H E. E. - BEQuest or ORMA FITCH. BuTLER, PH.D.. "O" Proressor or LArrºw rººm. H 3 / 3 C #2%34 TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL BY ARTHUR M. CHASE High above the city in a penthouse as luxurious as modern invention and modern capital could make it, a party dined and chatted at the sumptuous table of Edward S. Tilden. The guests were a curious collection —suave, smart, gay and even brilliant apparently, but in reality (as was to become only too evident later on) there were cross currents of envy, jealousy, greed, and a strange tangle of interwoven emotions. “Stick 'em up!” The command was barked by a masked figure at the pantry door and confusion reigned. And thus commences the series of events which de- veloped into the most sensational case of the season. For murder—coldly calculated and subtly planned mur- der—followed swiftly. In TwenTY MINUTEs To KILL, Arthur M. Chase has constructed one of the most intricate and brilliant of . his many mystery stories. The reader will find herein . . enough subtle detection, perplexing puzzles and spine- chilling thrills to “kill” many more than twenty minutes. By the Same Author The PARTY AT THE PENThouse Dancer in the dark MURDER OF A Missing Man $2000 PRIZE CONTEST The Red Badge editors and the Forum Magazine announce a new $2000 prize competition for the season 1935–1936 for the best mystery-detective novel by an American or Canadian author who has not previously had a book published under the Red Badge imprint. Manuscripts must be submitted before August 1, 1936. A complete prospectus setting forth all the details of the contest may be obtained upon request. Would You Like to Knozw how RED BADGE books are selected? Each year, hundreds of detective-story manu- scripts are submitted to the literary editors of Dodd, Mead and Company. From these only a very small number receive the coveted Red Badge imprint. This is because every detective story that carries the Red Badge must first pass a rigid eight- point test—so severe that all but absolutely first- class mysteries are eliminated. If you would like to receive this eight-point test, we will be glad to mail you a copy without charge. DoDD, MEAD & CoMPANY, INC. Department R B 449 Fourth Avenue, New York TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL ARTH U R M. CHAs E DODD, MEAD & COMPANY New York 1 9 3 6 CopyRIGHT, 1936 BY ARTHUR M. CHASE ALL Richts Reserved - no part of This Book MaY be reproduced in any form Without PERMission in WRiting FROM THE AUTHOR - R - N T E D 1 in t H E U n i t e o sit a T E s or A. M. E. R. I. c. A By the VAIL-BALL OU PRESS, IN. C., BINGHAM ton, N. Y. TO EDWARD H. DODD ---" - - --" **** * * * º caarter II III IV VI VII VIII IX XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX CONTENTS THE BUTLER SERVEs . . . . . . “STICK "EM UP!” . . CALL THE POLICE! . . . . THE BODY IN THE BATHROOM . . . THE SHEEP AND THE GoATs THE DYED HAIR . . . . . . . THE NExT of KIN . . . . THE SHADow IN THE DARK . . . . THE MORNING AFTER . . . . . . Sophie's ACCUSATION . . . . . . THE LETHAL WEAPON . Footprints VERSUS FINGER-PRINTs THE BLooD-STAINED HANDKERCHIEF . WAS THERE SOMEONE ELSEP . WHAT Is A CRIME? . THE GANGSTERs NABBED “Tough ToMMY's" PARTY SoMEBODY's SHOEs . “Twenty MINUTES To KILL" . A LEAP TO DEATH . . . . . . . race 10 19 35 47 79 91 ... 101 . 110 . 123 . 136 . 150 . 163 179 . 187 . 197 213 . 224 • 239 TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL & CHAPTER I § THE BUTLER SERVES T. BUTLER was serving wine. Moving noiselessly and deferentially from place to place, he made the act of filling each glass in some slight measure a ceremony, as if to emphasize that he was pouring Chablis of the vintage of 1900; a real Grand Chablis, rare and costly. From the dozen people sitting around the table rose a hum of modulated voices, little bursts of laughter, occasional words or sentences emerging now and then above the murmur of conversation. Candles threw a mellow light on silver and glassware and flowers, on linen and mahogany, on the bright gowns of women and on the white shirt fronts of men. “White shirt fronts are more or less as they used to be,” Miss Townsend soliloquized, “but where are the gleaming white shoulders of yesteryear? Women, nowadays, are pretty well covered up in front; but be- [1] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL hind—well! As for me, having no back, only a back- bone, I don't show it.” Miss Townsend's gown might have been labeled 1910 conservative style. But it went with her hair which she wore in a pompadour, after the fashion of 1910 or earlier. However Miss Townsend dressed in the manner which she thought best fitted her, and somehow the old-fashioned clothes suited the spare, - tiny lady with her face innocent of cosmetics, with her alert expression and shrewd, bright eyes. With quick, birdlike pecks she ate her boiled filet of pompano and glanced about her. At the head of the table sat her host, Edward Spencer Tilden, large, suave, pompous, whose well-fed face and figure gave evidence of years of good living. He was the sort of man who can be seen in the lounges of the most ex- pensive hotels both here and abroad, and in the smoking rooms of the biggest and fastest steamships, quietly dressed but with a hang and fit to his clothes that only an expensive tailor can achieve. Miss Townsend's glance noted his silky, black mustache above full, red lips, his flushed face, the jowls that were beginning to develop under his jaw. “Never done a stroke of work in his life,” was her inward comment; “he's only played at living. I'm afraid he's as soft as he looks right through to the marrow.” [2] THE BUTLER SERVES Tilden's voice now rose above the hum of con- versation. “The real cause of unemployment,” he observed comfortably, “is over-population. The world has too many people in it; we have too many people right here in this country. I see no reason,” he continued, helping himself liberally to tournedos with truffles and pâté de foies gras, “why, under present condi- tions unemployment will not continue indefinitely. Now, if we could gather all the people in this country who are on relief, say twenty million, in the Grand Canyon and shower them with poison gas, it would be hard on them, of course, but the rest of us, eighty or ninety million, would unquestionably be benefited. There would then be work for everybody and the enormous expense of caring for the unemployed would stop. A dead weight would be taken off the country, business would pick up, and we'd all forge ahead. Of course my idea sounds unfeeling, but after all it's the way of nature—survival of the fittest, you know, the Malthusian Doctrine, and all that.” “I’m too kind-hearted to listen to such ideas,” re- plied the woman on his right. “Now, I want you to look at me and listen.” Miss Townsend stole a look at her. She was worth looking at—Mrs. Linda Lee Temple-Seybold-McNutt- Shaw. Round her massive neck was wound a rope of [3] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL hind—well! As for me, having no back, only a back- bone, I don't show it.” Miss Townsend's gown might have been labeled 191o conservative style. But it went with her hair which she wore in a pompadour, after the fashion of 1910 or earlier. However Miss Townsend dressed in the manner which she thought best fitted her, and somehow the old-fashioned clothes suited the spare, tiny lady with her face innocent of cosmetics, with her alert expression and shrewd, bright eyes. With quick, birdlike pecks she ate her boiled filet of pompano and glanced about her. At the head of the table sat her host, Edward Spencer Tilden, large, suave, pompous, whose well-fed face and figure gave evidence of years of good living. He was the sort of man who can be seen in the lounges of the most ex- pensive hotels both here and abroad, and in the smoking rooms of the biggest and fastest steamships, quietly dressed but with a hang and fit to his clothes that only an expensive tailor can achieve. Miss Townsend's glance noted his silky, black mustache above full, red lips, his flushed face, the jowls that were beginning to develop under his jaw. “Never done a stroke of work in his life,” was her inward comment; “he's only played at living. I'm afraid he's as soft as he looks right through to the marrow.” [2] THE BUTLER SERVES Tilden's voice now rose above the hum of con- versation. “The real cause of unemployment,” he observed comfortably, “is over-population. The world has too many people in it; we have too many people right here in this country. I see no reason,” he continued, helping himself liberally to tournedos with truffles and pâté de foies gras, “why, under present condi- tions unemployment will not continue indefinitely. Now, if we could gather all the people in this country who are on relief, say twenty million, in the Grand Canyon and shower them with poison gas, it would be hard on them, of course, but the rest of us, eighty or ninety million, would unquestionably be benefited. There would then be work for everybody and the enormous expense of caring for the unemployed would stop. A dead weight would be taken off the country, business would pick up, and we'd all forge ahead. Of course my idea sounds unfeeling, but after all it's the way of nature—survival of the fittest, you know, the Malthusian Doctrine, and all that.” “I’m too kind-hearted to listen to such ideas,” re- plied the woman on his right. “Now, I want you to look at me and listen.” Miss Townsend stole a look at her. She was worth looking at—Mrs. Linda Lee Temple-Seybold-McNutt- Shaw. Round her massive neck was wound a rope of [3] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL pearls which fell in a gleaming cascade over her corsage. On both wrists were bracelets—wide flexible bands of sparkling diamonds. And on her ringed fingers one emerald stood out, of prodigious size. “It's my idea of a playground for the rich,” ex- claimed the bejeweled lady. “I have always wanted the most beautiful, magnificent, perfect spot in the world to express myself. This is going to be it.” “Tell me about it,” said Tilden. “I’m most inter- ested. But speak a little louder; I'm slightly deaf, you know.” Miss Townsend's interest in the playground for the rich was diverted by the large Englishman sitting on her right who turned to her ceremoniously. “Really,” he remarked, “you Americans do your- selves extraordinarily well.” “In what way?” asked Miss Townsend. “Take this place, a penthouse I think you call it,” he replied, “why, it's marvelous. It's actually a small palace set on a roof, away up here twenty stories above the street. Look at that room next to this, forty feet long if it's an inch, with ceilings like an Italian palace and hand-carved beams and beautiful panel- ing. It's gorgeous. And the outdoors in front of it: turf, flower-beds, a pool, shrubbery—it's unbelievable. Mr. Tilden tells me the soil is four feet deep. My word, even the Romans had nothing quite like it.” [4] THE BUTLER SERVES – Mrs. Shaw's naturally penetrating voice now be- came strident. “We'll have a casino, and swimming pools, and taprooms, and cabañas, oh lots of cabañas. I'll even have one for Tootsey, my Pekingese, for I want Tootsey to enjoy herself just