Zuko's voice there was no
doubt he had told the truth in his last remark. Con-
tempt and disgust had been registered, disgust for
the type of person who would kill, as he had put
it, a harmless old woman. A thought however went
flashing through Manners' brain. If all that was
said was true, there had been other kinds of kill-
ings which did not make the man across from him
disgusted. But he knew he had been told the truth;
Zuko had heard nothing about the crime.
In the silence that came, he thought of this for a
while. News did circulate in the criminal groups.
How they knew all they did, he had often wondered.
If any police character had been mixed up in the
murder, Zuko would at least have heard the rumor.
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He had heard nothing and that fact was significant.
He remembered after a while that he wanted to
speak to Wilson and asked if he was in the place.
He received a nod, followed by the remark that the
reporter was out on the dance floor. Though Zuko
offered to get him, Manners rose to his feet, saying
that he would look in the room himself.
Out in the hall he walked a few feet, then pushed
open the door which ended the passage. The dance
floor he stepped upon was small, for the tables along
the wall took up a good deal of space. At the farther
end was a raised platform, upon which a three-piece
orchestra was pounding forth noisy jazz.
There were not many in the room, twenty at the
most. Dropping down at the nearest table he sent
his eyes searching for Wilson. The reporter had
been one of his students at the University. In a mo-
ment he saw him. The expression upon the young
man's face, when his eyes fell upon Manners, was
a mixture of wonder and doubt, but at the invita-
tion to come over to the table he nodded and, leav-
ing the man with whom he was talking, crossed the
floor.
That Wilson was wondering what he was doing
in the Bagdad, Manners knew from the curious
glance he received when the young man reached his
side. But he dropped down into the chair and waited
for the professor to speak.
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There was not much that Manners expected to
hear, though he had hoped that Wilson might have
something to tell him. But when he had asked if
Rand had mentioned any facts about the crime he
had discovered, facts which had not been in the
paper, or told to the police, Wilson shook his head.
Rand had said nothing.
He had met him rushing out of the city room to
catch a quick meal before going over to the station.
Rand had been very much excited, told him he had
stumbled upon a big story, adding that Ruby Mer-
ton had been murdered at the library and, after
saying this, Wilson remarked that that was the sum
total of all that he had been told.
It was about as Manners had expected, and he
had wasted a good deal of time in coming out to
the roadhouse. For a second he wondered why he had
followed the urge which had caused him to drive
from the city after midnight, what subconscious drive
had caused his action. More to say something than
because of anything he wished to say, he laughed.
“I wish I knew more about that library, Wil-
son,” he said jokingly.
The orchestra broke into a sudden shrieking burst
of piercing sound. Wild, barbaric wailing it seemed
to Manners, filling the room with noise. Three
couples hastened from their tables to swing into the
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dance. As they did so Wilson gave a little laugh.
"Well, there is a girl out there who can tell you
about the library," he commented.
His head motioned toward the couple who were
dancing a few feet from their table. The embrace
was close; the hips swayed suggestively, moving far
more than their feet-a swaying couple, intimate,
whose bodies were pressed close, whose every move-
ment was sensual and revealing, a couple the same
in height, with faces pressed close, cheek to cheek,
expressing, in a public room, to noisy music, the
world's primitive urge.
Manners knew he had seen the girl somewhere.
Some might have called her good-looking, but not
Harley Manners. The lips were too full, with a
touch of thickness he did not like; the over-rouged
face showed coarseness; the swaying body was large,
slightly over-developed, with nothing one could call
delicate in the lines. The large round eyes had a
seeking, wandering look. As she danced, her body
glued against her partner's, her eyes were search-
ing the tables, passing over every man in the room.
Only her hair was beautiful, titian hair, with a glow
one did not often see.
As he watched, the woman's glance swept over
to his table; for a second her eyes met his. There
was bold invitation in the searching glance, a seek-
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
.
ing question. Some, he thought, might think the
woman beautiful, be attracted by the sheer physical
appeal of her body, but not Manners. To him she
seemed cheap, common, yet he was wondering at
the reporter's remark. He put his wonder into a
question.
"That's Stella Wellman,” Wilson replied. “She
has a job of some kind in the library."
Manners let his glance wander over the room,
looked for a second at the tables flanking the walls,
swept over three couples dancing upon the floor-
rather common people he decided, dancing very sug-
gestively—then turned back to the titian-haired
woman and her partner. She did fit into the smoke-
filled room, but hardly into the staff of the library.
He said as much.
Wilson gave a short laugh as he lighted a ciga-
rette. Two puffs were taken, then he placed it on the
edge of the table.
“Professor, some pull or other got her the job
in the library. Spicer never has been very keen on her
being there. She is supposed to represent the Cham-
ber of Commerce and some of the other civic
groups. She was put into the library to handle all
the requests for information which come in to those
clubs. They pay the bulk of her salary.".
The swaying couple was passing them again,
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
dancing very slowly, moving their bodies far more
than their feet. The girl's face was flushed, the eyes
half closed. After a searching look at the head
pressed against the man's face, Manners decided
that it was a very determined woman who was be-
fore him, one who would have her own way in life,
though perhaps not always understanding why she
wanted it.
“You would not think her husband would bring
her here,” he commented dryly.
Wilson had risen to his feet. At the remark he
turned. An ironic smile passed over his youthful
lips.
"It's not her husband. You see Stella steps out
once in a while."
Manners sat at his table for a few moments after
the reporter excused himself. Some vague, uneasy
thought was trying to creep into a doubtful mem-
ory, but what it was he could not tell. He felt a little
restless, as though puzzled by something he should
remember. With a shrug of his shoulders, he at
last rose to his feet and walked out into the hall-
way.
Zuko was in the same position as when he first
came into the room. In the chair before the fire-
place, a thin, little red book in his hand, the gang-
ster sat reading. At Manners' coming through the
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
door, the volume was thrown aside, as the huge man
jumped to his feet. A wave of his hand motioned to
a chair.
It was very late, and Manners realized that he
should be getting home. It would be long after three
before he could climb into bed. He was very weary.
Explaining that it was far too late to remain any
longer, he stopped the protests Zuko made. Some
other time he would come early in the evening and
they could talk till dawn.
The mountain of a man waddled out of the room
with him, down the narrow passage and into the
bar. There were still men whose feet were on the
rail, talking over tall, half-filled glasses before them.
At one of the tables two individuals were playing a
game of checkers, making their moves without a
word. Refusing an invitation for a last drink, Man-
ners said good night and passed into the entry and
out into the night. From the car came a sharp, in-
sistent bark, as the animal, sensing his presence,
stirred into life.
He drove slowly. The road stretched before him
and not until he reached the outskirts of the city
did he pass a car. A slight breeze had sprung up and
a feeling of freshness was in the air, a hush upon
the land. By his side the dog had slumped down
upon the seat and, with his head resting against his
master's knee, was sleeping.
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
but after all they were cheap people, out for a pass-
ing thrill. What was that girl from the library do-
ing there? After a while he gave up thinking and
drifted off to sleep.
[140]


CHAPTER X
SUNLIGHT came creeping through the glass windows
of the breakfast room, dancing across the wide
sweeping lawn, lingering upon the fall roses which
climbed the side of the rambling stone house. Far
down over the fields lay the lake, blue as the sky
above the smooth, motionless water. Below the hill
stretched the city, with the high office buildings
etched in sharp, distinct outlines against the sky.
From a tall factory chimney a blue ribbon of pale
smoke trembled a hesitating line of shadowy vapor
in the clear air.
It was his first morning at home in many days,
and, after coming into the breakfast room, Man-
ners had gone at once to the window and looked out
at the view he loved. This morning, however, the
glance he threw out of his window was very brief.
Breakfast was on the table, but his first action after
sitting down in his chair was to pick up the paper
lying by his plate. One glance at the heavy headlines
and he decided that he would eat before reading.
Breakfast over, he lighted his pipe, then went
over to the window and took the easiest chair in the
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
told him and the account he had read in the paper,
that clues appeared to be absent; nor did there seem
to be any reason for the crime. It was true abnormal
persons, persons who were emotionally unbalanced,
did at times commit murder without any apparent
reason. Was this a crime of that type ?
It might be. He knew the reference librarian,
realized that she worked for a small salary, had no
close friends nor any real enemies. To find a motive
for her death would be a difficult task.
For over an hour he thought over all that he
knew of the murdered woman. She came from one
of the old families of the city. In her childhood they
had been wealthy, but the influence and money had
vanished years ago. She had been a soured, neurotic
old maid, whose tongue, poured out irony and con-
tempt. But this alone was not enough to cause any-
one to kill her.
He smiled at a thought. If all the women in the
world who were neurotic, whose tongues were
spiced with hatred and intolerance, should be mur-
dered, the police would indeed be busy. But no, the
cause of her death could not lie in her unfortunate
disposition. People did not like her, but that was as
far as the feeling would go. They might despise her;
they would not kill her.
A glance at his watch told him that it was time to
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
drive to the city for the inquest. Some unknown
motive lay behind the crime. Not only was there a
reason, but he felt certain that the murder was not
the sudden impulse of a moment. There was calm,
deliberate planning behind this crime, a motive
which must have seemed overpowering in the mind
of the murderer.
The thought was with him as he drove down the
long hill and into the city. It seemed impossible that
anyone should kill the reference librarian in her
own office, with over half a hundred people a few
feet away, but Manners was positive of one thing:
The crime, and the place where it had been com-
mitted had been skillfully planned.
He stopped in front of the courthouse, seeing at
once that it would be impossible to park. The curb
was lined with cars as far as his eyes could see; there
was no break in the parked machines. People were
pushing their way up the stone steps, all sorts and
conditions of people, an eager, morbid crowd, anx-
ious to get into the building.
The attendant of a near-by garage received the
car, and Manners hastened back to the courthouse.
To reach the door was a difficult task, but at last he
managed to make the attendant look at his police
card. With a shrug of his shoulders, the man opened
the door, allowing the psychologist to enter.
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
The corridor was jammed with excited men and
women. At its farther end he saw the steps leading
to the second floor. To reach the courtroom he
would have to press through that closely packed
crowd and in some manner get up that stairway.
From where he was the task looked impossible.
Then he recalled that only a few feet away was the
door leading to the police commissioner's office. If
he could reach it, a back stairway would take him
to the second floor.
There was only fifteen feet to go, but it required
fifteen minutes to push through the crowd. Fighting
his way forward, struggling past closely packed
bodies, he managed to slide along the wall till his
hand fell on the door knob. To his relief the door
was unlocked, and in a second he had slipped into
the small office.
There was a patrolman seated behind the clut-
tered desk. He started to rise indignantly as the
door opened. A glance, however, caused the man to
nod and point to another door at the other side of
the room. Without a word Manners hurried into a
back hallway. Here a short flight of stairs led up-
ward.
The courtroom occupied almost all of the second
floor of the building. To Manners' knowledge, it
had never been used for an inquest. He understood
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
why it was being used now. The bitter newspaper
campaign against the police had caused the officials
to give the widest publicity to the hearing. From the
crowd in front of the building, the closely packed
people in the hallway, he realized that the largest
auditorium of the city would not have been able to
take care of all those who wished to attend the hear-
ing.
To his embarrassment, the door he came through
brought him directly into the courtroom. The
judges' bench was before him and below it the law-
yers' tables; he was facing the jury's box. To his
first glance it seemed impossible that there should be
room for one more, for the place was crowded.
Every bench was filled, people were standing two
deep along the sides of the room, lining the wall by
the door.
Walking past the bench he noticed Rogan talking
to the District Attorney, and, seeing Manners, the
chief pointed his finger at a chair close to the witness
stand. As Manners dropped down into his seat, he
saw the coroner's jury had already been chosen; he
gave a start as he noticed the men who were sitting
a little to the right.
It was not the ordinary coroner's jury. In the first
seat sat the city's best known clergyman, his round
face set in a stern expression. The four merchants
seated below the clergyman were the leading mer-
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
chants of the city; a banker flanked a well-known
doctor. Manners smiled when he saw the mild face
of the professor of English; it was the face of one
who seemed to be wondering what he was doing in
such a situation.
Behind the judge's bench sat the coroner, a doc-
tor who for many years had been more of a politi-
cian than a physician. As he glanced at the coroner,
Manners decided that the man was not only nery-
ous, he was worried. Evidently the situation was far
from his liking; the look upon his face was that of a
man who wished he were somewhere else than in the
crowded courtroom.
The lawyers' tables had every seat occupied. This
was to be no ordinary coroner's hearing. Manners
had been to many hearings marked by little interest,
rushed through as rapidly as possible. This inquest
would not be rushed through. Public feeling, fanned
into flame by the paper, had caused the police to
bring forth their strongest batteries.
Close to a long table, Rogan was talking to the
tall, thin District Attorney. The chief had put on a
new uniform, whose buttons shone like gold, and it
was very evident that he was worried. His round
face was a deeper red than usual, and, as he listened
to what the attorney was saying, he kept shaking his
white head.
Whatever the argument was about could not be
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
told. It was apparent that the chief did not agree
with what the District Attorney was saying. After a
vigorous shake of his head, Rogan turned to beckon
Kent to come to his side. As the head of the Homi-
cide Bureau rose from the chair he was sitting in,
Manners turned to study the room.
An undercurrent of excitement was playing along
the crowded benches. The low hum of eager whis-
pers hung over the room; feet were being shuffled
nervously upon the floor. It was an eager, curious
crowd of men and women, brought forth partly by
morbid curiosity and because a well-known woman
of the city had met a violent death.
The sudden, sharp pounding of a gavel upon the
desk reverberated through the room. The hum of
conversation died away as people stirred and looked
toward the coroner. The inquest was about to start,
and the physician had risen to his feet to stand be-
hind the desk.
There was only a brief statement of the crime.
The spectators were warned they must remain si-
lent; at any disturbance the room would be cleared.