like human beings. Isn't that a darling thought?” Her neighbor on the left attracted Miss Townsend's attention. “He's making her screech on purpose,” said the young man who was her neighbor, in rather blurred tones. “Who's making who screech?” asked Miss Town- send ungrammatically. “Tilden's egging on the dame with the diamonds,” Bobby Baker replied. “Makes her husband mad. Look at him.” She glanced across the table at the lady's husband, Merritt Shaw, who was Mrs. Tilden's son by a former marriage. He was a dark, slender man, fifteen years his wife's junior. His handsome, reckless face was black as a thundercloud. “M'licious,” murmured Bobby solemnly, “just plain m'licious.” Poor Bobby Baker, thought Miss Townsend, there was something pathetic about him. Wherever en- countered he seemed to be in some stage of over- [5] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL drinking. “That handsome, cold-faced wife of his ought to take care of him,” she thought. Again the butler was serving wine. The English- man turned to Miss Townsend. “The dinner corresponds with the penthouse,” he exclaimed. “Marvelous. Now this wine,” holding up his glass and examining it critically, “I should say is Château Lafitte of a good year, probably 1906. I'm something of a connoisseur, myself.” “Mr. Tilden has a reputation as a gourmet,” Miss Townsend replied. “He makes living a fine art.” The Englishman turned to answer a question from his host. Bobby Baker was describing to his left-hand neighbor a drink he had enjoyed hugely in the West Indies. He was very earnest, and insisted on spelling it: s-w-i-z-z-l-e, although he pronounced it swishle. Miss Townsend leaned forward. Ah, the left-hand neighbor was Mrs. Curtis Biddle, elderly, haughty, with an artificial manner which, Miss Townsend thought, she never took off and probably slept in. Be- yond was Al Richards, noisy broker type, but not so noisy as formerly, when the sky was the limit for stocks. At the end of the table sat Mrs. Tilden. She looks, thought Miss Townsend, like a pale, white orchid. Doesn't that woman ever do anything abruptly, or [6] THE BUTLER SERVES spontaneously, or get excited, or passionate, or show emotion in any way? Is she forever pale, and calm, and reserved? Next to her, on the other side of the table, sat Bobby Baker's handsome blond wife with her mask- like face. Then Merritt Shaw. Miss Townsend's glance rested on him. “Nerves like wires with the insulation off,” she thought. “He'll burn himself out and die before he's an old man.” He was talking to Mrs. Richards, a smart, country club type of woman, and her neigh- bor, Mr. Curtis Biddle was also taking part in the conversation. He was an elderly banker with white hair and a red face. He discussed the shortcomings of the administration at Washington, and became ve- hement, so much so that his face grew redder and his lower lip trembled. After him came Mrs. Shaw, gleaming and glisten- ing, and holding forth about her Florida club. And so, with Tilden at the head of the table and her neighbor the Englishman, a Mr. Willett, Miss Town- send's observations had made the entire circuit. Miss Townsend's wrinkled face—she had wrinkles at sixty, and disdained to hide them—became pensive. Here were a dozen people about a dinner table eat- ing rich and expensive food and drinking costly wines. For them this was just one more conventional, [7] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL formal dinner in lives that flowed on with many such dinners past and many more to come. But, Miss Townsend wondered with half-closed eyes, was life as smooth and easy and secure for these people as it seemed to be? How, for example, did Edward Tilden, selfish, self-indulgent, rather domineering, get on with that pale, reserved wife who sat opposite him, when they were both off the stage? What was Mrs. Baker's true opinion of Bobby, who seemed devoted to the task of drinking himself into a dipsomaniac's grave? What did that nervous, intense Merritt Shaw think of the vulgar, enormously wealthy wife of his? Miss Townsend recalled that lady's career with amusement: up from waitress at a cheap roadside lunchroom and gas station; married, divorced, mar- ried again to William McNutt, manufacturer and sole proprietor of “McNutt's Bitewell False Teeth,” who had died and left her millions; and now, at forty, married to a man who had the social position she was hunting for, but was years younger, and of a difficult temperament if Miss Townsend knew anything about human nature. Mrs. Shaw's penetrating voice cut the air: “My Florida club will be open to the world, at least it will exclude no one who acts like a lady or a gentleman and who has the proper background. The rates will be fifty dollars a day, and up. And do you [8] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL formal dinner in lives that flowed on with many such dinners past and many more to come. But, Miss Townsend wondered with half-closed eyes, was life as smooth and easy and secure for these people as it seemed to be? How, for example, did Edward Tilden, selfish, self-indulgent, rather domineering, get on with that pale, reserved wife who sat opposite him, when they were both off the stage? What was Mrs. Baker's true opinion of Bobby, who seemed devoted to the task of drinking himself into a dipsomaniac's grave? What did that nervous, intense Merritt Shaw think of the vulgar, enormously wealthy wife of his? Miss Townsend recalled that lady's career with amusement: up from waitress at a cheap roadside lunchroom and gas station; married, divorced, mar- ried again to William McNutt, manufacturer and sole proprietor of “McNutt's Bitewell False Teeth,” who had died and left her millions; and now, at forty, married to a man who had the social position she was hunting for, but was years younger, and of a difficult temperament if Miss Townsend knew anything about human nature. Mrs. Shaw's penetrating voice cut the air: “My Florida club will be open to the world, at least it will exclude no one who acts like a lady or a gentleman and who has the proper background. The rates will be fifty dollars a day, and up. And do you [8] THE BUTLER SERVES know what I shall call it? I'll tell you. The Casa— that means house in Spanish—McNutt, after dear old Willie McNutt, my former husband.” “Oh, perfectly splendid, the Casa McNutt,” cried Tilden, with a side glance at Shaw. That gentleman • returned his look with an angry stare. “Go on,” cried Tilden; “I’m enchanted hearing about the Casa McNutt.” Mrs. Shaw clapped her hands rapturously. “Oh, you know,” she cried, “among all the horrible things going on in the world today—wars and revolu- tions and murders—my Casa McNutt will be the great oasis in the desert.” *. The butler was serving— - [9] & CHAPTER II § “STICK "EM UP!” Iss Townsend, looking diagonally across the table, saw emotions sweep over Tilden's face swift as cloud shadows across a meadow on a breezy summer day. The complacent affability of a host, astonish- ment, bewilderment, consternation, succeeded each other in a breath. Turning her head quickly and fol- lowing the direction of his horror-struck gaze she saw three men in the act of entering the swinging door which led from the serving pantry. They wore light overcoats thrown open and were in evening dress, but the lower part of each man's face was covered with a dark handkerchief, and their soft hats were pulled far down over their eyes. In the hand of each of the in- truders was a short, wicked-looking automatic pistol. Mrs. Shaw screamed; her husband started to his feet. [10] “STICK "EM UP!” “Everybody keep quiet,” said one of the gunmen. “Sit down, you”—to Shaw—“and be quick about it.” Shaw hesitated, and with a baffled look slowly sank into his seat. “Now, folks,” said the gunman again, “we’re here on a little matter of business. Everybody stay quiet, and we won't hurt you. But quiet means quiet. Get me?” His low, menacing voice coming from behind the handkerchief made him a coldly impersonal, terrify- ing figure. Without a word, one of the other men moved silently to the doorway leading out of the din- ing room, while the third maintained his position by the door through which they had entered. Not one of the three, even for an instant, turned away from the group at the table. Not for a second were the threaten- ing muzzles of the pistols shifted. “Put your hands up, everybody,” ordered the gun- man who had spoken before. “You ladies can rest your elbows on the table, it's easier that way, but keep your hands in plain sight, all of you, -it's healthier. Here, you”—to the butler,-"put down that bottle and reach for the sky.” The butler, who had been standing in an attitude that would have won him a prize as the perfect, petri- fied butler, gingerly deposited his bottle on the table and endeavored to do as he was ordered. [11] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL Miss Townsend thought the spectacle at that dinner table was the most extraordinary she had ever , beheld. Emotions continued to course over Tilden's face: incredulity, indignation, discomfiture. Old Mr. Curtis Biddle, with crimson face and trembling lips looked as if he were on the verge of apoplexy. Merritt Shaw reminded her of a tiger she had seen once in a circus, quivering with suppressed energy, ready to leap on the trainer. The ladies put up a good front: Mrs. Shaw, with a cold and watchful look; Sophie Baker, masklike; Mrs. Tilden, disdainful. Moving in the same sure and noiseless manner as the others, as if all three were carrying out some manoeuvre that had been rehearsed many times, the spokesman crossed the room and stood behind Mrs. Shaw. “Lady,” he said, “I’ll have to trouble you for those pearls.” She half turned in her seat, and hissed: “You son of a -" “Never mind,” he interrupted hastily, “I ain't sensitive, but some of my pals are. No hard names.” Mrs. Shaw sank back, breathing heavily. “Take 'em off,” commanded the gunman. “My hands are busy holding this gun.” Slowly she unfastened the clasp, unwound the string of gleaming pearls, and held them up. He [12] “STICK "EM UP!” seized them and crammed them into the pocket of his dinner coat. - “And the bracelets,” he ordered. “They didn't come out of any ten cent store.” She unfastened the bracelets and threw them on the table. “And the rings,” her tormentor went on relent- lessly. One by one she drew them off and dropped them before her, a glittering heap. With one deft scoop the gunman transferred them to his pocket. - And then, while the two figures in the doorways stood like statues, with their unwavering pistols cover- ing their victims, he slowly made the round of the table; like a conductor, thought Miss Townsend, col- lecting tickets. Before old Curtis Biddle he paused. “No,” he said, “I don't want small change, or watches.” Mrs. Richards gave up a necklace. Shaw the gun- man passed with a wary eye. Mrs. Baker, unmoved, contributed a ring with a cluster of diamonds. Mrs. Tilden unfastened her pendant earrings and dropped them into the grasping hand. When the noiselessly stepping figure paused behind Miss Townsend, she braced herself. “I'd like that bracelet,” he said. [13] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL Miss Townsend