From the picture the coroner drew of the crime,
Manners decided that the man knew very little of
what had taken place. He wondered if anyone knew.
It was soon evident that the inquest had been
staged more to satisfy the newspaper than for any
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
known clergyman who testified that he had been in
the reading room all afternoon. To his knowledge,
no one had entered the little office, except two girls
and a man. He had seen the librarian come out of
her office some time after she had received the last
visitor.
The two other witnesses only added to the minis-
ter's story. They also had seen three persons go into
the office and had noticed the woman walk out into
the reference room long after her last visitor had de-
parted. They admitted that they had not paid much
attention to the walled-off office. Perhaps someone
might have entered when they were not observing
it. But the very manner in which they said this told
that they did not believe anyone had done so.
There would be no results, Manners thought. The
police knew nothing. The inquest had been staged
more to let the people of the city see just how diffi-
cult was the task of solving the crime than for any
other reason. The expression upon Rogan's face
made it plain that the chief had discovered no new
information. So far the hearing had proven a dreary
affair.
A quick glance over the room showed that the
spectators had the same thought. When the first wit-
ness had gone upon the stand a nervous undertone
of excitement had swept over the room. Men and
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
women had leaned forward; faces filled with antici-
pation; eyes were bright, but at this moment their
faces bore a rather bewildered expression. They had
expected excitement; there had been none. .
"Mary Hunt,” called the District Attorney.
From somewhere behind the rail which ran across
the front of the room, a tall, well-dressed young
woman rose to go up to the witness box. As she
seated herself, Manners remembered that he had
seen her around the library. The answer to the first
question told him that she was one of the two girls
who had gone into the little office the afternoon of
the crime.
Her testimony, however, was brief. The refer-
ence librarian had wished a book from the stacks,
and she had taken it to the office. As for the door
leading out into the hallway, she was unable to say
whether or not it had been locked, but she thought
it must have been, for they all knew that Miss Mer-
ton never allowed it to be otherwise.
When she stepped down, another librarian took
her place. This girl was dark, with a keen intelligent
face, well poised, sure of herself. Her testimony
was given in a low soft voice and her answers were
very brief, because she had nothing to tell. It had
been close to four o'clock when she went into the
office, but she had tried the hallway door and she
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
As Manners turned his gaze away, he tried to
recall who the man might be. Where had he seen
him? For he knew he had seen him somewhere.
Then all at once it came to him. Why that was
Henry Harlen. No doubt he was at the inquest be-
cause they were going to use him as a witness. Even
as Manners thought this, the man's name was called.
As the thin, well-dressed man seated himself, it
was clear, from the look he cast around the court-
room, that he was a man very sure of himself, one
who never doubted that he was among the world's
elect. The glance which swept the courtroom was
a proud glance, a curious glance, one in which dis-
taste was mingled with contempt.
Manners had met Harlen, but the two had never
been more than acquaintances. Once, the man had
been professor of history in a western college, a
position which he claimed to have resigned, which
others claimed he lost. Having some money, he
came to the city, where he spent the greater part of
his time in the writing of sarcastic essays for the
more liberal magazines. When the man started to
give his testimony, Manners had just decided that he
knew very little about him.
His evidence was given in a low voice, but one
having an odd, sharp, disagreeable edge to its inflec-
tion. He had come to the library early in the after-
noon to see Miss Merton regarding some research
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
for someone. When he turned to glance down at
Rogan it was clear that he had failed to discover the
person for whom he was in search. Walking to the
judge's bench, he held a short conversation with the
coroner, then went back to the table.
The coroner's eyes searched the room.
“Is Mr. Spicer in the room?"
There was no response, and after a moment the
request was repeated. Everyone knew who was
wanted. It seemed queer, thought Manners, that the
well-liked librarian was not at the inquest. Appar-
ently he was not, for though the coroner called his
name three times there was no response.
The non-appearance of the librarian appeared to
have caused some confusion. Rogan, Kent and the
District Attorney were in a conference. Their chairs
were pulled close, their heads bent together. A
rather heated conversation it appeared to be, in
which Manners saw Rogan shaking his head, saw
the inspector rise to his feet and carefully study the
room.
Odd that Spicer was not present. He had made
the city library one of the five most efficient in
America. He loved every book upon its shelves,
every thought which played around it. Yet at the
most sensational event the library had ever known,
the inquest over the death of Ruby Merton, Spicer
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
was absent. The man must be ill, Manners thought,
an idea he dismissed at once. If Spicer was ill the
chief would have been notified. Something must be
back of it. Then he heard a name called.
“Stella Wellman.”.
He saw the woman rise and come to the gate
leading through the rail. As she passed by him, her
dress brushed his chair and there came to him the
overpowering odor of a deep perfume, a perfume
which he knew was far from costly yet was very
strong. As she sank down into the chair, he studied
her with interest. There was too much rouge on her
crimson cheeks, the lipstick had been over-applied.
Even her dress was a bit garish, for the sash wound
around her waist matched the glory of her titian
hair. But as she crossed her knees to lean back in the
chair, he knew most of the men in the room would
find her attractive.
A few hours ago he had seen her swaying figure
moving suggestively over the dance floor in Zuko's
roadhouse. Now she was a well-poised woman,
though there was a hint of caution in the glance she
threw down toward the chief. The overdeveloped
body hinted of strength, and the swing of her shoul-
ders, as she settled back into her chair, bespoke de-
termination and selfwill.
But, like the other witnesses, she knew nothing of
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
any value. She did say that there were several who
held keys to the private office of the librarian. She
herself had not been in the reference room that
afternoon. As for Mr. Spicer, he had been in his
own office from two o'clock up to the moment when
he was notified that the woman was dead.
When she stepped down, Manners wondered how
much longer the inquest could continue. Evidence
there was none, no hint of motive, no knowledge be-
yond the mere fact that a crime had been committed.
He realized that if the papers had not been attack-
ing the police department no inquest would have
been held. Under the state law an inquest was left to
the discretion of the police commissioner. This one
had been held to show the public how unfairly the
paper was acting. He doubted if the police had any
evidence against anyone.
A moment later he knew that they had none. The
attorney rose and told the coroner they were
through, apologized a little to the jury, telling them
that, though they had wished to show the manner of
the crime, yet at present they did not know why it
was committed, or by whom. They had no other
evidence to introduce.
A murmur of astonishment swept the room.
There came the sound of shuffling feet, people broke
into excited whispers. Manners did not blame them
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for being surprised. Of all the inquests he had at-
tended, this was the oddest, remarkable for the
failure to produce evidence, the absolute lack of
knowledge shown by the police about the crime.
The foreman of the jury beckoned to the coroner;
that official left his desk to walk over and speak to
the city's best known clergyman. There followed a
brief conversation, and as the coroner walked away
the foreman turned and spoke in a low voice to his
jury. Whatever it was he said could not be heard,
but a nod went down the line of twelve men.
The verdict followed a moment later, a verdict
given without the jury leaving their seats. It was the
usual one, of murder and by unknown hands. There
was no other verdict they could give. As the coroner
announced that the hearing was over, the people
rose to their feet. Manners hoped the unsatisfactory
hearing would have the effect the police desired.
As Manners rose from his seat, Rogan caught
his eye, following it with a motion of his hand. He
was pointing below, suggesting that Manners go
down below to the chief's office. Nodding in reply,
Manners started through the courtroom. It was a
slow passage, for the narrow aisles were jammed,
and he found the crowd at the door very difficult to
get through. In the end he managed to reach the
hall and get down to the first floor. A moment later
he had knocked at the chief's door. Receiving no
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a hunch was something which could be explained.
The sub-conscious was beginning to stir, giving a
vague warning that something might happen. It was
warning, based upon past forgotten knowledge, and
upon some recent fact. He knew that Rogan had
often said that a good police chief must know when
to play his hunches.
“Yes, got a hunch, Harley. I don't think this thing
is over. Don't know why I feel that way, but I do.
Think something is going to happen. Feel it."
The rough voice died away as suddenly Rogan
turned in his chair and looked upward at the win-
dows. When, after a long look, he whirled in his
chair, there was a grave undercurrent in his voice.
"Something else is going to happen, Manners," he
said gravely. “We have every detective in the city
running around in circles. They are looking for
things. God alone knows what they are looking for.
I don't. Trying to find some secret in that old maid's
life, dig up stuff about the library staff. They have
found nothing, nothing at all. Even failed to find
anything about the cord around her neck, except that
over forty stores sell it. But-".
The rough voice died away. A sudden silence crept
for a moment into the low dingy room. It was
broken by the shrill honking of a car out in the
street. As the sound died away, Rogan spoke again.
[161]


CHAPTER XI
THROUGH the weaving smoke of his cigarette, Man-
ners gazed thoughtfully across the desk. He ob-
served the snow-white hair, noticed the expression
which passed over the smooth-shaven face. Though
a professor of abnormal psychology, who perhaps
should laugh at all references to what Rogan called
"hunches," yet he did not feel like laughing. Instead
he was beginning to reflect the chief's uneasiness.
Many had been the discussions between the two
men as to the value of scientific technique in the solu-
tion of crime and the part played by intuition. Again
and again had Rogan testified that a good police
chief must know when to play his hunches. Scientific
technique was all right; they needed all they could
secure; but there were times when it failed. There
was something, claimed the chief, an instinct to feel
one's way through a case, the warning that evidence
was not what it seemed. Intimations came at times
which defied all reason, but which Rogan insisted
often led to the solution of crime.
The theory might appear unreasonable, but Man-
ners knew that it was based upon a psychological
truth. Some little forgotten incident had stirred the
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
vast storehouse of the sub-conscious, whispering that
something should be remembered, warning that,
under similar circumstances in the past, certain
things had taken place. Such was the procedure now
taking place in Rogan's mind. The chief was uneasy,
afraid of the past, very much worried about the
future.
Manners might have put these thoughts into
words if the door had not opened to allow Kent to
come into the office. The tall inspector was carrying
a number of reports in his hand. As he stopped be-
fore the desk, a quick glance took in the two men as
with a disgusted tone in his voice he spoke:
"Rand has just told what happened to him."
Rogan stiffened to attention as he snapped out a
question:
“What does he know?".
“Not a damned thing. Said he was kneeling by the
safe, heard a sound back of him, started to turn,
then bang, and he was out."
With an expression of disgust, the chief violently
threw his stogie on the floor and rose to his feet and
stamped on it. With both hands gripping the side of
the desk, he leaned over the cluttered surface to
glare at his inspector. The shake of the head he re-
ceived caused him to sink back in his chair.
"No," was Kent's comment, "there is nothing he
can tell us. The doctors won't let us ask him any
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
more questions till tomorrow, but he told us all he
knew."
“Kent,” growled Rogan, "you let him go over to
the library that night. Have any idea what he was
going for?"
“No. We were talking. Rand said it was his idea
the reason for the murder must be in the library. He
had nothing to back up the statement. Asked me to
give him an order to Blake. Blake was on duty
there. What Rand expected to find I can't see. We
had gone over the place with a fine tooth comb."
Manner's eyes narrowed as he listened. So far no
reason for the killing of Ruby Merton had been dis-
covered. The reporter might have been correct.
Somewhere in the library, better still, in that office,
might be the cause of her death. There had to be a
cause. Find it, then one could begin to have a theory.
A theory. How many times had he heard some-
one describe a crime as being like a stone thrown into
the middle of the pond. The vibrations went swirl,
ing out in ever increasing circles, which in the end
reached the shore. If it were possible to start with
the very outer circle, one would be led to the heart
of the pond, to the very center of the disturbance.
So with a murder. Perhaps the most obscure fact was
the one which would lead to the solution. Kent broke
in upon his thoughts:
“Chief, no one mentioned anything about a book
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salesman who came to the woman's office around two
o'clock."
Rogan shook his head as if the incident was of
little value. But the book salesman was a new in-
dividual to Manners. So he asked who the man
might be. The information that he was the first of
the three persons who went into the office during the
afternoon caused a retort:
“Then there were four instead of three.”
"Four what?" growled out Rogan.
“Four individuals who entered her room. Two
girls testified that they went, then there was Harlen.
The book salesman makes four."
A disgusted expression swept over the chief's
face. He threw a questioning glance at his inspector,
and received a prompt reply:
"That's right, chief. But you see there is nothing
about that to get excited over. Spicer told me a pub-
lishers' salesman came into the place around two; he
sent him in to see Miss Merton. He was only there
five minutes. Three others were in the office later.
We were told there were but three, but the girl in
the outer room overlooked one of the two women
who went in.”
The mention of the librarian's name stirred afresh
an uneasy feeling in Rogan's mind. Spicer should
have been at the inquest. It was not like him to neg-
lect his duties. The library was the pride of his
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
heart. That, after the greatest tragedy in its history,
the man whom it most concerned had failed to be
present at the hearing, was something he could not
understand.
He shook his head, glancing at his watch. Time
for lunch. It would be a busy afternoon. When he
returned to the office he must get the librarian on the
telephone. Where was it he lived ? Oh, yes, he had it.
The Waveland Club. Better have the man on the
telephone switch put in the call at once. Have him
tell Spicer he wanted to see him.
Manners refused the invitation to lunch. He was
not hungry and he had developed a desire which he
now put into words. Turning to the chief, he asked if
the office where the murder had been committed was
locked, receiving the reply it was and that Kent had
the key.
"Let me give it a look.”
He was informed that it would do him more good
to have his lunch, but if he wished to examine the
office he could. There was a little sarcasm in Rogan's
voice as he insinuated that it was time someone with
intelligence searched the scene of the crime. But the
tone told Manners he was being reminded that the
place had been carefully looked over.
When he walked into the large lobby of the li-
brary, he was surprised to find it more or less empty.
The girls behind the delivery desk were idle, and as
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
he entered the reference room he noticed but three
people sitting at the tables. Over the place hung an
uneasy silence, and the quick nervous glance he re-
ceived from the two women behind the lending desk
showed that they were nervous.