thought the spectacle at that dinner table was the most extraordinary she had ever beheld. Emotions continued to course over Tilden's face: incredulity, indignation, discomfiture. Old Mr. Curtis Biddle, with crimson face and trembling lips looked as if he were on the verge of apoplexy. Merritt Shaw reminded her of a tiger she had seen once in a circus, quivering with suppressed energy, ready to leap on the trainer. The ladies put up a good front: Mrs. Shaw, with a cold and watchful look; Sophie Baker, masklike; Mrs. Tilden, disdainful. Moving in the same sure and noiseless manner as the others, as if all three were carrying out some manoeuvre that had been rehearsed many times, the spokesman crossed the room and stood behind Mrs. Shaw. “Lady,” he said, “I’ll have to trouble you for those pearls.” She half turned in her seat, and hissed: “You son of a -" “Never mind,” he interrupted hastily, “I ain't sensitive, but some of my pals are. No hard names.” Mrs. Shaw sank back, breathing heavily. “Take 'em off,” commanded the gunman. “My hands are busy holding this gun.” Slowly she unfastened the clasp, unwound the string of gleaming pearls, and held them up. He º [12] “STICK "EM UP!” seized them and crammed them into the pocket of his dinner coat. - “And the bracelets,” he ordered. “They didn't come out of any ten cent store.” She unfastened the bracelets and threw them on the table. “And the rings,” her tormentor went on relent- lessly. One by one she drew them off and dropped them before her, a glittering heap. With one deft scoop the gunman transferred them to his pocket. - And then, while the two figures in the doorways stood like statues, with their unwavering pistols cover- ing their victims, he slowly made the round of the table; like a conductor, thought Miss Townsend, col- lecting tickets. Before old Curtis Biddle he paused. “No,” he said, “I don't want small change, or watches.” Mrs. Richards gave up a necklace. Shaw the gun- man passed with a wary eye. Mrs. Baker, unmoved, contributed a ring with a cluster of diamonds. Mrs. Tilden unfastened her pendant earrings and dropped them into the grasping hand. When the noiselessly stepping figure paused behind Miss Townsend, she braced herself. “I'd like that bracelet,” he said. [13] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “It's an old-fashioned thing, an heirloom, of little value,” she replied. “That's all right, I can use it,” he reassured her. Having appropriated Miss Townsend's heirloom he addressed the assembled company. “Folks,” he said, “we’re going now, but we ain't going in a hurry. And it won't be healthy for anyone here to get up too soon. Just sit right where you are until you think you've seen the last of us; and then wait awhile after that.” Only the gleam of his eyes was visible between his handkerchief and his hat brim as he faced the people before him. “Now, mister,” he addressed the butler, “blow out the candles.” The butler, moving like one in a trance, carried out his order. There were side-lights along the wall, but the gunman found a switch and turned them off. The three figures moved swiftly into the adjoining room, which was brilliantly lighted. But there fol- lowed a series of clicks and that room too was in darkness. “Take plenty of time before you move,” said a warning voice. “We’re still here.” The silence that followed was so profound that Miss Townsend could hear a faint rustle from her clothing, as she breathed. Presently a voice whispered [14] “STICK "EM UP!” "in her ear. “I was in the War for four years,” Willett mur- mured, “but I never remember an experience more unpleasant. Really it is trying, sitting here with one's back to those rascals and wondering what part of one's anatomy may be pierced by a bullet. It's like the pre-execution sensations of one who is to be shot as a spy, you know.” She did not reply, and the silence continued. Presently came Willett's voice again, close to her ear: “At least they can't see in the dark. I shall lower my arms before they are paralyzed.” Bobby Baker began to croon in a low voice:— “Oh, Lord, please take away the darkness, Oh, Lord, please take away the rain; Oh, Lord, please take away the darkness, And give us back the light again.” The scratch of a match, startlingly loud, and Sophie Baker's defiant face appeared in the flare for an in- stant. Then there was the gleam of a cigarette where she sat. Suddenly the beam of a flashlight, a bright beam, from a flashlight more than usually powerful, cut through the darkness. It rested on Sophie, cigarette between her lips, and traveled slowly along. Miss Townsend noticed that there was a gap in the line [15] “STICK "EM UP!” experience.” Slowly he lifted the heavy form until Tilden's face, white like one long dead, came into view, while Linda alternately moaned and swore. Willett made a swift examination, held his watch crystal before the parted lips, seized the stricken man's pulse. “I can't see where he was hit,” he said in a puzzled tone. He went on feeling, peering, fingering until it seemed to Miss Townsend that if the suspense con- tinued she would give way to hysterics, a weakness of which she had never in her life been guilty. “Ah, I have it,” Cried Willett at last. He tore off Tilden's collar and white tie, and seiz- ing a glass of water, dashed it into the pallid face that way lying against the back of the chair. Tilden's eyelids flickered. “Get me something strong,” said Willett sharply. “Brandy, if possible.” The butler brought a glass from the sideboard and slowly the Englishman poured the liquid between Tilden's set lips. The latter shivered a little, and opened his eyes. “Cheerio,” cried Willett, “he's fainted, that's all.” “And no wonder,” he observed, in a low voice to those around him. Silently he pointed to a shattered plate, and a groove along the polished mahogany table [17] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL top, just in front of Tilden. Then he exhibited the collar and the tie he had stripped off. Through one end of the tie and a wing of the collar a bullet had drilled neat holes. “A very near thing,” said Willett gravely. “Less than an inch nearer—” He made an expressive gesture with his hands. [18] & CHAPTER III § CALL THE POLICEl T. blinked, sat up heavily, leaned his head on his hands and looked around in a dazed manner. “I saw the flash of a gun, and then everything turned black,” he said huskily. There was a murmur of sympathy, above which Linda Shaw's voice rose clearly. “It's a mercy,” she cried, “there wasn't a murder as well as a robbery. And what those swine took off me can't be duplicated for a quarter of a million. Thank God, they're insured.” “I never heard of such a performance,” protested Curtis Biddle. “I’ve read of robbery and hold-ups. But why should they try to murder our host?” “And it might have been a double murder at that,” Linda continued. “Those bullets whizzed right past [19] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL me. Think of that, dearie, you might have lost your wife.” But her husband was busy in the next room. “Those devils cut the 'phone here,” he announced. And a second later, from farther away, he cried: “The front door is locked on the outside.” At that instant the butler, who had left the room, burst through the door from the pantry. “They're gone!” he cried. “They're gone!” “Who's gone?” someone exclaimed. “My wife; the maids,” the butler whimpered. There was a babble of voices, above which Linda's rose again. “Don’t tell me,” she vociferated, “that there's been kidnapping as well as hold-upping and robbery and near murder.” Merritt Shaw reappeared. “I’ve telephoned from the library,” he said. “The superintendent is coming up, and we'll get the police. Now what's the matter?” “The maids have disappeared,” his mother an- swered. “Oh, nonsense; impossible. We'll find them,” he cried. Most of the guests surged after him into the serv- ing pantry, into the kitchen, into the quarters where the servants lived. Not a soul was in sight. [20] CALL THE POLICEl “There are three of them,” said Mrs. Tilden help- lessly; “cook, who is the butler's wife, and Mary and Prudence, the two maids.” In the laundry, to which they at last penetrated, Al Richards discovered a closet, the door to which was locked and the key missing. “I’ll bet they're in there,” he exclaimed excitedly. He was all for breaking in the door, but the butler produced a bunch of keys which, he declared, were duplicates for all the locks in the apartment. After some fumbling and delay the right key was found, and the door swung open. Seated on the floor inside were three women, ankles and wrists bound and strips of adhesive tape across their mouths. Amid a chorus of exclamations their bonds were cut, and the tape removed from their lips. “Herman, oh, Herman,” cried the first of the three to emerge, a stout German with very blond hair, throwing herself hysterically into the butler's arms. Behind her came two women in maids' uniforms. Half crying, half giggling with nervousness they faced the group about the door. “They popped in on us with pistols,” one declared. “They were right at our backs before we knew a thing.” “They just walked right in on us while we were busy with the dinner,” exclaimed the other maid. [21] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “They 'ad pistols and masks, and they told us if we even whispered they'd kill us. Such a fright they gave us.” “How on earth did they get in?” asked Mrs. Biddle. “Must have come up in the service elevator, or by the stairs alongside it,” answered Shaw, who had been investigating. “There is no other way into the apart- ment at this end. The door from the hallway is locked on this side; and that's a precaution they would be sure to take.” As the servants were in process of recovering their composure, the guests trooped back to the dining room. Here, Tilden, fortifying himself with oc- casional sips of brandy, was being interviewed by a group of men. One was a policeman, the others evi- dently detectives, were in plain clothes. “I’ll tell you,” said Tilden emphatically, “there's something pretty ugly back of this. It was more than a mere robbery and hold-up; there was a deliberate attempt to kill me.” “I wouldn't call it just a mere robbery,” Linda Shaw objected. “Look what they got off me.” “I know,” replied Tilden wearily, “and I'm sorry. But those fellows pointed the flashlight right at me, and fired twice. Look at that!” he cried, snatching up the collar, “if you want to see how close they came.” One of the officers scrutinized the collar. [22] CALL THE POLICEl “Any idea who these birds might be?” he asked. “How on earth should I know? They were masked. Besides, they didn't look like the sort of people I know.” “Haven't been messing in on somebody's racket?” “Of course not,” Tilden replied impatiently. “I don't work. I mean, I'm not in business.” The detective who had done most of the talking then questioned Tilden and the others present as to their positions when the hold-up men entered; as to any details in their appearance, their movements, their voices. It was a very thorough investigation. The detective even asked his audience to compare the height of the gangster who had walked around the table with