He paused for a second before the glass door of
the built-in office, then, inserting the key, stepped in.
In order to be free from interruption, he locked the
door behind him, and stood motionless, taking in
the room. A bandbox of an office, simply a walled-in
space where one could be alone. His glance took in
the bookcases along the wall, rested for a moment
upon the safe, passed over to the desk in the center
of the floor. There were two chairs, one near the
safe, the other on the opposite side of the desk. He
saw the chairs and his eyes narrowed.
He could picture what had happened. The woman
had been sitting in front of the safe, the murderer
had walked behind her, no doubt first clasping a
hand over her lips so that she could not cry aloud.
Then he strangled her. There was no doubt in his
mind that the murderer must have been someone she
knew. No stranger could have gotten behind her,
taken her off her guard.
He thought of this for a while, then, certain the
theory was correct, walked to the nearest chair and
sat down. Someone she knew. He remembered what
Rogan had said. All morning she had been trying to
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
get a number on the telephone. Spicer had said that
she had tried again and again to see him early in
the afternoon.
Nervous and excited. Well, in a sense she was
always emotionally upset. The library staff were ac-
customed to her vagaries. If they had thought the
day of the murder that she was excited, then her ac-
tions must have been unusual. If so, something had
come into the routine of her life, throwing it out of
its usual balance.
Turning, his glance swept the room, resting upon
the door which led out into the hallway. What was
it Rogan had said about that door? Oh, yes. They
had found it unlocked. After the crime the murderer
had turned the key and escaped through the hallway.
There was the greater problem as to how the person
had gotten into the room.
The last one who had entered that room had tried
the door and found it locked. When the girl left,
the woman had come out into the reference room.
No one had seen any other person enter her sanctum.
But someone had, someone who had committed the
crime.
His eyes narrowed as he studied the door. There
had been a key in the lock. Even though the indi-
vidual had another key he would have been unable
to open the door. It was easy enough to understand
that the murderer had left by that door. All he had
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
to do was to turn the key, then step into the hall. But
how did he get into the room?
A thought swept over him. All day long the neu-
rotic old woman had been greatly aroused. Again
and again she had tried to call someone on the tele-
phone. Three or four times during the afternoon she
had made an effort to see Spicer. Something had ex-
cited her, shaken her out of the usual routine of her
life. Perhaps here lay the explanation of how anyone
had entered the room.
Suppose she had managed to get her party, say,
during her noon hour. The individual had been
asked to come to her office, told, because she wished
to see him secretly, to use the door leading from the
hallway. If that were true, she herself turned the
key to allow the individual to enter. That must be
the explanation. There was no other.
A hand went reaching for a cigarette, but as his
fingers closed upon the case he remembered where he
was. With a little smile he withdrew the hand. He
was satisfied with his last theory. Ruby Merton her-
self had opened the door, what was more, had in-
vited the person to call upon her. What had hap-
pened after that?
He thought he knew. Murder was committed for
three reasons. They were the background of most
crime. There were murders which had a sexual back-
ground, jealousy, betrayal of faith, murders in which
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
one only had to find the woman and the motive be-
came clear. This could not apply here. No one could
think the sixty-year-old woman had been killed for
that reason.
There were murders committed for gain. Money,
however would hardly enter into this crime. She had
a small salary; there would be no money in the of-
fice—he checked himself on this, remembering the
story of the money found upon the desk. But the for-
gotten fact only made his reasoning the more cor-
rect. It had not been stolen, though it was in plain
sight of the murderer. And of course, a library never
had anything of value upon its shelves.
He came to the third cause of murder. To him,
fear was the outstanding motive in crime. The mur-
derer had been afraid. Afraid of being exposed,
afraid of the law, afraid of a hundred things. Push
that fear to the breaking point, and certain types of
individuals would kill, in a sudden raging frenzy.
Was this back of Ruby Merton's death?
What had that old woman known, what secret
had she stumbled upon? If he knew, then they would
at least have something to start with. She had been
nervous and excited all day. No doubt she had man-
aged to get her party on the telephone, had insisted
that he come to the office. It would be someone she
knew, and in a sudden rage he had killed her to stop
her tongue from speaking.
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
What could she have known so important that
someone would rather kill her than take the chance
of her speaking ? That it should concern the library
seemed absurd. Yet she had wished to see Spicer
and after his return to the city had made three
attempts during the afternoon to see him. If she had
reached him, she would have told the secret within
her mind.
He studied the safe for a moment. As a rule li-
braries do not have a safe, have little need of one.
The steel cabinet was not very large, though it had
an air of security. Rising, he crossed the floor and
tried the dial, giving the door a jerk as he did so.
The effort was wasted; it refused to open.
He studied it for a moment, then turned to walk
out of the office, to go over to the desk of the refer-
ence room. It was a silly request he was going to
make; he doubted if the woman in charge of the
room could gratify his wish. He was a little sur-
prised when she told him that she did know the com-
bination of the safe. After he had shown his police
card she jotted down four numbers upon a bit of
paper.
Back in the office he closed the door and went
over to kneel before the safe. His fingers had started
to twirl the dial of the second number when a sound
caused him to turn. It was a slight scraping noise,
the sound of a key being inserted in a lock. As he
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
gave a quick glance at the hallway door he saw the
handle slowly turning.
The key was in the lock on the inside, so he knew
that the door could not be opened from the outside.
For a second he looked, then leaped to his feet. So
sudden was the jump that his foot went under the
leg of the chair and it fell with a crash to the floor.
At the sound he heard the key being pulled from the
lock.
With a bound he was at the door, his hand fum-
bling with the key. As it turned, he gave a twist of
his wrist, flinging the door open. Two steps and he
was in the hall in time to see the door leading to the
lobby swing back, but he recognized the figure hur-
rying away. That bright sash he had seen around the
waist of Stella Wellman when she sat in the court-
room.
His first thought was to hasten after the girl,
make her tell why she had tried to enter the office.
His second was more intelligent. She would simply
make some excuse, and it would not be true. If there
had been any real reason for her visit, she would not
have hurried away when she heard the chair fall.
With a little frown between his eyes, he closed
the door. After locking it, he went back to the safe.
In a moment the door yielded to his pull, swinging
open. Why he was interested in the safe he could not
tell. Perhaps it was because it was the only thing in
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
the room which was locked. But when he gave the
first glance into the shadowy interior he shook his
head.
There were compartments which he discovered
were closed. Below the two compartments ran a
series of small shelves containing nothing but re-
ports, books, and what appeared to be five book
slips. There seemed nothing of value in the safe.
Habit more than anything else caused him to pull
out the books and look them over. There were a few
first editions, a Keats, four Conrads and an edition
of Science and Health. They were fairly valuable;
someday they would be worth a lot of money. Re-
placing these, he went down to the next shelf.
This shelf amused him. Spicer was an educated,
cultured librarian, so there were no censored shelves
in his library. But the few books which Manners
glanced at had been thought just a little too frank to
be on public display, books dealing with sex, with
several studies of the social customs of the ancient
world.
For a few moments he looked at the titles, most
of which were in his own library. “Das Erotische
Element in der Karikatur" was flanked by the “Se-
cret Museum of Naples.” An eighteenth-century edi-
tion, no doubt the first, of a rare French poem,
“Parapilla,” held his attention for a while. He won-
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
dered how it had come into the library's possession.
When this was laid aside he picked up a thin volume,
smiling as he read, “Le Libertine de Qualité.”
The other books were of little value, evidently
having been placed in the safe because, after all, they
could not be placed in general circulation. A work
on sex whose pictures were more lurid than the text,
was the last thing to be replaced upon the shelf.
Then he went down to the last shelf.
There were five book slips to be looked at, and
he pulled out their contents before glancing at any
of the pamphlets. The first one he picked up caused
an envious wish to pass over him. He gave a rapid
glance at the other four, and there was a little jeal-
ousy in his mind as he read the titles. He would
have liked to own them all.
He picked up the first pamphlet to reverently turn
the pages. Seventy-two small pages they were, but
he knew he held in his hand the rarest and most valu-
able of all American books, the famous Mounts
Relation. It was the first printed account of the
Pilgrim fathers, written by John Bradford himself.
What was more, the thing was worth four thousand
dollars, and someday would be worth five times that
sum.
With a sigh he placed the pamphlet aside, to pick
up the next. This was smaller than the one he had
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
did two things. First a long low whistle escaped from
his lips, then he reached down for the other two
pamphlets.
As he laid them aside there was a startled expres-
sion upon his face, a look of wonder in his eyes. His
eyes kept going down to the floor as though he re-
fused to believe what he had seen. Three pamphlets
had been looked at. They should have been faded
with the years, the printed letters paled by the pas-
sage of time. But these pamphlets were not old, nor
were they worth very much money. In fact he could
have bought the three of them for fifteen dollars.
Instead of three rare, historical booklets—pam-
phlets worth over ten thousand dollars, the slip
covers contained only reprints. Because of its great
rarity and the fact that libraries were unable to se-
cure the originals, because of their great worth, the
Mounts Relation had been reprinted several times.
The same thing had been done with the Davenport
booklet, the last reprint having been put out only two
years ago. They were exact copies of the originals,
but there was this difference: Where the original
pamphlets were worth thousands of dollars, the re-
prints were worth only three or four.
For a while he sat on the floor, then putting the
three pamphlets in his pocket, he placed the other
two in the safe and closed the door. As he rose to
his feet he stood for a second looking at the green
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
steel safe. His face was very grave. He knew now
why Ruby Merton had been excited, knew why she
had been murdered.
The shelf inside that safe should have held three
pamphlets, worth around eleven thousand dollars,
but the rare editions were not there. They had been
replaced by cheap reprints whose value was not over
eleven dollars. The two rare firsts of the Mounts
Relation, the original edition of Davenport had been
stolen; the reprints had been substituted.
He knew now what the librarian had discovered
when she came into the library. He could well under-
stand that she would be excited, nervous and wor-
ried. He knew why she had tried so frantically to see
Spicer, what she wished to tell him. What was more,
he had discovered something else. He knew why she
had been murdered.
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
was a legitimate one, why had she hastened away
upon the discovery that someone was within ?
With a shrug of his shoulders he turned to open
the door. It was no time for theories. They would
have to wait. Rogan wouid be back from lunch; the
news he would tell him would cause the gray eyes to
open wide in surprise. As he hurried from the build-
ing he smiled as he thought of the coming interview.
It might be difficult to make the chief believe that
any book was worth four thousand dollars. Rogan's
life was one in which books played no part.
The chief was behind his desk, apparently busy
with a mass of reports. The air was blue from the
smoke of a strong pipe, the white ruffled hair looked
as though it had never felt a comb. Rogan was busy
and Manners could tell that he was not over pleased
with the interruption. Lighting a cigarette the visitor
pulled a chair close to the desk.
"Rogan,” he said suddenly, "I have an idea I have
found the motive for the murder."
The report fell upon the desk. The white head
shot back as the cold gray eyes studied the profes-
sor's face. The look was one of doubt, filled with a
startled wonder. For a moment the eyes of the two
men held; then Manners slowly nodded his head.
Assured by the gesture, Rogan's lips opened:
“The hell you have.”
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
a year ago for thirty-five hundred. The library
owned two of them. The Davenport item was worth
twenty-five hundred. It's my idea the three things
would bring eleven thousand now.”
Rogan gave a doubtful shake of his head as he
glanced at the desk. Eleven thousand dollars for a
few old pages of paper. Why a man could buy a
house for that. What any person in his right senses
would want of those old books was more than he
could see. But Manners knew about such things; if
he said they were worth that, then they were. But
there was one thing he wished explained.
The thin booklets he had been told were reprints.
What did Manners mean by that? He was informed
that the originals were so rare that book collectors
and libraries were unable to secure them. Several
times copies had been printed, faithful copies, even
down to the quaint lettering and odd spelling. The
reprints, however, were of little value.
"So it's your idea, Harley, that someone stole the
original books and put those three things in their
place ?"
Manners nodded, seeing Rogan's face grow gray
as he gave a doubtful look at the desk. He knew it
was difficult for his friend to realize what had taken
place. That any book should be worth much money
was something Rogan would doubt. He saw the
perplexed shake of the white head.
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
“Ten thousand dollars for three old books. That's
a lot of money. But there is one flaw in what you
say. What was to stop the library from having sold
them long ago ?”
“They could not sell them. It's nine years since
Rice died—and his will contained a clause that they
must not be sold until ten years passed by. They have
been stolen all right.”
“And you think the old lady found that out on
the morning she was killed. That was the reason she
was all excited and went rushing round.”
Of this Manners felt certain. The early Ameri-
cana were the most valuable items the library pos-
sessed. They were kept in the safe, no doubt were
scarcely ever looked at. At long intervals they might
be brought out and shown. Ruby Merton must have
discovered on the morning of her death that they
were gone. What was more, she had an idea who
had taken them.
There seemed no doubt of this, and he went into
a long explanation to prove his point. The librarian
was a secretive soul, jealous of her position. No one
would have been taken into her confidence except
Spicer. He, however, had been out of town and did
not return until noon. During the afternoon the
woman had tried three times to see him. Manners
was positive she wished to tell him the pamphlets
had been stolen.
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
Rogan listened attentively, nodding his head in
agreement. They now had a motive for the murder.
Yet it was the most absurd motive he had ever
stumbled upon. Because three books had been stolen,
a woman had been killed. He voiced a question:
“So you think she knew who took the things ?”
“Yes. That is why she was trying all morning to
get someone on her telephone. She knew who took
them. The murderer killed her in order to prevent
the exposure which would come when she talked. No
doubt she threatened him.”
A doubtful look swept the face of the chief.
“We have no idea when they were stolen. It may
have been weeks ago, may have been only the day
before the crime. But when you say she threatened
the murderer, you are saying he did more than kill
her. He must have talked with her before commit-
ting the crime.”