that of the butler, who had remained standing beside it. The concensus of opinion was that the three bandits were of medium height; wore light overcoats over evening dress; that their features were hidden by handkerchiefs and by soft hats well pulled down so that only their eyes were visible; and that there was nothing noticeable about the voice of the man who did the talking. “Well, Mr. Tilden,” said the detective finally, “I'd like to take a look around before I go any farther.” “You're the detective in charge, I take it.” The other nodded. “Laura,” said Tilden sharply, to his wife, “get Her- [23] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL man, or somebody to show the police around.” His tone and manner were those which an ill-bred person would use in addressing a servant. But if Mrs. Tilden noticed, she gave no sign. The butler ap- peared in response to a buzzer, and the police fol- lowed him into the back regions of the apartment. “The dinner wasn't finished when this frightful interruption occurred,” said Mrs. Tilden quietly. “I do think we might sit down and complete it. After all, the robbery is in the hands of the police, and we can do nothing more.” “Good God, Laura, how can you even think of eating?” cried her husband angrily. “I was thinking of our guests,” she replied calmly. “Well, I for one am in favor of the motion,” Mrs. Shaw announced. “And after all, I'm the big loser. And you know, Tildy, you do serve famous food.” Tilden cast her a dark look. But Miss Townsend was sure that dark looks meant nothing in Mrs. Shaw's robust life. * When they were all seated, and one of the maids was serving Peach Alexandra, Merritt Shaw re- marked: “After all, there's something pretty fishy about this business.” - “Fishy?” asked Tilden coldly. “In what way?” “In this way,” Shaw replied hotly. “Those bandits knew their way around here. They knew how to get [24] CALL THE POLICEl in; they knew how to surprise us here in the dining room; they knew how to get out.” - “What of it?” asked Tilden disagreeably. “Good Lord, you must see they had learned the lay of the land. Either they'd been here, or someone gave them a plan of the apartment. And how did they know there was a dinner party on, and Linda here was wearing her pearls?” “Now don't go throwing your weight around about Linda's pearls,” Tilden sneered. “After all your money didn't buy them.” Shaw stopped eating, glared at the speaker and turned white. There was an awkward silence until several of the guests burst into a gabble of hastily manufactured conversation. The dinner became flat and constrained. One fea- ture which may have contributed to the depression was the presence of the police who occasionally passed through the room. While coffee and liqueurs were being served in the living room, the detective in charge made his report to Tilden. “We find,” he said, “that the three men came up at different times to different floors, by the front ele- vator, each giving the correct name of a tenant in this apartment house. They must have met, gone through a hall on one of the floors below to the rear of the [25] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL building, climbed the service stairs and burst into your apartment by the back door. That's the way they got in. They all went down together in the front ele- vator from this floor. We've got descriptions of them. One fellow, who was fool enough to open his mouth, looks like a well-known crook, Cioffari, called "Toothy' on account of his gold teeth. Well, I've got a list here of the things that were taken; we've sent out an alarm, and there's a lot of people on the lookout. I think we'll get your stuff back for you.” “Well,” said Tilden, “I suppose that's all that can be done.” “One thing more,” the detective continued. “This looks like an inside job. I mean, someone in the know must have tipped them off, and told them how to get in and out. The whole thing was planned from start to finish. Now, how about the servants?” “Well,” Tilden replied, “they've all been with us two years, or more. They seemed to be pretty good, as servants go.” “Ever have anything stolen before?” “No.” “This butler, what's he like?” “He’s a German. I've had him three years, and a friend of mine had him for five.” “Ever see anything funny about him?” “No-o,” said Tilden slowly. “He’s done his work [26] CALL THE POLICEl satisfactorily. Has an ugly temper, but he keeps it under control. I'd have fired him in a minute, other- wise.” “We'll keep an eye on the lot of them,” said the detective. “I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Tilden. And I hope the rest of your evening will be all right.” Miss Townsend and Willett were standing by the parapet at the front of the penthouse garden. Away, three hundred feet below them, and invisible unless one leaned over the stone railing, was the street crowded with traffic and with antlike creatures hurry- ing about their business under the glare of electric lights. In front of them was Central Park, a dark mass of treetops in the Spring night, the driveways out- lined with lights like winding paths bordered with glowing daffodils. Down one of the drives poured a procession of cars, two and three abreast, their head- lights gleaming in the darkness, pouring like a stream, like a river, like a torrent, sweeping on as if there were no beginning and no end. Up another drive sped a procession of receding cars, their tail lights like an interminable string of fireflies. And from all the rush and energy and movement of machines and men there came up to the watchers at the parapet a steady hum, a deep monotonous undercurrent of [27 J TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL sound, punctuated by the honk of motor horns and the occasional rattle of a trolley. “It's marvelous,” said Willett. “Such a spectacle of resistless energy one sees nowhere except in New York. But tell me, I have been deeply impressed with the wealth and the luxury here on this rooftop. But this robbery, a hold-up I think you call it, is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of. Isn't our ad- venture tonight unique?” “I wish I could say so,” Miss Townsend replied, “for the reputation of my native city. But, I am sorry to confess, things like this do occur now and then.” “Really? It seems incredible.” “A few years ago a band of robbers broke into a house in the heart of the city, drove the owner and his wife and their servants into a vault in the cellar, locked them in, and looted the place at their leisure. If the master of the house had not been able to pick the lock of their prison, he and his household would have been smothered.” “Astonishing!” “I read in the papers occasionally of a hold-up in an apartment. Penthouses seem to be particularly vulnerable—partly, I suppose because there are no neighbors near at hand.” “Extraordinary,” exclaimed Willett, “such a mag- nificent city coupled with such unheard-of lawless- [28] CALL THE POLICEl ness. And how quiet and efficient our robbers were. I can't get over it. I was told before I came over here that anything can happen in New York.” “Please don't get the impression,” Miss Townsend replied, “that an outrage like tonight is an everyday occurrence. I have lived here all my life and, thank goodness, this is my only experience of a hold-up.” “Of course,” said Willett, “I understand. Rather curious the effect the affair has had on our host. I took him for a very decent sort; but since the robbery he has become quite unpleasant.” Miss Townsend pointed out that the shock was unnerving, and that undoubtedly Tilden was not his usual self. But as she abstractedly watched the stream of motor lights speeding along the Park drives far below, she mentally rehearsed what information she possessed about Edward Spencer Tilden. He had been married three times and divorced twice. His matrimonial career began years ago with a brilliant society wedding. After a few years he married a slip of a girl, just out of college. Later he had abandoned her and their daughter, cold-bloodedly, and taken his present wife, Laura, a widow with a grown son. She had given him the true savoir faire which he seemed to desire. And now there was quiet gossip that Ed- ward and Laura did not get on well together, and that he might be preparing for another move. [29] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL Tilden was not, as men go, she mused, a bad man. He was not a crook, nor a libertine; he broke no laws, at least those that carried penalties for their infringe- ment. But he was utterly wrapped up in his own comfort and convenience and well-being, and had a blind spot when it came to any consideration for others. A zoölogist had told her that when any part of an animal ceases to function, that part will after a while begin to degenerate. Edward Tilden, wealthy idler played no useful part in business, or politics, or social betterment. He was an animal that no longer had any function. She wondered if he were begin- ning to degenerate. Only a little while ago she had observed an incident that stuck in her memory. The butler had quietly asked if one of the maids might take his place, as his wife had been so terrified by the hold-up that she was sick in bed, and he would like to take care of her. And she recalled Tilden's unnecessarily disagreeable manner as he told the man that his wife's illness was imaginary, and that it was his duty to be on call as long as the dinner party lasted. And she recollected also the furious expression of the usually impassive butler as he turned away. As she and Willett strolled back to the living room she made no effort to note the details of the scene before her. But there is a trick of the mind by which [30 ) CALL THE POLICEl a scene that apparently has been unnoticed, or ob- served in the most cursory manner, will, if it is suc- ceeded by some tragic occurrence, stand out in the memory later with startling vividness, with uncanny clarity in all its most trivial aspects, as if thrown into lurid relief by what follows. The dinner party, due to the excitement of the hold-up, had became disorganized and decidedly in- formal. Bobby Baker was stretched out on a chaise- longue, apparently dozing. The two Richards, Linda Shaw and Sophie Baker were playing contract. Shaw and Mr. Biddle, at one end of the big room, seated in roomy armchairs were chatting. Tilden was no- where to be seen. The butler was standing by the entrance from the foyer, and near him, Laura Tilden was talking to the same detective who had been in charge after the robbery. “Herman,” said Laura, “will you go and call Mr. Tilden? The detective—Mr. Flynn I think the name is, has some important news about the robbery.” “Yes, Mrs. Tilden,” the butler replied, and disap- peared in the direction of the bedrooms. Miss Town- send pointed out to Willetta genuine Mantegna which Tilden had picked up in his travels. Presently the butler returned. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tilden,” he said. “I can't find him.” [31] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “Can't find him?” echoed Mrs. Tilden. “What do you mean?” “I knocked on his door several times, but he did not answer.” “Did you try the door?” “Yes, madam. It is locked.” “Locked!” she exclaimed. “Oh, well, perhaps he is taking a nap. Try again, and knock hard. He is slightly hard of hearing, you know.” The butler disappeared, and the sound of his dis- tant rapping like the tap-tap-tap of a woodpecker was audible. Presently he reappeared. “He doesn't answer, madam,” he said. “But he must be somewhere about,” she said with a catch in her voice. “He went to his room a while ago.—He could not have left the apartment without our seeing him.” The butler stood before her, the perfect servant waiting to carry out orders. “Try again,” she said abruptly. “He may have gone into my room. Look carefully. Look everywhere.” Again the butler went away. Something attracted Miss Townsend's sharp eyes to one of Laura Tilden's hands, the hand that was nearest her. It was a slender, shapely, white hand, but it was clenched so tightly that the knuckles stood out like little knobs. There was a murmur of conversation from the card [32] CALL THE POLICE! players. “Two hearts;” “I pass;” “two spades.” A tall clock with a loud tick near at hand seemed to be counting off the seconds with irritating deliberation. And presently the butler came into the room. But he did not move with his usual swift, silent step. In- stead, he tottered, and his face was ghastly. “Mrs. Tilden—” his voice was a hoarse croak. He went up to her and whispered. The hand that Miss Townsend had noticed clutched the back of a chair; closed round it like a vise. “No,” it was a long, shuddering sigh. “You go,” she exclaimed suddenly to the detective. “It isn't so. I won't believe it. Show him the way, Herman.” The butler turned away, and the detective fol- lowed him. Miss Townsend touched the rigid arm that was stretched toward the chair. “What is it, Laura” she asked. “What has hap- pened?” “I can't speak,” the other woman whispered. She stood as if turned to stone, her face white as the handkerchief with which she kept wiping her lips. The heads of the card players turned round; the two men at the end of the room rose to their feet. And in no time at all the detective, Flynn, and the [33] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL butler, returned. Flynn glanced around. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a harsh voice, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr. Tilden is dead.” [34] & CHAPTER IV § THE BODY IN THE BATHROOM T. DETECTIVE was a broad-shouldered man with a pugnacious jaw and cold, blue eyes. And those eyes slowly passed from face to face as every head was turned toward him. Sophie Baker rose from her chair, and suddenly sank into it as if her legs had given way. Shaw ran across the room and put an arm about his mother. “My God!” cried Linda Shaw with a sob, “just a little while ago he said the trouble with the world is there are too many people in it.” “But, officer,” Willett ejaculated, “this is incredi- ble. Mr. Tilden was here within the half hour, I should say, apparently in excellent health. Was it a heart attack?” “No,” Flynn replied shortly, “it wasn't. I've got to get on the 'phone right away. Where's the nearest one?” [35] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL The butler motioned toward the adjoining library. “All right,” said Flynn. He raised his voice: “Every- one stay here. Nobody is to leave this room.” He went into the library and closed the door. And swiftly, from one to another in the group that drew together the premonition spread that something hor- rible, something worse than death had taken place. The butler's attitude and expression as he sagged against the wall was enough to rouse forebodings. Suddenly Flynn opened the library door and beckoned to young Shaw. “You're her son, aren't you?” he asked, with a look toward the woman the young man was supporting. Shaw nodded. “Come in here.” Shaw gently deposited his mother in a chair, and disappeared into the library. The door closed again. Those who remained in the room spoke in whispers, moved about restlessly, or stood still with an air of uneasy expectancy. Shaw came out from the library with a livid face, put his arm round his mother and drew her to her feet. “Come,” he murmued, “come with me.” And as he led her slowly away, to old Mr. Biddle, who happened to stand nearest he whispered, with white lips, one word: “killed!” [36] THE BODY IN THE BATHROOM Within a few minutes the wail of police car sirens rose from the street below; in a short time the pent- house was alive with policemen. Officers in uniform, detectives in plain clothes, a police surgeon and his assistant, photographers, finger-print men, techni- cians, passed and repassed. All alike preserved the same quiet, undisturbed, almost bored manner. They seemed to be no more excited as they went about the routine of collecting information about the murder than so many plumbers or house painters going about their daily tasks. And to Miss Townsend's astonish- ment she saw, talking earnestly to Flynn, a short, well-knit man whom she recognized. “Mr. Durkin!” she exclaimed. “Good gracious, Miss Townsend,” he ejaculated. “Well, I never. This is a surprise.” “Tell me,” she pleaded, “this suspense is unendur- able. Exactly what has happened?” “Murder,” he replied grimly. She shuddered. “I’ve suspected that these last few minutes,” she said. “Miss Townsend,” said Durkin, “I wish you hadn't come here tonight.” “I’ve wished it myself, very earnestly, especially in the last few minutes.” “This is a nasty business. It's going to be much [37] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL worse for you and your friends than that time on the train when you and I met and worked out the an- swer to the “Murder of a Missing Man.’” “I imagine so,” she sighed, “Captain Durkin, I suppose you are a captain by now?" “Lieutenant in the Homicide Bureau. Excuse me, I'll see you later. I’ll see everybody later.” He turned away in answer to a beckoning police- man, and disappeared. There was a constant movement to and fro of po- lice. They went back into the servants' quarters; passed and repassed through the living room; and trickled in and out of the doorway that led to the place where something lay that, only an hour ago, had been Edward Spencer Tilden. Into the confusion stepped Mrs. Biddle. “I've been taking a nap,” she announced with her artificial smile, lorgnette raised. “Do tell me what is happening. I never heard such tramping feet and running to and fro. Is the house on fire, or is it a mob” Her husband drew her aside and whispered. For once in her life her expression was spontaneous, sud- den, and not conventional. Durkin came back into the room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, with voice raised, in the manner of one making an announce- [38] THE BODY IN THE BATHROOM ment, “I have a duty to perform which will be un- pleasant for you and disagreeable to me. I hope, though, we can work together, that you will co- operate, and we can get through with it. “I am in charge of the New York police here,” he continued, “and the case, as you probably know, all of you, by this time, is murder.” He glanced keenly round at the silent figures. “The facts,” he went on, consulting a slip of paper, “are these. At about 8:50 this evening three men entered the apartment by the rear door; locked the servants in a closet; then went into the dining room . where they held up those who were at dinner and robbed them of jewelry, some of which was of great value. You were all of you, I think, present at the dinner.” Another keen glance at the faces before him. “They were here only twenty minutes. People in their line of business move fast. At 9:10 they all three went down in an elevator and disappeared on the street. We've got the time from the man who oper- ated the elevator. Also, we took the two elevator men who saw them down to the Rogues' Gallery, and we believe they have identified one of the crooks, and maybe two. Detective Flynn came back with that in- formation when he stepped into something else, and Worse. [39] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “Now there are two things about that hold-up that especially interest the police. One is the fact that those men couldn't possibly have come in here, moved as swiftly and as surely as they did, and got away, unless they knew a lot about the place. They knew the layout of the rooms, where the doors are, in fact the whole plan of the apartment. And they knew that wealthy people were dining here, some of them wearing very valuable jewels. Well, this all points to an inside job. Somebody tipped them off; told them there was loot here and how to go about getting it. Who that somebody is the police don't know—yet. “A hold-up isn't unheard-of in New York, in spite of our 18,000 police. And the majority of hold-ups are more or less what we call inside jobs. But the very strange feature of this robbery is that after the crooks had taken what they wanted, they fired twice at Mr. Tilden and came within an inch of killing him. Now, that's a very queer thing. Crooks like these fel- lows usually don't fight unless they're interfered with, and frightened, and think they've got to. But none of you threatened these men, as I get the story. They had an easy chance to clear out. Yet, they took a risk, and a big risk, to fire at a man who was sitting quietly in his chair, doing them no harm, and threat- ening to do none. Now that is a puzzle and a real puzzle.” [40] THE BODY IN THE BATHROOM He consulted his slip of paper again. “The hold-up men got away at 9:10. At 9:18 an alarm was put in. At 9:20 the first of the police ar- rived. Mr. Flynn, here, put in a half hour going over the premises, questioning people, investigating the servants and the elevator men. At about 9:45 he left, and an hour later he came back with some informa- tion for Mr. Tilden, and—Mr. Tilden was dead. “Now there are two ways, and only two, a person can get into or out of this penthouse. One is through the back entrance which leads into the servants' quarters. Flynn says that door was locked on the in- side when he left about 9:45, and we found it locked on the inside when we examined it a few minutes ago. More than that, nobody can pass from the part of the apartment where Mr. Tilden's body was found without going through this room where we are right now. There is no other way, because a court comes right up from the bottom of the building and sep- arates the owner's bedrooms and those of his guests from the kitchen and servants' quarters. Anyone can verify that. “The only other entrance is through the front, from the foyer which opens into this room. So, no one could get from the outside to the place where we found the body without passing through this TOOIn. [41] uopių uºouodºpupapa ſo quouſuody ºsnow şuºd „o void punowo ĶDOE](€)DOE)••••■Ķ �? •→ → → → → →cſ) • • • • w ław wºw • …，altı：0†† El Ed … ]•••rdaug| wooyºuſuſawooy Âu naryhuwuqwg ---) ••••• huquqqşuºtingwooy ºpiºſ，|| *ae----wooy • • •no·woodpºq „-�\ • -（XY）！！!??!！!•șnadııı[ wºņºſty}wooy ſprºw|- - -!, „I wooaeg - -a**L****] | [º] ſaeiſ: ·:3|-_-º. | …ïð wooy Âunda ºrvouºsturpae，UI ！-woo și º sºnoș-wooup •g woon ſuºt;ngawwwwwwwww IŠșNacııı.*| hupunwyr！