Manners agreed with this. He told Rogan the
pamphlets would never be allowed to leave the li-
brary. No one could borrow them. In order to be
seen they would have to be looked over in the office.
The substitution must have taken place under the
eyes of the librarian. What was more, she would not
allow everyone to see them. Not only was she cranky
at times, but there had been moments when she
seemed to think the library belonged to her instead
of to the public.
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
“But, Harley," was the protest, "you forget some-
thing. If some outside person substituted those pam-
phlets, they had to be clever. You forget the people
who work in the library. Some of them have a key
to that office. They knew about the things in the
safe; more than one person would have the combina-
tion. It would be easy for someone in the building to
have taken them. How about Spicer ?”
Manners laughed at the mention of the librarian's
name. He reminded Rogan that Spicer had been in
his own office at the time the woman was killed,
asked him to remember that the woman had been
trying all afternoon to see him. Sarcastically he in-
quired if Rogan was trying to accuse the man of
stealing his own books.
The irony was a wasted effort. Very soberly Man-
· ners was reminded that Spicer might be able to tell
them something they did not know. Then Rogan's
face grew anxious. He expressed roughly his desire
that the librarian would come into the office, added
that he wished he knew where the man was. There
was something in the tone of his last remark which
caused Manners to throw him a quick glance.
“Did you call the club ?”.
"I called the club. He went out last night about
ten and has not been back since. I left word for him
to call me, but have heard nothing from him. It
seems funny to me that"
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
ARI
Whatever it was he thought, Manners did not
discover. The anxious voice died away as Rogan
turned in his chair to stare moodily out of the win-
dow. Only for a moment did he look, then the chair
was whirled around.
"What do you say, Harley, was it an inside or an
outside job?”
Starting to shake his head, Manners stopped.
Again he heard the scraping sound of the key being
inserted in the door leading from the hall. His eyes
saw once more the vanishing form of the Wellman
woman. It was an odd incident, something Rogan
should know about. He told of the episode, adding
that he had seen her the night before at the Bagdad.
When he had finished there came only two words:
“Describe her.”
The description finished, the chief's hand reached .
for a button and he gave it a vicious bang. The white
teeth snapped shut.
"Flashy, common, gold-digging type. If she works
in the library she ought not to be dancing at Zuko's.
We will have that little lady looked up.”
Manners might have retorted to that remark, but
the opening of the door stopped the words he in-
tended to say. Kent was hurrying across the floor, a
Kent who looked far less weary than he had in the
morning. He paused at the chief's desk listening to
the barking command which came:
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derer committed his crime because the stealing of
the pamphlets had been discovered. When he saw
Rand by the safe, having committed one murder, he
was willing to kill again to prevent the motive of his
first crime being known. Again, fear."
“But, Professor," broke in the inspector, “I don't
see how bumping off Rand would have prevented the
library from finding that those things had been
stolen."
"It might have been weeks, even months, before
the library discovered that a substitution had been
made. They were not things often looked at; the
yellow covers in which they were kept would have
stood upon the shelf until someone familiar with
the items examined them. That might have been the
next day, the next week. On the other hand, months
might have passed before the substitution was dis-
covered. No, the person who tried to get rid of
Rand knew what he was doing."
Kent started to make a reply, but a wave of
Rogan's hand towards the door caused him to walk
out into the hallway. As the door slammed shut,
Manners glanced at his wrist. watch. It was two
forty-five. Time he ate. Breakfast had been a long
time ago; he was beginning to feel hungry. On the
verge of rising, he sank back in his chair as the door
opened. A patrolman was coming across the floor,
carrying mail in his hand. Without a word, he de-
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de
posited the letters upon the desk and left the room.
As the door closed, Manners half rose, saying he
would leave. Asking him to wait a moment, Rogan
cut the first envelope and pulled forth a piece of
paper.
Leaning back in his chair Manners lighted a ciga-
rette. He was tired, with a weariness which con-
tained some exhilaration. The visit to the library
office had brought an unexpected result. He knew
that it was only luck that he had been the one to
pull the pamphlets from their slip covers. The police
might have looked at them, but they would never
have known what had happened.
The thought caused him to throw a glance at
Rogan. Leaning far back in his chair, the chief was
reading a letter. As Manners glanced he saw Rogan
throw it into a basket and reach down for the last
envelope. He watched the heavy fingers jerk at the
end of the envelope, noticed the sheet of paper
pulled forth.
The white head bent over the paper, then a sud-
den start jerked the heavy body into a stiff, up-
right position. A startled exclamation escaped from
the chief's lips as his eyes glued themselves upon
what he was reading. The astonished expression
which passed over the round face was one which
caused Manners to lean forward in his chair. It was
an odd expression-doubt, mingling with wonder,
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
which in turn gave place to a sudden horror. For a
moment the red face Alushed to a deeper crimson;
then the color slowly faded from his cheeks. The
eyes glancing at the letter were the eyes of a man
who did not believe what he saw, and the hand hold-
ing the paper trembled. Something was wrong,
what?
Slowly the chief was rising to his feet. It was
not a deliberate movement, more like the uncon-
scious act of a man pulled upright by some force
within him. For a second he stood by the desk, a
hand resting upon it for support. Then he looked at
his friend, and the look was an appealing cry for
aid. He slowly extended his hand. In it lay the white
sheet of paper.
It was a single sheet of heavy, costly writing pa-
per which Manners took from Rogan's hand. There
was no date and the typewriter which had written
the black letters must have had a new ribbon. At
the end of the letter was a scrawling signature which
he did not glance at. He started to read, read only
three lines, then gave a little cry of amazed, pro-
testing horror at what he saw.
If you will go to the Hunt estate and drive past the sunken
garden, you will find my car. In it will be my body. It would
only be a question of time before you would discover that I
took the pamphlets and sold them. Miss Merton found out
what I had done. I had to kill her to escape exposure. But I
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
know there is no chance of final escape, so am taking the
easiest way out.
HENRY SPICER.
He read the short message twice before he could
believe what it said. Spicer had committed suicide,
confessing that he was guilty of theft and had com-
mitted murder. The letter told the police where they
could find the body. He raised his eyes and looked
at Rogan.
The chief was standing beside the desk, and the
look upon his face was that of a man not exactly
certain of what had taken place. As the eyes of the
two men met there came a sudden gesture from the
police chief; slowly his arms went out in a half
circle and just what that gesture might express Man-
ners could not say. Then came the voice, slow, ques-
tioning, hesitating.
"So I was right, Harley. Something was to hap-
pen. Something did. Spicer—" He paused as if even
he doubted what he was to say.
"Spicer all the time. Kills himself, committed the
murder. It's all over.”
Manners' glance went down to the sheet of paper.
It was still in his hands, a white sheet covered with
heavy black letters, which confessed a crime, told
that a man's life had ended. Rogan had said that
all was over; he was not so certain. A surging doubt
was rising in his mind. Lifting his head, he met
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
Rogan's eyes and something in his glance caused a
question to frame on the chief's lips, a question he
did not have to put into words, for Manners was
speaking, in a grave, hesitating tone:
"Over, Rogan? No. It's just started. We'll find
that Spicer was murdered, discover that this letter
is a forgery."
[194]


CHAPTER XIII
ROGAN's hand had been creeping nervously across
the cluttered surface of the desk. His fingers were
searching for the button which would call the emer-
gency department. As Manners' voice died away the
chief's fingers went shut, and he threw a hurried, in-
credulous glance at his friend. Had his ears de-
ceived him? Could it be that Manners doubted that
Spicer had committed suicide? One look into the
eyes boring into his own, then:
"Harley, what are you trying to tell me?
What—"
The words faded as his eyes fell upon the en-
velope Manners still held in his hand. It was an
imploring look, filled with doubt and unbelief. The
voice which answered was low and slow.
“I don't know what I mean, Rogan, but you can
never make me think Henry Spicer would steal those
items. That he would commit murder and suicide
seems impossible."
Rogan's lips parted to allow a sudden outburst
of words, then closed. His eyes found the button on
the desk, with a bang his big hand went slamming
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
down on its top. Again and again the motion was
repeated.
By his side Manners stood thinking. The letter
he had read bore in one corner the engraved ad-
dress of the library. But he knew Henry Spicer;
everyone in the city knew him. Genial and friendly
to the general public, he was well known to a smaller
circle as one of the best informed men in his field
in the country. A happy sort of a man, kindly to
those who were under him, one who laughed a great
deal oftener than he frowned. That he should be
dead by his own hand was incredible.
The door from the hallway was jerked open and
a police lieutenant came running into the room. The
man's face wore a puzzled expression as if he was
not accustomed to being summoned so vigorously
by his superior officer. Long before he reached the
desk, commands were being barked at him from the
chief's lips.
"Have the police ambulance go to the old Hunt
place at once. Take Bell, the fingerprint man, if you
can find him. Send someone over to the library for
Kent if he is not in his office. And get busy."
Though the man was without doubt puzzled by
the fact, there was no explanation needed. He
nodded.
“It will be about ten minutes before we can use
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
the ambulance," he said. "It's out on an accident."
Growling out a command to use it as soon as it
returned, Rogan ordered him out of the office. As
the door shut, the chief reached down to the desk
and yanked open a drawer. A handful of stogies
went into his pocket. His hat was thrust upon his
head, then he hesitated. Again a hand went to a
drawer and Manners glimpsed the black, squatty
revolver which was thrust into an outside pocket.
"Where is your car, Harley?”!
Told it was at a garage a block away, Rogan
started for the door with a command to the pro-
fessor to hurry. They were out on the street in a
moment, hastening up the block and into the garage.
The sight of the police chief caused the attendant to
have the car on the floor almost before the request
had left Manners' lips. He remembered as he drove
out on the street, that in his haste he had forgotten
to pay for his parking.
There had been a command whispered in his ear,
an injunction to hurry. He slid around a traffic sign,
and an indignant officer yelled at him as he went
past. Weaving through slow-moying cars, paying no
attention to lights or street cars, the big blue ma-
chine went dashing up the principal street of the
city. Traffic policeman started to blow their whistles,
only to snatch them suddenly from their lips as they
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
glimpsed the blue-coated figure at Manners' side.
The Hunt estate, the note had read. This was
on the farther outskirts of the city, several acres of
rundown land which had been without a tenant for
a number of years. Once it had been the show place
of the state, but that was many years ago. Now
behind the high stone wall which enclosed the estate
lay a tangled jungle of small trees and shrubbery.
In a sense the place was an eyesore, neglected, deso-
late and lonely. The nearest house was over half
a mile from the deserted brick dwelling which once
had cost a fortune.
Though Manners was driving over fifty, yet as
he left the main part of the city he allowed the tiny
needle on the speedometer to creep around sixty-
five. The chief was in a hurry, wishing to reach the
place before the other police officials arrived on the
scene. There would be no difficulty in doing that.
With his eyes glued to the flying road ahead,
Manners was thinking. Beside him, slumped far
down in his seat, with one hand holding his hat on
his head, was the chief. Not a word had passed his
lips since the command to hasten. There was no
need to look at his face. Manners knew what the
look would reveal, a hard expression, with lips set
in a straight firm line, eyes narrow and steel gray.
They were going almost seventy miles an hour,
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
rushing wildly over the streets of the city in order
to be the first to see Spicer's body. Spicer had been
almost a close friend of Manners', a man he ad-
mired, whose wit and good humor had often caused
him to laugh. Now he was dead. Dead, said the
rushing wheels. Dead, whistled the wind. Dead by
his own hand in his own car. Manners knew that
he did not believe the last.
They were running down a wide avenue, with
wide lawns and costly houses, where children paused
to watch the car flash by, and dogs, after one des-
perate attempt to follow, turned and ran barking
to the sidewalk. Now came smaller streets, with
rough, uneven pavement, where the machine rocked
and swayed as it pounded along. A dirt road at last,
turning at a sudden angle to run up the steep hill
which towered above them.
Though the section of the city they had just left
was respectable enough, yet it was a place of small
frame houses and narrow lots. As the car started to
bump up the hill, the houses vanished and on each
side of the narrow road stretched fields overgrown
with tall grass. Above them the road disappeared
over the top of the hill.
The road they were climbing was extremely nar-
row, deeply rutted and covered with thick dust. Evi-
dently it was not used much. Manners knew that
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
there was another approach to the Hunt estate, but
this was the nearest, and though the road just be-
fore cresting the top rose above them at a twenty-
five percent angle, the car made it easily.
On the summit he turned to the left to follow
what might far better have been called a path than
a road. It ran through a field, and the grass was al-
most to the top of the car door. Only two narrow
lanes showed where other machines had gone, and
these were rather faint. Passing the field, they went
through a small woods to come out along a stone
wall.
It was a tall wall, over seven feet in height, built
of heavy granite blocks. Someone must have spent
a fortune upon this wall, for it ran around what was
known as the Hunt estate. To see over its top was
impossible, though they could glimpse the trees
which were on the other side. For over a thousand
yards they followed it, stopping before a rusty iron
gate.
The gate which led through the wall had once
been wrought by hands skilled in artistic workman-
ship. Even now, though rust from the rains of many
years had corroded the fine lines of the iron, it still
bore traces of beauty. Through it they could look
into the grounds, see the tangled mass of trees
on each side of a road which curved out of their
vision.
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
boards. The sunken garden was on the other side
of the house.
The path curved past a wooden barn; they saw
that the door was off, lying half hidden in the weeds.
The vague outlines of a garden were passed; then
came the side of the house, a large house, desolate
and lonely in appearance, with its windows covered
with boards, dirty with the dust of years. Past the
house they found they could go no farther, for the
road turned off in another direction.
It had been a silent ride, neither Rogan nor Man-
ners saying a word. As the car came to a stop, and
the sound of the engine died away, the chief stirred
to attention. With a jerk he pulled his heavy body
upright, to cast an uneasy glance over what had been
a lawn. At the lower edge of the tall grass he saw
the sunken garden and beyond it, half hidden by
the unkempt hedge, a parked car.