-}| -× [42] THE BODY IN THE BATHROOM “I say there are only two ways of entrance or exit from this apartment. There is a third—by a window, but only a bird would try it. This is a big building, and there is a drop of a hundred feet down a straight wall to the next set-back. “Well, you might say, maybe somebody sneaked into the apartment long before the dinner party started and hid. Or, maybe one of the hold-up men didn't leave and concealed himself somewhere. Per- haps the elevator man was mistaken in saying he took three of them down. Those are fair questions. But, if somebody did slip in and hide at some time during the day; or one of the crooks sneaked back into the bedrooms, where is he now? I tell you, any murderer who hid in this apartment would have to be as small as a mouse, for we've given this place one thorough searching from one end to the other. “At 9:40 this evening,” he concluded, “when Flynn here left, there were sixteen people, so far as we know, in this apartment—twelve of you at the dinner party, and four servants. An hour later, again so far as we know, there are fifteen people here, and—the dead body of Mr. Tilden.” There was a lengthy silence. Old Mr. Biddle was the first to speak, his wrinkled face streaked with veins and his bulbous, trembling lower lip more noticeable than ever. [43] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “Your remarks seem to imply,” he said indignantly, “That one of the people here, one of us, is guilty of this horrible deed.” “I don't say that and I don't imply it,” Durkin replied. “All I tell you are the facts so far as we know them now. Other facts will be dug up, plenty of them. If there was somebody else in the apartment, one of you may have seen him. Or, the murderer might have slipped out when no one was in this room. It will be easy to find out if the room was empty or not between 9:45 and 10:45.” “But, officer,” exclaimed Willett, “you keep talk- ing of murder and a murderer. You have facts, I sup- pose, to substantiate your statement. After all, in the case of sudden and totally unexpected death there is always the possibility of self-destruction.” “That theory,” Durkin replied, “is out. Mr. Tilden could not possibly have inflicted the wound that killed him.” Willett glanced around. “As the family is not present,” he remarked, “may we ask exactly what you have discovered?” “Well,” Durkin replied, “there's no harm in telling you that. We found Mr. Tilden's body lying face down on the floor of his own bathroom. He was prob- ably washing his hands, as there is soapy water in the bowl. At the back of the neck, right at the base of the [44] THE BODY IN THE BATHROOM brain, there is a small, circular wound. Somebody struck him there with enough force to penetrate the brain, and that blow killed him, and probably killed him instantly.” Linda Shaw covered her face with her hands. “A horror like this, it gets me,” she moaned. “What was the weapon that—that was used?” asked Richards. “Frankly, we don't know. Somebody took it away.” A policeman went up to Durkin and said some- thing in a low voice. The lieutenant stepped briskly toward the front door of the apartment, and dis- appeared in the entrance hall that led into the foyer. But his voice could be heard distinctly. “No,” he declared, “you boys can't come in. There's nothing to give out now. When there is, we'll let you know. “Reporters out there are three deep,” he explained as he came back. “This is the kind of murder the papers, will go after like hungry dogs after a bone. Sensational case, big news value, and all that kind of thing. I'm afraid it will be disagreeable for you people who are here, for there'll be plenty of no- toriety, but I guess it can't be helped. “You see,” he continued, “it’s to the interest of every one of you to help the police clear this thing up, and clear it up quickly. I don't mean to say that [45] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL any newspaper or any individual is going to be fool enough to throw suspicion about carelessly. But you'd all of you be relieved, I'll bet, if it should turn out that the crook who fired at Tilden is the man who finally killed him.” There was a murmur of agreement to this. “Well,” said Durkin pleasantly, “I’ll have to begin by asking each one of you a lot of questions. And don't get the idea that the police are trying to pin something on any one of you, or have any suspicions up their sleeves. We're all in the dark together, and we'll just have to sit down and talk things over in the hope that some of you have noticed things, perhaps some apparently little worthless incident, that will start us on the right track.” “Do you mean, officer,” asked Richards, “that you can keep any of us here if we want to leave?” “I’ll answer that,” Durkin replied sharply, “by re- minding you that this is a murder case. You can do your own thinking.” Two or three in the group before him looked at each other with blank expressions, but nobody said anything. “All right,” Durkin declared. “I’m going into the next room, the library I think it is. Each of you will please step in there when I send for you. Miss Town- send, will you come first?” [46] & CHAPTER V § THE SHEEP AND THE GOATS A. Miss Townsend followed the detective into the library she glanced round at the shelves lined from floor to ceiling with books, and at the handsome desk in the center of the room where Tilden had worked when he felt so inclined. The pens, the paper weights, the book that had been laid carelessly down—all these inanimate but very personal belongings of the man who would never handle them again, touched her deeply. Durkin sank into the luxurious depths of an easy chair; Miss Townsend perched on the edge of an- other. “Why,” she asked, “have you made me conspicuous by choosing me as the first victim of your inquisi- tion?” “For two reasons,” he answered gravely. “First, [47] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL from what I know of you, I should say you are one of the last people I would suspect of this crime.” “Please don't joke about the murder,” she pro- tested. “And in the second place, I know from experience that you have sharp eyes, and sharp ears, and a pretty smart mind behind the eyes and the ears. So, I thought you may have noticed a thing or two this evening.” “I can think of nothing that was at all significant.” Durkin picked up a paper cutter and played with it. “These people, the Tildens, friends of yours?” he asked. “As I dined with them, naturally I am not a stranger. I have known them for many years. I am very fond of Mrs. Tilden.” “But not her husband? What sort of man was he?" “De mortuis nil misi bonum,” Miss Townsend quoted in answer. “Ah, now, Miss Townsend, don't talk in a foreign language, that's not fair.” “It's just a precept of the old Romans, and before them the Greeks said the same thing. It means:—'Say nothing of the dead except what is good.' It has al- ways seemed to me an excellent rule to follow.” “It is a good rule as far as it goes,” was Durkin's comment, “but a lot of dead people could not be even mentioned if you followed it out. But to go back [48] THE SHEEP AND THE GOATS to Tilden; was he disagreeable, quarrelsome, did he make enemies?” “Well,” said Miss Townsend judicially, “Edward Tilden was a selfish man, and had few friends. But on the other hand I do not think of him as inspiring hatred or making bitter enemies.” “Did he quarrel, or even have any disagreement tonight with anyone?” “Nothing worth mentioning.” “You're holding out on me, Miss Townsend,” Durkin warned. “He and his son-in-law had a few words. But every- one's nerves were on edge. And the incident was noth- ing—hardly a tiff.” “Tiff, that's a good word. Did he have a tiff with his wife?” “No,” declared Miss Townsend emphatically, “Laura Tilden is a lady; she wouldn't quarrel with her husband in public.” “But maybe in private,” Durkin returned with a grin. “Some wives do. Well, anybody else? How about that glum-faced butler? Somehow I don't exactly like his looks.” “Nothing, practically. Mr. Tilden did speak sharply to him, but there again it was nothing of any impor- tance. Truly, Mr. Durkin, I would help you gladly if I could, but really I have nothing to offer.” [49] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL Durkin hummed a little tune, slightly off key. “Er, were Tilden and his wife on good terms?” he asked, rather as if he were hazarding the question. “Mr. Durkin, I don't gossip,” Miss Townsend re- plied tartly. “And I certainly sha'n't gossip now, where the consequences of idle words might be very serious.” “O.K.,” said Durkin with a grin. “One thing more: were you in the living room from the time Tilden left it until the murder was discovered?” “No. Part of the time I was outside in front of the penthouse with one of the guests, a Mr. Willett.” “All right, little lady,” Durkin replied. “Now just take a seat somewhere in this room, out of the lime- light, while I question some of the others.” The next to be summoned was Linda Shaw, who swept into the room like a ship under full sail. “What I've been thinking about,” she announced, without giving Durkin a chance to speak, “is why on earth we pay taxes for police protection. Just look at this, officer. Here are a dozen of us, prominent people, dining in the heart of New York, and in the same eve- ning there's a hold-up, and robbery, and attempted murder, and finally a successful murder. That's what I call police protection in a big way.” “I can't go into that now,” said Durkin gently. “I think you were the principal loser by the robbery.” “The necklace alone, of matched pearls, cost [50] THE SHEEP AND THE GOATS $185,000.o.o. The diamond bracelets and the emerald ring were very valuable. Altogether I should say they were worth a quarter of a million, and that, I imagine, is a record.” “No,” Durkin replied, “back in 1926 a lady was robbed, in a hotel within a block of this place, of jewelry worth $687,ooo.oo. It was in the papers.” Linda seemed disappointed. “What I particularly wanted to ask you, Mrs. Shaw,” Durkin continued, “is whether you went into the part of this apartment where the bedrooms are at any time this evening since dinner?” “Why, yes,” Linda replied. “My husband and I are spending the night here. We have the guest room next to Mrs. Tilden's bedroom.” Durkin leaned forward. “You went to your room then, some time after dinner?” “Oh, yes, to freshen up a little.” “Was Mr. Tilden in the living room when you re- turned?” “He was,” Linda answered promptly. “And then what did you do?” “I sat down to a game of bridge with Mr. and Mrs. Richards, and Mr. Biddle. Afterward Sophie Baker came along and took Mr. Biddle's place.” “From where you sat, could you have seen anyone [51] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL come from the hall that leads to the bedrooms and cross the living room to the front door?” Linda reflected for a moment. “Perhaps not,” she said. “My back was partly toward that end of the room.” “Could you have seen anyone coming through the living room from the direction of the dining room— anyone who did not belong here?” “Oh, yes, certainly,” Linda affirmed. “And how long did you play bridge?” “Until the detective came, and we began to feel that something had happened, and the game broke up.” “I see. And did