His hand reached forth to fall heavily upon Man-
ners' arm. A finger pointed over the high grass.
Turning, the professor followed the gesture, his
face becoming stern as he saw the car. Only the
rear end of it could be seen, but he knew the dark
blue machine. The car standing motionless at the
farther end of the sunken garden belonged to Henry
Spicer.
Not a word was said as they hastened out on the
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
ground and started through the grass. Weeds
plucked at their feet, small branches from the trees
above their heads tried to trip them. Over what
had been a wide lawn they hastened, skirting the
sunken garden, now a mass of weeds mingled with
golden rod.
Beyond the sunken garden a field stretched to an
overgrown and unkempt privet hedge. Once the
hedge must have been a thing of beauty; now it was
a green mass of tangled branches. In the center was
a wide opening, filled with grass and weeds. Here
was the blue coupé, standing with its back toward
the house.
As he walked toward the hedge, the grass swish-
ing against his legs, a shiver of dread swept over
Manners' body. Far away could be heard the noisy
quarreling of a flock of crows. Around him was sun-
shine, playing over the ruin and decay. In such a
setting the blue machine took on the appearance of
some threatening thing.
When they passed the opening in the hedge, the
footsteps of the two men slackened. There was re-
luctance in their manner as they approached the rear
of the car. Neither spoke, nor did they turn their
eyes to look upon each other's faces. The same
thought was in both minds, a dread of what they
would see when they looked within the machine.
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
It was Rogan whose hand fell upon the handle
of the door. Very slow was the motion of turning,
slower yet the motion of pulling the door open.
There came a quick look within, then the heavy,
thick-set figure stiffened. Turning, he threw a horri-
fied look at Manners, his lips were a stern, straight
line.
Slumped down across the wheel, with one hand
lying below the level of the seat, crouched the silent
figure of a man. Over the car played the bright
sunshine and the song of birds came floating from
the trees. The figure within the car could not hear
the birds, knew nothing about the warm sunlight.
Whatever might happen in the world he had loved,
Henry Spicer would never know. For him the world
no longer existed.
Without speaking they stood for several mo-
ments, studying the silent figure slumped down upon
the seat. Death might be a dignified thing, but there
was nothing dignified about the body lying over the
steering wheel. Instead, there was a grotesque ap-
pearance of mockery, a sense of futility which the
bright sunshine could not dispel. Spicer in life had
been a cheerful soul, laughing at the comedy he
found about him. In death his body had become a
sinister thing of horror.
With a sigh Rogan bent forward to lift the cold
hand which dangled below the seat level. For a mo-
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY.
ment he held it in his palm, his hand looking at the
automatic revolver clenched between the cold stiff
fingers. Carefully letting the arm drop he turned to
Manners.
“The gun is there, and if you look you can see
the wound, a little over his temple."
Pushing the chief to one side Manners bent for-
ward to study the interior of the machine. The lin-
ing of the seat was of heavy velvet, and he glanced
at this for a moment. Bending forward he looked at
the cold face, studying the wound which was a little
over the eye. His hand reached down to touch the
gun, then for a little while did not stir.
When he turned away from the machine it was
to look around him. Behind them was the opening
in the hedge leading to the neglected lawn. In front
of the car was a vague track, curving away through
the small trees to vanish in the distance. To reach
the place where the car was standing, it must have
been driven over this indistinct path.
The silence was broken by the sound of an ap-
proaching car. It was somewhere to their left, the
noise of the engine drifting through the tangle of
small trees. With his head bent on one side, Rogan
listened a moment, then reaching into his pocket
found his police whistle. Applying it to his lips, he
blew three sharp long blasts, which were answered
in a second.
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
The whistle was blown many times before anyone
came in sight. Then they saw three men walking
around the side of the garden, hurrying men, with
the tall figure of the inspector of the homicide squad
in the lead. Observing them, Kent gave a wave of
his hand.
There was curiosity upon the inspector's face as
he came toward the hedge. Though Rogan had or-
dered the police ambulance sent to the Hunt estate,
he had said nothing as to the reason for the request.
That Kent should wonder what had taken place was
not surprising, and an astonished look swept over
his face as he saw them standing beside the blue
coupé. He was half way through the hedge before
he spoke:
"What's the matter, chief ?”
A stogie came out of the chief's pocket. The end
was bitten off, the match applied before he an-
swered. With a wave of his hand toward the coupé
he uttered a short sentence:
"Spicer is in there, dead.".
As Kent suddenly halted, the two men who were
with him reached his side. One was the young police
doctor, the other the patrolman who drove the am-
bulance. The doctor did not pause. Hearing Rogan's
remark, he walked past the inspector and pulled
open the door by the wheel. They saw him hesitate
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
for a second, then his head and shoulders vanished
from sight.
With a look at Rogan the inspector hastened to
the other door to assist the physician. As the tall
back bent within the car, Rogan walked to the front
of the car. His eyes were going down the narrow
outlined path, turning in the end to take in the
tangle of trees on both sides of the machine.
In his pocket was the letter which told him he
would find Spicer's body at this place. When he read
it there had been two thoughts in his mind. The first
was surprise, the astonished wonder that the li-
brarian should have been the one who had stolen the .
pamphlets and committed the murder. His second
thought had been one of relief. Spicer had confessed,
confessed in the most convincing manner, by taking
his own life. The confession ended the case.
Now as his eyes took in the warm landscape, he
felt very uneasy. He tried to tell himself that there
was nothing to cause the feeling. Spicer had con-
fessed; the letter was in his pocket; the man was
dead. But deep down in his heart he was wondering.
Intuition was again at work, warning him that
things were not just what they seemed, whispering
that he must be careful, must not jump at con-
clusions.
The sound behind him caused the heavy figure
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
to whirl around. The doctor and Kent had walked
to the front of the car. The blond head of the physi-
cian was nodding in agreement with something the
inspector was saying. Yet for some reason, Rogan
decided the nod was not as vigorous as he would
have liked to see.
"What do you think ?” he called out.
“Oh, I guess he just croaked himself. But why un-
der heaven Spicer should do a thing like that,”
and the doctor shook his head as though words were
beyond him.
Crossing to their side Rogan's hand went search-
ing into his pocket; the fingers closed upon a piece
of paper and he brought it forth. For a moment his
eyes looked at the single sheet, saw the typewritten
letters which announced that a well-known citizen
had died by his own hand. Then he extended it to
Kent.
"Here is a letter from him. It's the thing which
brought us here to find his body."
A quick questioning look at his superior and the
inspector's hand shot forth for the letter. As he
bent his eyes to the page, the doctor crowded close
to look over his shoulder. Silence for a moment, a
gasp, then an excited remark:
"Who would have thought it, chief? That ends
the thing. Who would have thought it?”
Manners' eyes went searching into the gloomy in-
remark:
[208]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
terior of the car. There was a frown upon his face,
and he was biting his lips. The glance traveled over
the silent figure, and for a moment he did not speak.
Then he moved; the voice which spoke was very
slow:
"Chief, did you look at the postmark on that
letter ?"
There came a shake of the white head as his hand
shot into his pocket. When he saw the envelope
Manners turned to the doctor.
"How long would you say he has been dead,
Trent?”
"Anywhere from sixteen to eighteen hours."
"That's what I thought," was the dry retort.
Something in the deliberate tone caused Rogan
to lift his eyes from the envelope, to look doubtfully
at his friend. There had been a curious undertone in
the retort, a mixture of irony playing with a
troubled doubt. Something was on Manners' mind,
something which had caused his friend's face to be-
come suddenly very grave.
“What are you getting at?"
“This. There are three things about this car
which look very funny to me. And—”.
He paused, as there came a sharp barking ques-
tion from the chief.
“What in hell are you trying to tell ?”!
There was no reply for a moment. In the silence
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they heard a cat-bird in a near-by tree break into
a harsh cry. Somewhere a car sounded a horn, its
shrill echo floating to their ears. As it died away
Manners spoke: .
"It's not suicide, Rogan. It's murder. Your sec-
ond murder in the library affair."
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
The look the physician received caused him to
wonder if he had not spoken too soon. Without a
word, Manners took two steps, his long arms reach-
ing out for the doctor's coat. The grip which fell
upon Trent's shoulder was firm, and the astonished
young man was pulled to the side of the machine, his
head thrust through the open door.
"Look carefully, Trent, at both Spicer's eyes and
at the manner in which his hand holds that gun."
There was irony behind that dry tone, a faint
hint of sarcasm which caused the doctor to look
around and give one quick, searching look at the pro-
fessor. The stern expression around the tightly
closed lips caused him to turn, and they watched his
shoulders disappear within the car. It was almost
five minutes before the head was withdrawn and his
first action was to look at Manners, then gravely
nod his head.
“What the devil are you two," began the rough
voice of the chief. The question was never finished,
for a gesture from Manners caused him to become
silent.
“Chief, if you will look at Spicer's eyes you will
find them tight shut. Yet if there is one bit of medical
evidence we are certain of, it is that when a person
meets a violent death, or one which comes suddenly,
you will always find the eyes wide open. In cases
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
where death comes slowly they are generally half
open, never tight shut.”
Rogan stared at his friend as if he believed he had
suddenly gone crazy. When he started to speak the
first words came in a low tone, but the voice rose as
he went on.
"Well, if when a man kills himself or gets bumped
off his eyes are the same, I don't see what difference
it makes. A sudden startled look swept his face, the
big jaw dropped for a second to allow one word to
burst forth, “Hell.”
"That's the right word, Rogan. Spicer's eyes are
closed, shut tight. If he committed suicide they would
be open, staring straight ahead, and the same if it
was murder. Now we are not sure about the murder
end, but we do know his eyes are closed. Someone
slipped up. Someone thought the eyes of every dead
person should be shut tight and, seeing Spicer's were
open, closed them. Ask Trent."
There was a sheepish expression upon the doc-
tor's face. The first glance he had given the body was
a casual one, observing the wound above the right
eye, glancing at the gun held in the hand. The fact
that the eyes .were closed he had overlooked. Man-
ners was right, the eyes should have been open and in
a grave voice he admitted that his examination had
been careless.
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
Brushing by the two men, Kent thrust his head
into the car. The gesture was that of a man who
would refuse to believe what had been said until the
evidence of his own eyes convinced him. When the
head was withdrawn, the look he threw at his chief
was a convincing one. Then he turned to Manners.
“What else have you got?”
“The gun. Do you think the grip of the hand
which holds the gun is a firm one? It is, in a sense,
but not firm enough. In a suicide case, one from
shooting, a muscular spasm follows the shot, which
causes the hand to grip the gun so tightly that it is
almost impossible to loosen the clasp. Most medico-
legal works tell us that a gun clasped firmly, the grip
caused by the muscular reaction, is the best evidence
of suicide. Now that gun is in Spicer's hand, but it
can be moved. Not very much it is true, but far more
than would be possible if he had shot himself. It's
my idea the revolver was placed in his hand after
death and the fingers forced around the gun. I think
Trent will agree with me.”
A quick glance at his doctor, and Rogan saw the
young man nod. Then the chief turned to look up the
path and for a moment seemed to be studying the
tall grass. When he whirled around there was a little
irony in his voice.
“Got anything else we overlooked ?".
“Yes. Several other things are worth considering.
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
books and the prices paid for them were outside of
their knowledge.
Rogan glanced at his two assistants, though he
knew what the look would reveal. Trent's face was a
study, chagrin and excitement playing across the thin
features. Kent seemed startled, but was saying noth-
ing. Behind them, looking very doubtfully at the car,
stood the patrolman, and as his eyes rested on the
blue uniform the chief swept into action.
“Can you drive the ambulance over here, Mike ?"
He was assured it could be done, though the big
car would have to be driven carefully over the grass.
He snapped out the quick command, then he turned
to Manners.
“It's a good bet you are right,” he said. “If you
are, then the odds are against his having been killed
here. Someone shot him, then drove the car to this
place and left it. Let's give a look down that path.
There's no other place they could have driven from.
This car could not have gone through the hedge."
As the three police authorities started to examine
the ground, Manners turned to thrust his head again
into the machine. His eyes rested for a moment upon
the grotesque figure sprawled across the wheel,
passed down to the hand which held the gun, swept
over the shining instrument board. Then he gave a
start. There was no key in the ignition lock.
His eyes narrowed as he saw this. If Spicer had
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
shot himself, one would hardly expect he would
bother to place the key in his pocket after turning off
the engine. Going to the other side of the machine,
he opened the door, and, though he did not like his
task, thrust his fingers into the small pocket of
Spicer's vest, then into the trousers. The search was
useless; there was no key; nor did he find it on the
floor of the machine.
But he did discover something else. Tucked half
under the floor mat was a small bit of paper. It was
the back of an envelope, folded in the middle, either
cast aside as useless or fallen unnoticed to the floor.
There was nothing of interest upon it. One side was
covered with a mass of small circles, drawn again
and again on one side of the paper. What it could
mean he did not try to find out. Just a series of cir-
cles, starting with a small one, then others larger in
size drawn around the first. After a short look he
placed it in his pocket.
Withdrawing his head, he saw the men some dis-
tance down the faint path. Let them go; he would
look over the machine. By the time he had ended his
search the men were back at his side, and through
the hedge could be heard the approaching rumble of
the ambulance. He had discovered nothing and he
doubted if Rogan had.
He was informed that they were certain the ma-
chine had been driven over the path, and that the
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
Nodding toward his inspector, he started to walk
toward the sunken garden. He was thinking over the
new fact. Every fact, no matter how insignificant,
must be investigated. However, it would now be pos-
sible to use ordinary police methods. A visit to the
club where Spicer lived was the next step.
They climbed into the car without speaking and,
after lighting a stogie, Rogan slumped far down into
his seat. When they came through the stone walls he
could have observed the most beautiful view in the
city, but his eyes never rested upon it. Views never
meant much to Rogan, now he would not have raised
his head for the finest view in the world. There was
work ahead, a great deal of work, also a good deal
of criticism to face. The city would rock with horror
when they heard what had happened.
The car stopped before a large brick building and
almost before it stopped Rogan had tumbled out. It
was the Waveland Club, the most exclusive social
group of the city. As he followed the chief past a
startled doorman, Manners decided to eat. It was
time he did this, and there was no more convenient
place than his own club. With a word to Rogan, he
left him talking to the secretary and turned into the
dining room.
He gave his order and then leaned back to light
a cigarette. The dining room was quiet, for he had it
all to himself. On every side were small tables, the
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the letter which confessed murdering Ruby Merton,
Spicer had never written that.
All through his lunch, he pondered over the letter.
It was a confession, but not that of Spicer. Instead it
was the actual confession of the murderer, whoever
that might be. It was true that Spicer would not have
taken the pamphlets, but a much greater certainty
was that he would never commit murder. As for kill-
ing himself, that was impossible. Manners had
reached that conclusion when the meal ended.
The clerk in the office told him that Rogan was in
Spicer's apartment. It was clear from the bewildered
expression upon the man's face that he wished to
ask what the police chief was doing. Police and the
Waveland Club were two things which had nothing
in common. Not only was the clerk curious, but he
appeared shocked that a blue uniform should have
invaded the sacred places of the building.
Taking the elevator, Manners went to the top
floor and came out in a deeply carpeted hallway.
Standing for a moment in heavy silence, he heard the
elevator descend. He had spent several evenings in
the librarian's suite, nights of enjoyment, which now
were over. His hand touched a mahogany door, he
sadly shook his head.
Turning the knob he stepped into a large living
room. Bookcases lined one side of the wall, with
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
colored prints and etchings above them. It was a
room bearing signs of quiet culture, whose furnish-
ings were in the best of taste. Through an open door
he glimpsed a bedroom, saw Rogan bending over a
dresser. Inside the room he noticed first that the bed
had not been slept in, or, if it had, was now remade.
At his approach the chief whirled around.
"Harley, they told me downstairs Spicer was play-
ing bridge in the card room last night. Some time
around nine-thirty he got a telephone call, came back
and said he had to go out. Was a little excited when
he left, told them he would be back in an hour. He
never came back.”
“Didn't say who the call was from, or what it was
about?”
Very profane was the reply. Manners could see
that Rogan's nerves were getting the better of him.
The voice that told of the telephone call was not only
rough it was also a bit angry. Spicer had said nothing
about his message, giving no hint whom it was from,
nor what it was about. He had asked that his car be
brought to the front of the club. When he left he
said he would be back in an hour.
"He was excited they say. Of course we will look
up the men with whom he was playing cards, try to
trace the call; but there is not much chance in doing
that. Anyway something dragged him out of the
club."
[224]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY .
very much worth considering, decided perhaps it was
the only thing which promised any solution of the
crimes. Thinking this, he gave a violent start as he
turned and hurried out of the living room.
Beside a table covered with books and magazines,
Rogan was barking out instructions to three of the
homicide squad. Bellboys were to be examined, clerks
talked with, the telephone calls traced, the garage
visited. One man must get into touch with the banks,
discover how Spicer's account stood. Work was
ahead, the hard work in which details must be taken
care of. The chief was going into action.
As for Manners, he was now longing for the quiet
of his own living room. He could see the long, book-
lined walls, picture the sunlight streaming in through
the open windows. Up on the hill there was peace
and quiet. These were the things he needed very
badly. An idea was shaping itself, an idea which
would need careful consideration. He would go
home, in the restful quietness of his book-lined room,
think over what had come to him.
[227]


CHAPTER XV
BATHED in a flood of warm sunlight, the lawn
stretched away to an ivy-covered wall. A fat robin
hopped slowly around the front of the garden, paus-
ing to look up to the tall young man seated under a
great elm. For over an hour the robin had been in-
terested in the silent figure, and one might have said
the little beady eyes which darted toward the chair
were filled with curiosity.
With his legs stretched before him, Harley Man-
ners gazed reflectively over his domain. To his right
was his rambling house, its side covered with late
roses. Under the windows stretched a long narrow
garden, colorful against the vivid green of the lawn.
Above him towered the tall elms, casting deep shad-
ows over the grass. By his side, keeping one watch-
ful eye upon the robin, lay the Airedale, ready to
rise at the least suggestion.
For the last hour and a half, with a pencil in his
hand, a block of paper in his lap, Manners had been
writing. There had been no particular order to his
notes, simply the jotting down of random ideas which
had flashed through his mind, thoughts all having
some connection with the two murders.
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
When he placed the papers aside, he doubted if
the time had been well spent. There was something
he should remember, some little fact which up to
now had escaped his notice. The random jotting
down of his thoughts had been an attempt to arouse a
train of association. Some little incident was trying
to force its way through his sub-conscious. So far,
the effort had been a failure.
By turning his head, he could have seen a faint
haze upon the air. Down in the city the smoke from
the factories would die away in a short while. Twi-
light was approaching; a hush was creeping through
the trees, becoming part of the shadows upon the
grasses. Soon it would be night. He had promised
Rogan to call at the police station at ten.
Down in the city a well-functioning police machin-
ery was now at work. Men would be scurrying round
trying to discover some fact which would throw light
upon Spicer's death. Though at first the chief had
wished to think it was suicide, he had been forced to
admit that another violent death had taken place,
one which might be as difficult to solve as the first.
Reaching down, Manners picked up the papers
containing his notes. Page after page of yellow paper
was filled with his oddly characteristic writing. Line
after line ended in a black question mark. He smiled
as he turned the sheets to see that almost every line
ended with this symbol.
W
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That, however, was nine years ago. Everyone knew
about them then, but what everybody knows is soon
forgotten.
The library staff would know they were in the
safe, but they would not be very much interested in
the safe or its contents. When the day's work was
over, books were the last thing they wished to see.
Who, outside of the library staff, could have been
interested in the pamphlets ? For someone had been.
There were three book collectors worthy of the
name in the city, two, if he did not count himself.
One, however, was interested only in items dealing
with the theater and early English sporting books.
This man would not turn his head to look at Amer-
icana. The other—and he smiled as he thought of
the leading physician of the city, a man whose col-
lection of early medical works was the best in the
country.
No book collector he had ever heard of would
stoop to murder. He chuckled, however, at a thought,
remembering the typical French case, of a book col-
lector who killed a rival, then burned his house in
order to be the only possessor of a book. The smile
was caused by the ironical recollection, that, after the
man had committed his crime, he discovered that the
book was worthless.
Yet he was right, book collectors did not steal
from libraries. The chief requisite for being a collec-
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
noon. During the afternoon she had tried to see him.
He was busy. That, coupled with the fact that she
was a bit of a bore, had prevented her getting into
· his office. She would not wish to take any action un-
til her superior had been consulted.
There were other considerations. She had an idea
who the guilty person was, but there was a hint that
she had not cared to be over hasty in what she did.
Was this caused by the social standing of the person
accused? If Manners was correct in his thinking, she
had called the person she suspected on the telephone,
perhaps invited him to come into the office and talk
the matter over. It seemed logical.
When Rogan first glanced at the letter, he was
convinced that Spicer, by taking his life, had con-
fessed to the murder. But if there was one thing of
which Manners was positive, it was that Spicer knew
nothing about the crime. No one who had known
the head of the library would ever believe the letter
was anything but a forgery.
Who had killed Ruby Merton ? This he did not
know, though he was certain it was the same individ-
ual who had murdered Spicer. The last had been a
skillfully planned crime, one which had required a
cool head. Spicer could not have been killed at the
place where they found his body; the murder had
been committed elsewhere. As he thought this a pic-
ture came flashing through his mind.
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
Spicer had been killed at the place he visited after
receiving the telephone message. The call had been
unexpected; the librarian had at once ordered his
car and hastily left the club. They would discover
that he had not intended to leave the building that
evening. His dinner jacket showed that he had
dressed for a bridge party.
A message had called him out of his club to his
death. Manners shuddered as he pictured the mur-
derer driving along a dark road with the body of his
victim slumped down on the seat beside him. That
required nerve, a cool taking of chances which no ·
ordinary man would face. He could see the blue
coupé with its sinister burden, driving past lighted
cars, turning at last into the Hunt estate, coming to
a halt at last by the garden. But the letter the chief
had received bothered him.
Scotland Yard had once said that there were ten
clues to every murder. Perhaps to the highly trained
department of the Yard that might be so, though he
rather doubted it. One thing was certain, there had
never been a crime, no matter how skillfully planned,
in which the murderer did not overlook something.
In this case it was the letter.
The letter had but one purpose, to make the chief
of police believe its contents were true. If this could
be done the case was closed; the murderer was safe.
But he had made a mistake. The letter had been
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
posted some hours after Spicer's death. If Spicer
had written it, he would have mailed it before he
left the hotel. Mailed after death, it showed very
clearly that the murderer himself had posted it.
What type of individual could be guilty of the
two deaths? This had bothered Manners all after-
noon. Intelligent people did not as a rule commit
crime; when they did, it was in a moment of emo-
tional frenzy. There were hints of emotional un-
balance in the two murders, emotions whipped into
a wild excitement by fear of exposure. An individual
whose mind was on the verge of breaking could have
committed the murders.
He gave up thinking to reach into his pocket for
a cigarette. As his fingers went searching into his
pocket, they felt a piece of paper. Curiosity caused
him to bring it forth. The back of an envelope was
in his hand, its surface covered with circles which
had been drawn with a pencil. His eyes narrowed as
he glanced at the torn envelope. It had been on the
floor of Spicer's machine, half hidden by the mat.
He knew the meaning of the circles, why they had
been drawn. The question who had drawn them was
the important thing.
Why the circles had been drawn was easy to ex-
plain. Many persons when playing with a pencil be-
gin unthinkingly to draw figures upon anything which
is at hand. Their subconscious mind tricks them into
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
at the farther edge of the lawn. Then all at once he
darted back from the window, only to look care-
fully out again at the lawn.
As he had looked over the grass he thought there
had been a vague moving figure which had suddenly
darted to the shelter of the tree. It might have been
fancy; perhaps it was only the shadow from one of
the many trees. No one would be on his lawn, dart-
ing across his grass to hide beyond a tree. His eyes
had deceived him. At this moment the telephone
gave a shrill ring.
When he had lifted the receiver from the hook
the voice which came over the wire caused wonder
to leap in his mind, a low, soft voice, whose delibera-
tion was remarkable because of the softness with
which the words were being spoken. The voice asked
twice if he was Professor Manners, hesitating be-
fore speaking another word.
As he waited for the low voice to speak again,
Manners frowned. It was Zuko at the other end of
the wire, and the gangster had never before called
his house. There was some reason for the call, and
Joe was taking his own time in giving it. But after
a pause the low slow voice came again.
“Still interested in libraries, Professor ?" was the
insinuating question.
The response made again, there came a long wait.
Whatever it was that Zuko was going to say, he not
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
only was taking his time in saying it, but also was
carefully picking his words. Again came the low
voice:
“Professor, you had better be here, yes, at the
Bagdad, by eleven. Might bring Rogan with you."
Before Manners could hurl an excited question
into the telephone, he heard a faint click, knew that
Zuko had rung off. Soberly he placed the receiver
back on the hook, then stood thoughtfully looking
down at the stand. Never before had Zuko called his
house. The few words he had spoken over the tele-
phone were not of much importance, what had
caused the message was the chief thing.
Something was up. Zuko was a stickler for for-
malities. Was he still interested in libraries had
been the question. If so, then he was to be at the
Bagdad by eleven. Zuko had discovered something,
and, as with a start, he rushed into the living room
for the hat he had left upon the table, he knew the
information he would receive at eleven did not con-
cern the gangster. If it had, there would have been
no low, insistent voice over the wire.
It was twenty minutes to the hour by the clock
on the mantel. Just time enough to reach the police
station at ten. He pictured Rogan's face when he
told him Zuko's conversation, knew the argument
he would have before he would be able to persuade
the chief to go to the roadhouse. Rogan prided him-
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
within the hallway. But why should anyone wish to
take his life?
The telephone call came surging into his mind, if
he did not know Zuko it would bear all the details
of a well thought out plot. He had been asked to
hasten to the roadhouse. Naturally he would leave
his home by the front door. With the light behind
him he would present an easy target for the gunner.
Had he been placed on the spot ?
There was no time to think that over. He had
reached the kitchen, a place dark and lonely. The
shades were down at the windows, and it was im-
possible to distinguish objects in the room. This did
not matter; he was not going to remain in the
kitchen.
Finding the door he was seeking, he opened it and
passed into a small closet. There was a window
here; through it he could climb out of the house.
There was little possibility that anyone would be
watching this window. Once outside he would have
some chance to discover what was going on. The
screen was in, but there was no trouble in pushing it
aside. A glance showed the rear lawn, dark and
awesome as the thoughts in his mind. Thirty yards
away was a dark high shadow, the outline of the
hedge enclosing his estate. Beyond it ran the road.
A sound began to reach his ears, the steady run-
ning of an engine, the rumbling motor of a car
[243]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
parked outside the hedge. As he listened he heard
the motor give a sudden roar, caught the sound of
clashing gears. The car was being put into motion.
He leaped out of the window, stumbling as he hit
the ground, falling to his knees. On his feet in a
second, he tore around the side of the house, run-
ning for the garage. He knew what the noisy start-
ing engine implied. Whoever it was who had tried to
kill him was now fleeing. In the garage were his
own cars.
The garage doors were open, and for that he was
thankful. Falling into the seat of his big roadster,
he fumbled with the key, then found the lock. As
his foot pushed down on the gas, the engine sput-
tered into life. Playing with the choke for a second,
he waited until the sound became a steady purr,
then backed out into the drive. In a wide sweeping
circle he turned toward the road.