you, in the course of the evening notice anything, any conduct on the part of any of the people at the dinner party, servants or guests, that, in the light of what has happened, would seem to you suspicious?” “Not a thing,” Linda declared emphatically. “Thank you, Mrs. Shaw,” said Durkin. “I won't detain you any longer.” “But, officer,” Linda exclaimed, “I don't want to seem heartless, and I liked poor Ed Tilden, and I think what has happened is just terrible. But I would like to know what's being done about my jewelry.” “We think we have identified one of the crooks, maybe two. There's a general alarm out; railroad sta- [52] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL a pack of criminals. I've got my eye on a few goats, and I think I'll just get rid of some of the sheep before I tackle the other animals.” The next sheep to appear in answer to his summons was Al Richards. He was talkative and positive. He did not remember having seen Tilden about after the detective, Flynn, departed. He himself had not left the living room between 9:45 and 10:45, but had been playing bridge the whole time. He could not say which of the guests might have gone into one of the bedrooms during this period; but he was confident that if anyone had crossed the living room and left by the front door his attention would have been at- tracted, as he sat facing in that direction. Durkin took his address, thanked him, and said he was at liberty to leave after his wife had been questioned. Mrs. Richards, who was plainly upset and fright- ened out of her usual blasé self, threw neither more nor less light on the mystery than her husband. “Two more sheep gone,” said Durkin. “Do you agree, Miss Townsend?” “Yes,” she replied, with a smile. Curtis Biddle was the next to appear. His shirt front was rumpled, his sparse, white hair was in dis- order. “Good gracious, officer,” he ejaculated, “this is a terrible affair, a terrible affair.” * [54] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL his words. “I would not say he was popular in the clubs we both belonged to, but he was not the kind to create violent dislike, or hatred, or anything of that character.” “Do you think he might have been in a business deal now and then where somebody got squeezed pretty dry?” “I should say not,” Biddle answered. “I’m his banker and ought to know. Tilden inherited money; he was never active in business.” “Mr. Biddle,” asked Durkin suddenly, “where were you this evening between 9:45 and 10:45?” “Why,” Biddle replied, “I was in the room next to this, the big living room.” “All the time?” “The whole time.” “May I ask what you were doing?” “Certainly. I sat down to play cards with Mr. and Mrs. Richards and Mrs. Shaw. Presently Mrs. Baker came along, and I insisted that she take my place.” “I see,” said Durkin suavely, “Mrs. Baker came along. Did you happen to notice where she came from?” “Why, yes. She came through the hall, er—” Biddle stopped suddenly. “The hall that opens into the living room from the part of the apartment where the bedrooms are?” asked [56] THE SHEEP AND THE GOATS Durkin quietly. “Oh, yes,” Biddle replied shortly. “I see,” said Durkin. “And after you gave up your place to Mrs. Baker, what did you do?” “I walked about and looked at some of Tilden's valuable paintings until young Shaw came along and we sat down for a chat.” “Did Mr. Shaw come in from the dining room?” “No, from the opposite direction.” “And he had not been in the room before?” “No, I would have seen him if he had.” “Well,” remarked Durkin in what might be called a studiedly careless tone, “he came through the same hallway that Mrs. Baker had used.” Biddle was plainly uncomfortable. “See here,” he objected, “you must not attribute meanings to my remarks that are not intended.” “Of course not. But,” Durkin insisted, “he did come through that hall, didn't he?” “Well, yes,” Biddle admitted. “Soon after Mrs. Baker?” “No, quite a while later.” “Then, Mr. Biddle, if you have no more infºma. tion to offer I'll just ask your wife a few questions. After that, if you like, you are free to go home. I guess we can find you later, if necessary.” “A great many people in New York know where to [57] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL find me,” Biddle replied pompously. Mrs. Biddle, when she appeared, was ill at ease. To be questioned by a police officer in connection with a murder was a new and terrifying experience. “Mrs. Biddle,” Durkin said, without any preamble, “I understand you were in one of the bedrooms this evening.” “Yes,” she replied, “the excitement of that robbery brought on a nervous headache. So Mrs. Shaw, who is kindness itself, insisted that I lie down on her bed for a rest.” “Mrs. Shaw's room is next to Mrs. Tilden's” “I think so.” “May I ask if anyone was in Mrs. Shaw's room, with you?” “No one but Mrs. Shaw herself, who made me com- fortable and then left me.” “Was your door open, or closed?” “Closed.” “Could you at any time see into the hall, or the doorway of Mrs. Tilden's room?” Mrs. Biddle had a trick of pulling thin lips over proflinent teeth, that gave her a supercilious look. The look was very pronounced as she replied:— “Naturally, officer, as the door was closed, I could not.” “That's too bad,” was Durkin's comment. [58] THE SHEEP AND THE GOATS Mrs. Biddle stared at him and said: “May I ask why?” “Well, you see,” Durkin explained, “we found the door of Mr. Tilden's room locked, and the key on the inside. But there is another door opening into Mrs. Tilden's room. We think the murderer must have gone out that way, crossed Mrs. Tilden's room, and into the hall, right past the room where you were.” Mrs. Biddle gasped. “How horrible!” she exclaimed. “Can you think of any little thing that would throw light on what's happened here this evening?” Durkin inquired. “I cannot, officer,” she replied emphatically. “All right,” said Durkin, “that's all tonight. You'll find your husband waiting to take you home. “Two more sheep gone,” he remarked, after Mrs. Biddle had left. Miss Townsend nodded. Bobby Baker was the next to appear. He was very pale; there were great hollows under his eyes; and he walked unsteadily. Leaning against a chair he fixed his gaze on the detective. - “Mr. Baker,” asked Durkin, “were you in the room next to this from about 9:45 to 10:45 this evening?” “No,” Baker replied a little thickly, “not all the time.” [59] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “Where else were you, then?” “Mrs. Baker and I have one of the guest rooms, and, after dinner, I felt badly, so I went back there. In fact, officer, I was plain sick. Drank too much, I suppose.” “Were you there long?” “Quite a while, I think. But I can't really tell. I was pretty hazy.” Durkin drew a plan from his pocket, and con- sulted it. “Your room is across the hall from Mr. Tilden's, isn't it?” “I believe so.” “Did you see anyone go into Tilden's room, or come out of it?” “No. I couldn't have seen anyone. I was in my own bathroom, with the door shut.” “Were you there when the police arrived?” “No, I came out and lay down on a lounge just in- side a window of the living room.” “H'm,” said Durkin, “have you known Mr. Tilden long?” “Oh, yes. Known him for years, in a social way.” “As I understand it, you were not quite yourself, the latter part of the evening.” “Not quite," said Bobby, sheepishly. “I was fool- ish, and took a little more than I could carry.” [60) THE SHEEP AND THE GOATS “Well,” said Durkin, “I haven't anything more to ask you now.” “One more,” said Durkin, after Bobby had made his way, somewhat deviously from the room. The “one more” proved to be Willett, a rather mild-looking gentleman in spite of his height and bulk. His name, he stated, was Herbert A. W. Willett. He was a barrister of the Middle Temple, London, and resided in Kensington. He had met Mr. Tilden at a country house in England the previous summer; had come over on the Berengaria; and had been in America three days. “Did you, this evening, happen to notice anything unusual?” Durkin asked. “Unusual?” echoed Willett, with a humorous ex- pression. “Oh, quite. I have been at many dinner parties, but never at one where bandits appeared and carried on wholesale robbery, and where a murder was perpetrated. I may add that I was in France dur- ing four years of the War, and much of the time at the front. I never remember a more exciting time.” “I meant,” said Durkin, slightly put out, “ahy in- cident that might throw light on what has happened here.” “I must confess,” Willett replied, “that the events of the evening seem to me inexplicable. I can hardly [61 ) TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL convince myself that I am not dreaming.” “All right,” Durkin remarked. “Please give me your New York address. The police won't ask you to stay here any longer.” As the door closed behind Willett's ponderous form, Durkin rose, stretched, and walked about. “If my hunches are any good,” he declared, “I’ve got rid of the sheep. Now I'll look over a few goats.” [62 ) & CHAPTER VI & THE DYED HAIR D. drew from his pocket a leather wallet, fished out a piece of paper, opened it and held what it contained, on his palm, under Miss Townsend's nose. “Well,” was her comment, “it’s a hair from some- body's head.” “Exactly. And that somebody's hair is dyed. It's a pale blond except at the root, where it is darker. I found it on the back of a chair in Tilden's room. Now, who, Miss Townsend, of the people here this evening has dyed hair?” “That's a question you can answer as well as I,” she replied. “As a matter of fact I think you know the answer.” “I do,” he said shortly, “and the answer is on her way in.” Sophie Baker, who now entered the room, was a woman whom men looked at with admiration and [63 ] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL other women with envy. It was not only because she was really beautiful, in a classical and rather cold way, but because she had the taste and the ability to en- hance her good looks so that from the top of her blond head to her expensively shod slender feet she was perfectly turned out. Dropping into a chair she lit a cigarette and met Durkin's look with a watchful expression. “Well?” she said, in a low and rather husky voice, as Durkin was silent. “I am wondoring,” he replied, “if you happened to be in Mr. Tilden's room this evening?” If he expected that his abrupt question would sur- prise, or startle, or frighten her, he was disappointed. Without the flicker of a change of expression she re- plied calmly: “Yes, I was there.” “This was after dinner?” “Oh, yes. It was after the hold-up, and all that. Ed, Mr. Tilden, asked me to come to his room for a few minutes.” “Why did he do that?” “We were old friends. He was over-wrought and nervous, and wanted to get away from people. He seemed to think a quiet chat with me would help him to gain control of himself.” “So you went with him to his room. Were you there long?” [64] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “Yes, I had a glass with him,” she replied without the slightest change from her habitual guarded ex- pression, and low, cultivated intonation. “Mrs. Baker,” Durkin said abruptly, “you were one of the last persons to see Mr. Tilden alive. Have you any