Before reaching the opening in the hedge, he was
in second; by the time he was on the road, the car
was in high. The highway turned just past his house,
running down a steep hill on its winding way to the
city. As he reached the crest of the hill, he saw half
way down its length the red tail light of a fleeing
machine.
The car ahead was sliding from one side of the
road to the other, hurtling down the hill at a speed
-
[244]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
much too great for a light machine. His was a power-
ful car, the fastest that had as yet been turned out.
That he could overtake the car ahead he knew; just
what he would do when he reached its side was an-
other problem.
With the long roadster picking up in speed every
second, he started down the hill. Ahead was a fleeing
car, one which no doubt held the person who had
tried to kill him, a car lurching all over the road,
swaying and bounding as it rushed along. Long be-
fore reaching the city limits he would be able to
pass it.
The light upon the dashboard played over his
speedometer. The needle was swaying over seventy,
creeping to seventy-five, coming to rest on a trem-
bling eighty. There were plenty more miles in the
engine, but on the steep hill the speed he was making
was sufficient.
The red tail light vanished for a moment as the
road swept around a curve. Skidding around the
half turn, he saw it disappearing around the second
curve. When he reached this it had gone, though the
road ran a straight arrow before him.
With his brakes screeching forth a shrieking pro-
test, the car came to a skidding stop; then he noticed
a road to his left. It was a dirt road, twisting a
roundabout way to the city, passing over at least a
1
[245]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
he was more excited than Rogan had ever seen him.
Wondering what could be the trouble, he ventured
a question.
Many had been the stories told in Rogan's dingy
office. Into that quiet room flowed a stream of men
and women with anguish, hatred and sorrow in their
hearts. Stories of the depths to which human passions
could fall, sordid accounts of human hatred and
passion had been poured into the ears of the white-
haired chief, but the story his friend was telling was
one of the most perplexing he had heard.
When, with amazed feeling in his voice, Manners
told of going to the door, and of the shot which had
come flashing out of the darkness, Rogan's first
thought had been that the professor was fooling. A
look at the tensed, set face, the sound of the re-
pressed feeling in the cultured voice drove the
thought away. It had happened, yet it seemed im-
possible.
When the voice died away, Rogan reached into
his desk and brought forth a well blackened pipe.
Slowly the tobacco was patted into a worn bowl,
more slowly was the match applied. Without look-
ing at the professor he ventured a question.
“So you think it's mixed up with the murders ?”
The retort was short and vigorous. As he heard
it, Rogan raised one of his eyebrows and his hand
picked up a paper from the desk. A glance, and he
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MURDER IN A LIBRARY
turned in his chair to look at Manners. When he
opened his lips, what he said had nothing to do with
the story he had just heard. Slowly he began to tell
what he had discovered about Spicer. He reminded
Manners that, if the librarian had been in financial
difficulties, there might be some suspicion that he
had stolen the pamphlets. A detective had inter-
viewed the banks, had looked into Spicer's safe de-
posit box. The librarian had not been in need of
money.
He described Spicer's being called to the tele-
phone. The men with whom he had been playing
bridge had been interviewed. The game had been
arranged several days before; the evening was to
be spent in the club. A bellboy had come to the table
a little after nine, saying that the librarian was
wanted on the telephone. Upon Spicer's return to
the card room, he seemed rather excited, saying that
he must go out at once, though he expected to re-
turn within a hour, perhaps sooner.
“Then he was not going far," Manners com-
mented.
Rogan nodded at the interruption, but did not say
anything about it. Instead he told of the joking re-
marks which were made to Spicer by the three men
with whom he had been playing. The jokes had made
no impression, for the librarian had been disturbed
and very serious. When he did not return at ten-
[250]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
thirty the three men had left the club for their re- .
spective homes.
There was another bit of information. Someone
of the homicide squad had stumbled upon a young
man who had been parked just a few yards from the
entrance of the Hunt estate. A petting party, was
the chief's dry comment, but the youth had observed
a blue coupé drive through the iron gate. The time
had been close to midnight.
"Did he see inside the car?”
Rogan threw him a long calculating look before
replying, then:
“Yes, two persons were in the coupé. A man was
driving, and the young man in the parked machine
had a glimpse of another figure in the car."
"Spicer, dead.”
The chief agreed, though his tone was thought-
ful. A murderer who would drive a car over the city's
streets with the body of his victim upon the seat be-
side him was the type of criminal he did not like.
There was a cold-heartedness about it which spoke
of a man willing to take all sorts of chances, a crim-
inal it would be difficult to catch. Resisting an in-
clination to comment upon this, he reached to the
desk for another slip of paper. After glancing at it
he frowned.
"Here is a report on that Wellman woman. I
don't see just why you wanted it."
[251]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
forth a powerful looking revolver, a gun which was
carefully examined before it went into the pocket of
the blue coat. Then, with a half scowl, he rose from
his chair to follow Manners from the room.
Past the outskirts of the city, Manners began to
let his car out. The night was dark, the feeling of
moisture in the air telling of an approaching storm.
Wind was sweeping in from the lake, in sudden little
gusts. Far away could be heard the low heavy whis-
tle of a boat, no doubt a freighter bound up the lake.
They did not speak. Both were a little uneasy
about their approaching call. Crouched down in the
seat, one hand holding on to his hat, Rogan was re-
membering that there were many people in the
world whom he liked far better than the man he
soon would see. If the chief had his way, could have
his hands untied for a single day, Zuko and his kind
would be blasted out of existence. Not until they
had turned from the main road and were running
towards the house did the chief speak. With a half
grunt he turned to the silent man at his side.
"Harley, Harlen was in the office this afternoon.
Had two women and Harlen brought in again.
Wanted to make sure they had overlooked nothing
about their visit to the office the afternoon the old
dame was killed.” The recollection seemed far from
a happy one, for he swore in a disgusted fashion.
[253]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
“But, Harlen did ask me one question, and it set me
thinking. He wanted to know if anyone stole that
money which was on the desk.”
There was a sudden sickening skid as the heavy
machine went sliding to the side of the road, to be
pulled back with a jerk. Thrown upright, Rogan de-
manded violently why Manners did not look where
he was going. A demand which brought no response.
"You don't think we have been all wrong, that
Joe White does know something ?" the chief queried.
They had reached the barred gate. The car came
to a stop. Through the wire fence Manners saw a
slow approaching figure. Without a word he watched
the gate thrown open, allowed the silent man to
throw a flashlight upon their faces. Then, as they
were told by a motion of a hand to proceed, he put
the car in gear. Not until they were passing into
the lane running through the fields did he speak.
“No. Joe knows nothing about the murder," he
said.
So odd was the short response that Rogan twisted
his head to look at Manners. He was unable to see
clearly, for the face was a mass of shadows, but he
sensed something, the tension in the tall, upright
body, a sharp, biting tartness in the voice which had
replied. Sinking back in the seat the chief wondered
what had come over his companion.
Their entrance into the Bagdad caused a sensa-
[254]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
the wind, a low steady murmur which was increas-
ing. Under the wind the surf was starting to rise and
before morning would be pounding upon the shore.
Just why they were waiting in the dark, Manners
could not tell. A woman from the library was com-
ing to the room on the other side of the thin board
wall. Stella Wellman, no doubt. But could they trust
Zuko? Trust him they must, and deep down in his
heart he knew they could. Whom the woman ex-
pected to meet he could not tell, though he had a
vague suspicion he might be able to name the man,
a suspicion which had only commenced to form in his
mind.
The darkness pressed close around him, not a
pleasant blackness, but a dark deep pit which had
assumed a threatening thickness. The room had
vanished, to be replaced by a vast expanse of space.
Time had long since departed; it seemed as though
he had been hours upon that couch. If it had not
been for the heavy breathing of the chief, he would
have felt very lonely.
How long they sat there he was never able to de-
cide. Seconds slipped into minutes, minutes which
seemed endless. Not a sound came from the floor
below. Evidently the dance hall was not open, for
they were unable to hear the orchestra. The wind,
however, could be heard, a sinister wind, starting to
shriek and whistle around the side of the house.
[261]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
Then, just as he thought he could sit still no longer,
Rogan's hand clasped his arm.
Out in the hall could be heard the sound of foot-
steps. Sharp, tapping footsteps they were, of a
woman walking rapidly down the narrow passage.
As he listened he heard a door flung open, followed
by a hand fumbling on the wall in the next room.
Then came the sound of the door being shut, and they
could hear someone moving about in the next room.
This room would be similar to the one in which
they were. It could be approached by coming up
from the first floor or by climbing the stairs which
ran outside of the building. There was a small
veranda running around the second story of the
roadhouse, a convenient thing, allowing those who
wished security to reach the second floor without
being seen.
There was only a plain rough wall between the
two rooms, and the walls were thin. With his ear
pressed close to the partition, Manners could hear
someone walking in the next room. She was nery-
ously pacing the floor, walking with quick, sharp
taps of her heels, a nervous woman, he thought, who
would be unable to sit in a chair but was walking
back and forth over the floor.
Suddenly the nervous walking came to a stop.
Pressed close against the wall, Manners could al-
[262]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
most feel the woman standing in a tensed attitude,
listening. There came a soft scraping sound; a win-
dow was being opened. They heard a step, heavier
than the woman's, the sound of a man walking across
the floor. Silence for a second, broken by the angry,
protesting voice of the woman.
They could feel the anger, a cruel, cutting hatred,
though the words could not be distinguished. A
heavier voice started to protest, a voice kept low in
tone, as the man flung some angry retort at the un-
seen woman, a retort which failed to stop the words
spilling from the angry lips, words which were be-
coming distinguishable now, as the voice rose in
- volume.
Whatever was happening in the other room, it
was no lovers' meeting. There was no softness in the
raging tones of the woman, no kindness in the man's
voice as he responded. Though the man was keep-
ing his voice low, yet Manners knew that anger
would soon cause it to become loud. He felt that he
ought to recognize the voice; somewhere he had
heard it before.
The two voices died away for a second, and the
listeners heard the woman's sharp heels go tapping
across the floor. Once, twice they followed her nerv-
ous footsteps, then there was a pause, and they
judged she must be standing directly opposite to
[263]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
wo
where they were listening. Suddenly her voice
snapped out, icy in its utter contempt.
“Tried to double-cross me. I told you you would
have to give me half of what you got for those
pamphlets. Told you."
There came a sharp indrawn breath at Manners'
side. Rogan's hand gripped his arm, the fingers sink-
ing into his fesh. Brushing off the grip, Manners
pressed his ear close to the rough board, heard the
woman's foot tapping the floor.
“Thought you would get away with it," came the
sneering voice. “Well, you don't. Get me, you don't.
Just let me tell the police what I know, and they will
ask you who croaked Ruby Merton. What would
you tell them ?"
There came a violent oath from the unseen man.
There was a curious undertone in the expression, a
tone which caused Manners to half rise from the
couch. He sank back as the woman raged forth
again.
“Now you are coming across. Get me? I am not
going to let you get away with it. Half is mine"
The voice gasped out to an astonished silence.
Then suddenly came a half shriek, a cry filled with
terror, and wild despairing horror.
“What are you going to do? God, what,”
Like a sudden clap of thunder there came the
[264]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
couch was the uneasy figure of a policeman, waiting
until the closed eyes should open and she could gasp
out a dying declaration.
Slowly sipping his drink, Manners realized that
the circle of the library murders had been com-
pleted. That there would be any more attempts at
murder he doubted. What was more, a cold cer-
tainty was in his mind. He knew who had killed the
helpless old woman, whose hands had fired the shot
which took Spicer's life, whose voice they had heard
as they listened in the dark room of the roadhouse.
He knew, but to convince Rogan would be a dif-
ficult task. There must be proof, proof so outstand-
ing that no one in the city would ever have a doubt.
The proof might be difficult to secure. There had
been in a sense, no clues. What was more, there had
not been a suspect. Yet all the time, sheer cold logic
had been pointing in one direction.
The glass drained, Manners poured another
inch of Scotch, swallowed it quickly, then he hastened
into his living room. Though it was very late, there
was important work to be done. Turning on the wall
lights, he bent down before one of the bookcases,
searching for two books he knew were there. Both
were found without difficulty.
At the desk he found some paper. Seating himself
in the big chair, he turned page after page of the
[268]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
latter was the explanation. The story of the shoot-
ing of Stella Wellman would have aroused the city
to an excited frenzy, if all the facts were known.
Rogan had been wise in keeping back the details.
The woman was still unconscious, the paper said, so
the police were without any information as to her
assailant. Three crimes, two deaths, and no clues.
The first telegram arrived just as he finished his
lunch, and from then on they kept arriving all after-
noon. It was almost six before he received the mes-
sage he was expecting. It came from one of the best
known firms of book dealers of the country, a long
telegram saying that two weeks ago they had bought
two copies of the Mounts Relation and a copy of
the Davenport Report. They mentioned that they
had paid ten thousand dollars for the pamphlets
and gave a description of the man from whom they
had been purchased.
As a description it could have been far more
complete, but when the telegram was carefully placed
in his pocket, Manners knew that he needed but one
more message. His theory was falling into place.
There were still wide gaps to be filled, incidents
which could not be explained, but as he ate his early
dinner he was confident that he alone had any sus-
picion as to who had committed the murders.
The last telegram came at the moment when his
grandfather clock was striking seven. As he tore off
[273]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
the edge of the envelope he hesitated a second before
pulling out the flimsy yellow sheet of paper. One
glance at the faint letters and his lips went shut.
Now he was positive.
As he started to drive down toward the city,
cresting the hill to begin the long descent, Manners'
eyes were glued upon the road ahead. By lifting his
head he could have glimpsed the lighted streets,
long lines of flame in the darkness, but he did not
look; with his eyes glued to the road he was think-
ing.
Once before he had been fated to be the one who
unraveled a sinister crime. It had been done by a
trick, though his reasoning had been correct. Once
in a while his conscience reminded him of the trick
he had played, and there were times when he won-
dered if he had acted decently. Now a similar prob-
lem confronted him.
Who had committed the murders he alone could
say. The conclusion had not been brought about by
the skillful picking up of clues, the weaving of a
network of evidence. Clues were almost nonexistent.
It was true that when news of the stealing of the
pamphlets circulated among the dealers in rare
books, they would become suspicious. The man who
had purchased them would remember, and from that
it might be possible to trace the murderer, but this
-
[274]
-


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
the door and looked into a room filled with his men.
As he came through the door he was barking out
commands, which all ended with the same word,
"Hurry !"
[278]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
the fourth time his hand pounded against the door.
Someone must be in, and no doubt could hear his
knock. For the fifth time his hand went banging
against the unresponsive door. Just on the verge of
deciding that he might as well go back, he heard a
faint sound from the hall. Not only did he hear
a sound but he became conscious that someone was
looking at him, could feel eyes searching over his
figure. High in the door he saw a little slot. Though
he could see nothing else, yet he knew that he was
being examined.
There came the sound of someone fumbling with
the door knob, then, very deliberately, the door was
pushed open. Standing in the doorway, with the light
from the hall playing over his thin figure, stood the
well-dressed professor. His face was expressionless,
but the questioning eyes startled Manners, cold, di-
lated, angry eyes, burning with a repressed rage
and hatred.
“Professor Harlen,” Manners began, as the cold
glance swept over him, “I came up from the chief of
police because he wished me to ask you a question.”
"I have told the chief all I know," was the icy
retort as the door began to close. Then the motion
suddenly paused, as though the man within had
changed his mind. It opened again and the thin figure
stood close to the wall. He made a motion with his
hand, a motion to enter.
[28.1]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
Manners looked down a long hallway, noticed
the doors leading to unseen rooms. Stepping over the
threshold, he heard the door slammed shut behind
him, heard a more curious sound, the key being
turned in its lock. Then, still without a word, the
man brushed by him and, opening a door, stood to
one side to allow Manners to enter the room.
It was not a large room, and it was far from
being in order. There were bookcases around three
walls, even books piled upon the floor. Under a
bright electric light was a table, its surface littered
with pamphlets. It seemed evident that the place
had not been dusted for years.
Motioning Manners to a chair, Harlen walked
over to the table to pick up a half smoked cigar.
As he relighted it; his gloomy eyes kept boring over
to the chair where Manners had seated himself.
It was not a pleasant look; behind the dark eyes
struggled rage, mingled with a trace of wonder.
As he saw the look, observed the uneasy twitching
of the man's lips, the nervous trembling of the thin
body, Manners decided that Harlen was close to
the breaking point.
"Well," came the cold voice. “You wanted to
ask me a question. Go ahead.”
Instead of speaking, Manners allowed his glance
to sweep the room. Past the bookcases his eyes
traveled, coming to rest upon an open door. Through
[282]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
to one side as he did so. Manners needed no words
to explain the gesture. He was being asked to leave
the house. Rising to comply with the unspoken re-
quest, he was moved by an unexplained impulse to
look at the wall directly across from his chair.
His eyes, passing over the heap of magazines
and pamphlets upon the desk, saw a couch at the
side of the room and above it a fish net draped upon
the wall. It was a faded fish net, made from black
cord. The cord was similar to that which had been
found around Ruby Merton's throat.
His hands gripping the arms of the chair for
support, he stared blankly at the net. Just a mass
of string, but black cord, similar to the one which
had caused Miss Merton's death. He knew his face
had grown white as he realized the significance of
what he saw. Harlen had mentioned the money lying
on the desk. That one question had given him away.
To know about the money he had had to return to
that office. Manners realized that when he turned
his eyes from the net it would still be there, mute
evidence against a murderer.
A sound of hurried feet, running and stumbling
over the floor, caused him to look around. Harlen
was by the desk, his nervous trembling hands fum-
bling for a drawer. With a leap Manners sprang
to his feet. There was but one desire in his heart,
to get out of the house, reach the safety of his
-
:-
[284]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
words. In the silence which fell, Manners tried to
figure out how long he had listened. Though he
knew it was but a few minutes, yet it had seemed
hours. Then, suddenly, the shrill voice burst forth
again, ringing with anger, vibrating with passion.
“Think of that library hoarding pamphlets worth
thousands of dollars, hoarding them to sell some day
to wealthy men.”
The shrill voice resounded through the room. So
flushed was the thin face becoming that for a mo-
ment Manners wondered if he would burst a blood
vessel. The dilated eyes were flashing, the thin figure
trembling with nervousness. His own face white,
Manners stared at the raging man. Before the desk
stood a sinister, threatening figure of evil. Fear,
whipped into a frenzy by drugs, had caused all rea-
son to depart from the inflamed brain. Suddenly the
tone changed—now it was low, sly, cunning, the
voice of one who gave a little chuckle of evil.
"You are a psychologist. You must know all about
women,” was the sly insinuation. “Take my advice;
never trust them; they are all alike. All will coax
you to gain what they wish, then they will throw
you aside, start to threaten and demand. But I took
care of her when she threatened me."
Again the tone changed. Now it was cold, yet
the lack of emotion made it more horrible than
as
[287]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
before. The voice was that of one who had a pur-
pose in his mind, a mind filled with memories which
were not pleasant.
"A month ago I took those pamphlets, and then
that silly old woman at the library discovered they
were gone. She called me on the telephone, taunted
me with exposure, threatened me, me, who have the
best mind in the city. But I fixed her forever. I
knew from her voice when she called me that she
had discovered the substitution. So when I went to
the library I took a piece of cord from the net. She
tried to make me promise to return the pamphlets.
I said I would. Of course I had sold them. So I took
the key from the hall door and when I returned "
He paused, throwing back his head to give a
loud hysterical laugh.
"She thought I was returning the books. It was
easy to kill her. She had no strength.”
The voice died to a whisper as a thoughtful look
swept the nervous face. Harlen appeared to be
thinking and he gave Manners a long, calculating
look, as if trying to decide a disputed question. Cross-
ing the floor he halted only a foot away from his
victim. There was an evil, vicious grin on the face
which looked down at the chair. His words were
slow, cold, with an icy deliberation:
“Yes, I killed her, Manners, killed Spicer also.
[288]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
Struggling to his feet, Manners stood swaying
back and forth. There was a momentary sight of
Harlen's distorted face, the enraged face of an
animal, working and twisting in vicious rage. At the
sight Manners sprang forward, and as he jumped
he heard the sound of breaking glass and felt a
rush of cool air over his face. Then came a heavy
blow against his head. For an instant he seemed to
hear the sound of rushing water, felt a deep dark-
ness rising to enfold him and he sank down into a
bottomless abyss. After that, he knew no more.
[291]


CHAPTER XIX
The bright warm sunlight of early afternoon was
playing over Harley Manners' garden. It passed
through the leaves of the tall trees, danced across
beds of colorful flowers, came to rest upon the wide
veranda which ran around the long house, and
warmed the burly person of the Chief of Police,
Timothy Rogan, who was seated, very much at his
ease, upon the veranda.
It was Rogan wearing a very well fitting uniform,
with brass buttons glittering like gold. The round
red face was fixed in a contented grin, as, leaning
far back in his chair, the chief regarded the glass
which he held in his hand, a tall thin glass which had
just been refilled and would perhaps be refilled again.
He should have been recalling what the papeis
had said that morning. It had been many years sine
any chief of police had received the flattery and
praise which had been poured forth upon his he:d
that day. “A skilled and courageous official,” hid
been one line. “One who has solved the most dit i-
cult series of crime we have had," said another. f
he was recalling them, which as it happened, he ws
not, he would have blushed. Rogan knew that t e
[292]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
“I never spotted him until you told me he was
the man," was the amused comment.
The glass went down upon the stand. Turning
a surprised face toward the man opposite him,
Rogan raised his eyebrows as though he thought
the blow on the head had suddenly affected Manners'
mind.
“I told you! Don't be a fool, Harley."
"You did. In fact, Harlen told you he was the
person we were looking for. Remember his question
about the money on Ruby Merton's table? She placed
the money there herself, a fund which had been col-
lected by the Women's Club for a picture in a branch
library. She brought that money to her office only a
short while before she was murdered. No one else
went in there after that, except Joe White, and
she wasn't in the office then. If Harlen knew about
the money, he must have been in the office again. No
one knew anything about it, you never told the papers.
If he knew, why then he must have seen it and might
be the murderer. That slip of his made me see how
the murderer got into the place. We went on the
theory that she opened the door and invited him
in, but I was all wrong; my psychology was not
working."
"What was that you said was not working ?”
Rogan queried.
“Psychology. We should have remembered that
[294]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
if she had invited the person who had stolen the
pamphlets to come to the office, she never would
have opened the door for him. Why, that woman,
filled with years of self-righteousness, would not
have risen from her seat to open the door for a
person she thought guilty of theft. We were wrong.
Some one of the persons in the room during the
afternoon took the key to the hall door when her
attention was engaged. Now the two girls would not
do that; the book salesman was barred; Joe White
didn't; only Harlen was left."
He paused as a reflective look swept over his
face. Again he could see the rage-swept face of the
professor, hear once more the shrill, frenzied voice.
He gave a little shudder as he continued:
"Now that seemed reasonable. Though at first
it appeared incredible that Harlen would kill the
woman and then murder Spicer, there was no one
else to suspect. The trouble was that I knew little
about Harlen, though I did realize that he was
excitable, prone to become angry in arguments, filled
with what we call a 'superiority complex.' When I
came back from the Bagdad, I sent telegrams to the
leading book sellers, asking if they had bought copies
of the pamphlets, and begging for a description of
the person from whom they had bought them. Klein
of Chicago telegraphed a fair description of Har-
len."
[295]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
whose emotions were naturally very unstable and
who was using cocaine. That drug, you know de-
stroys all moral sense. Whipped into rage by the
discovery that the librarian knew of his theft of
the pamphlets, he killed her. No doubt he knew the
library well. Probably he had secretly met the Well-
man woman there. Realizing that he had left the
cord on the desk, he came back for it, and again
that night, returning out of curiosity, found Rand
at the safe and tried to kill him. He would be whip-
ping up his courage with increased use of cocaine.
The more he used, the greater the fear in his mind
and the greater the desire to remove those in his
way. This explains the useless killing of Spicer, and
the attempt to shoot me, for of course he was the
man on my lawn."
“The woman talked a little this morning," was
Rogan's comment as he reached for the glass. He
smiled at the recollection, bending forward in his
chair.
"She is not going to die, though when she asked
us that question this morning, we sort of hinted her
stay in this world would be brief. She talked. God
knows, I never was able to understand why the Lord
ever makes her kind of a woman, but there are lots
of them."
An expression of disgust swept over the red face
as he hastily drained his glass. Manners broke in
[297]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
with a question. Let the chief start in with his view-
point of the modern woman, and Manners would
never know what had been said in the hospital. What
Rogan told him was just about what he would have
guessed she would say.
The woman, frightened by the thought of death,
had admitted that she had been playing around with
the professor. At first the fact that he was well-
known in the city had pleased her vanity. Then she
discovered that he would do as she wished, and
from then on she began to use him to gain what
she wanted. She had told him of the rare pamphlets,
had pointed out that, as no one ever looked at them,
it would be easy to replace them with reprints, with
little chance of the substitution being discovered
for a long time. One day she had taken the first
one from the safe.
How she had managed to persuade Ruby Merton
to allow Harlen to borrow the two which were left,
Rogan did not know. But she had succeeded, and
six weeks before the murder they had been replaced
in the safe, with copies substituted for the originals.
On the morning of the murder she had seen the
librarian looking at the pamphlets, knew from the
excited horror on her face that she had discovered
what had been done. As Harlen was the last one
to have them in his possession, she knew at once
that he would be suspected.
[298]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
"When you shot off your mouth about us being
wrong on that old dame letting her murderer into
her office, it got me thinking and I rushed some of
the boys up there. We got there just in time at that.
Smashed the window at the very moment he banged
you on the head.”
He sighed. After all, he was getting old, and a
good deal of crime had played around his career.
If he had been one moment later at that window,
his friend would have been the third victim
“You know, Harley, it took three of us to cart
him off. He was raving like a bug when he had the
cuffs put on him. Took two of us to do it, and I have
an idea he never will stand trial. You may not think
he is crazy, but he sure looked like it to me when he
went off in the wagon.”
Tenderly Manners touched the white bandage
around his head. The bruise still ached a little and
there was a tight sensation around his temples.
Rogan had reached the house in time to save him.
He would agree with the chief's last remark. He
too, doubted if Harlen would ever stand trial. Be-
fore the murders, he had been a neurotic, easily
unbalanced. The strain of the fear and dread of the
last few days might have caused his mind to break.
But there was still another question he wished an-
swered.
"Did you find anything in the house?”
[300]


MURDER IN A LIBRARY
the sight. He liked this young man. What could he
have done without him? It seemed too bad to speak,
but speak he must, and at the sound of his voice
Manners' eyes opened to look smilingly over to the
other chair.
“You know, Harley—now it's all over I have
come to one conclusion. We said that all the usual
motives for crime would not apply in this case-
revenge, money, sex-remember we said all those
things."
"We did say all that. And in the end we discovered
that every single one of the three was in the case.
The three usual motives in murder were all there."
The white head nodded as Rogan slowly raised
his glass to take a long sip. He was thinking, running
over the last few days, thinking that he hoped it
would be a long time before he had to face a similar
situation. It was this thought which caused him to
place his glass hastily on the stand and turn to his
friend.
"Harley ?" came his rough voice.
“Yes," replied the professor.
"Harley, never again do I want to run into Mur-
der in a Library."
Ind.
THE END
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