suspicion, any theory, any faint idea as to who killed him?” Sophie crushed the end of the cigarette she was smoking in a brass receiver. The gesture, as she made it, was slow, relentless, cruel. “At present, nothing,” she replied. “But if it should be in my power to help bring the murderer to punish- ment—” With those pitiless white fingers she crushed the cigarette utterly. “To go back to the champagne,” Durkin said cas- ually, “did you break the glass, after you drank from it?” “No,” she replied. “Why should I?" “Oh, no reason,” he answered. “And after you left Mr. Tilden's room you went across the hall to your own room?” - “No, I walked down the hall to the living room.” “See anyone on the way—in your room or in the hall?” “No one.” “Now, Mrs. Baker,” said Durkin suddenly, “tell [66] THE DYED HAIR me who was in the room beside you and Mr. Tilden.” She answered his look with a cool, level stare. “I thought you would ask that question,” she re- plied calmly. Durkin leaned forward. “Who was it?” he snapped. “Mrs. Tilden.” “So Mrs. Tilden was there, too. All the time?” “No, she came in just before I left.” “I see. And objected to your being in her husband's room.” “Of course not. Why should she?” Durkin seemed to find it difficult to explain why she should. “Well, there was a scene,” he insisted. “There was no scene,” she answered, lighting an- other cigarette. “And you left her there?” “Yes.” There was a silence which Durkin finally broke by saying: “Is that all you have to tell me?” “I’ll answer your questions as long as you like,” she replied with a suggestion of irony in her voice. “Thanks,” said Durkin shortly. “There won't be any more questions now.” When she had left the room Durkin turned to Miss Townsend. [67] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “That woman,” he exclaimed, “is a cool proposi- tion. She's got something up her sleeve, I'll bet. And she's not the kind to take that something out until she's good and ready. And another thing,” he con- tinued, “I believe there was an affair, or an under- standing, or what have you, between her and Tilden.” Miss Townsend was silent. “Something in the wind there,” said Durkin, scrib- bling in his notebook. “Well, who's next?” “Mr. Durkin,” Miss Townsend protested, “do you want to keep me here all night? Remember, I'm rather an old lady, and I have passed through a very exciting and frightful evening.” “Ah, now, Miss Townsend,” he replied, “don't you walk out on me. I'll tell you why. I'm used to han- dling the regular criminal type. They're sullen and close-mouthed, but there are ways of making them talk. Sometimes a good beating up with a rubber hose does the trick. But these society friends of yours have me mystified. They're so used to hiding their real feelings, they put on such a false front with their evening clothes, that a plain detective like me doesn't get far with them. So, please stay a little longer, and see the rest of the picture. Any one of half a dozen of the people here tonight might have done Tilden in. Now, you're just as much interested as I am in trying to settle this case right, and not see the mistake * - [68] THE DYED HAIR made of locking up the wrong person.” “Very well,” she answered with a sigh. “Your argu- ment is reasonable.” “Fine,” exclaimed Durkin. “Now we'll try someone who is not in the ‘Social Register.’” The next to appear was one of the maids whom Miss Townsend had seen when she was freed from the closet where the bandits had locked her. Her face was unprepossessing. Trying to explain to herself the reason, Miss Townsend decided the displeasing im- pression created was not so much due to her high cheekbones, nor small, compressed mouth, but to her eyes. Part of the iris seemed to be under the upper lids, with the result that there was a wide semicircle of white eyeball underneath, and these strange eyes gave her an unusual and forbidding expression. “Your name,” said Durkin briskly, “is Prudence Pack?” “Yes, sir,” she replied in a colorless voice. “You are employed as a chambermaid here?” “Yes, sir.” “One of your duties, so I'm told by the policeman who has talked to you, is to go to the different bed- rooms, turn down the bedclothes and leave fresh water and fruit. Is that so?” “Yes, sir.” “Did you go the rounds tonight?” [69] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “Yes, sir.” “What time?” “It was while the police were here, after the robbers came. About 'arf past nine.” “How many bedrooms did you go into?” “All of them, four.” “What people did you see in them?” “Nobody, sir.” “Did you go from Mrs. Tilden's room to her hus- band's, past the bathroom where he was killed?” “Yes, sir,” with no change of expression in those odd-looking eyes. “There's a short passageway from one bedroom to the other with the bathroom on one side and a big closet on the other. Is that right?” “Quite so, sir.” “Could you see into the bathroom, or the closet, or both?” “I didn't look. I think the doors were closed, or partly so.” “Then what did you do?” “I turned down Mr. Tilden's bed and laid out his pajamas, and went back to the servants' quarters. I can prove that by the butler's wife; she was sick, upset like from the robbery, and I took care of her.” “All right, Prudence,” said Durkin. “That will be all now.” [70] THE DYED HAIR The woman rose and started toward the door, but turned and directed her strange-looking eyes at the detective. “Herman, the butler, 'e was in Mr. Tilden's room afterward,” she said in her flat voice. “Well, what of it?” Durkin asked briskly. “In the kitchen 'e was abusing Mr. Tilden some- thing dreadful. Said 'e was the meanest man 'e ever worked for, and some day 'e'd get even.” “So, he made threats, did he?” Pack nodded. “’E's an ugly temper once 'e gets started,” she added. “You don't seem to like Herman,” Durkin re- marked. “I just tell you what I've seen,” the woman replied sullenly. “O.K.,” said Durkin. “Think of anything else?” Pack shook her head and at a nod from Durkin left the room. The detective, as he had done when each of the other witnesses had left, stepped to the door, spoke to the policeman who was stationed outside, and re- sumed his seat. After a short delay, Herman, the butler, entered the room. He seemed to have himself under better control than when Miss Townsend had seen him last, just after the discovery of the murder. But a constant, slight twitching of the corners of his mouth showed that his nerves were still unsteady. [71] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “Herman,” said Durkin, brusquely, “why did you go to Mr. Tilden's room late this evening?” “He rang for me, sir, and told me to bring him two glasses of champagne from a bottle that had been opened at the dinner.” “You took them to his room?" “To the door. He met me there and took the tray." “Who was in the room?” “I don't know, sir. I couldn't see in.” “What time was it?” “A quarter to twenty minutes past ten.” “Are you sure of that?” queried Durkin with a sharp look. “Yes, sir. I looked at my watch.” “Then what did you do?” “I went back to the dining room and waited for orders.” “Anyone see you there?” “Some of the guests must have seen me passing through the living room.” “Herman,” said Durkin suddenly, “you've been known to play the races.” The butler seemed taken aback. “Well, I do put up a dollar once in a great while,” he mumbled. “How about that pool room on Third Avenue near Fifty-second Street?” [72] THE DYED HAIR Herman shook his head. “Don’t be a fool,” cried Durkin sharply. “You don't suppose when we searched this place we left your clothes alone. Here are some of the slips from the Third Avenue joint.” The butler shifted his feet uneasily, but said noth- ing. “You've been there, that's straight,” cried Durkin, pointing his forefinger at the other man. “Now, I want to tell you something about pool rooms, something you probably know anyway. They're risky places. You're likely to run against loafers, and people who are no good, and crooks. Yes, crooks. That's the sort of place you might get to talking to some smooth- looking bird, and he'd say:—What sort of a place have you got?' And you'd say:—‘A swell place. Rich people, lots of style.’” “But,” Herman interrupted, “I didn't meet any crooks.” - “How do you know you didn't?” asked Durkin. “You didn't go in there and keep your mouth shut. You spoke to somebody. Well, my boy, there's one part of this evening's doings that the police have got figured out very nicely, and that is that the hold-up was an inside job. You can't tell me,” he cried, shaking his fist at the butler, “that those three crooks who got in here tonight were just wandering along the street [73] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL and looked up in the sky and said:—There's a swell- looking Penthouse. Let's go up and see what we find!' Applesauce. And how did they know there was a dimner party here tonight, and a lot of rich people, and one woman with a fortune in jewelry on her? How did they know that? And how did they get the lavout of this place so that they could pop in at the back and know just where to go to reach the dining room. and to get out? Why, this is a big apartment and a man has got to know his way about in it. I wouldn't know which way to turn or which door to go through, unless I'd been here before, or somebody gave me a diagram of the place.” Herman was silent, but the restless twitching of his lips was more noticeable. "Yes, sir." Durkin affirmed, bringing his fist down on Tilden's desk with a bang, “someone tipped those guys of just assure as I'm sitting here. Well, who was it? Would it be one of the guests, or Mr. or Mrs. Tilden, who'd invite these birds to come up and help themselves? Not likely. Somebody who knew there was a dinner on tonight; somebody who knew that Mrs. Shaw would be here, and had seen her before with her jewelry; somebody who knew every turn and door in this place, passed the word to those crooks.” "I had nothing to do with it,” the butler protested. “So you say." Durkin sneered. “Another thing, you [74] THE DYED HAIR don't stand at a dinner party like a dummy, now do you? You go back and forth to the butler's pantry with plates, and to get food that's brought from the kitchen. Isn't that so?” “Yes, sir.” “All right, how long was it before those hold-up men came into the dining room that you'd been out to the pantry?” -“I don't know; a few minutes,” the butler faltered. “Well, what's a few minutes?" Durkin barked. “Two, or twenty?” “I’m not sure, maybe five.” “Five minutes, you say. And those fellows were tying up your wife and the other maids, and gagging them, and locking them in a closet. They must have been fast workers to do all that in the five minutes after you were in the pantry.” “It might have been more than five minutes,” the butler protested. * “And it might have been less,” said Durkin with a frown. “I hear,” he added suddenly, “that you have a bad temper, and a damned bad temper. And I hear, too, that this very night you called Tilden the meanest man you ever worked for, and said that you'd get even with him some day. Do you deny it?” “I didn't say that,” the butler protested, with a back-to-the-wall air. [75] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “I’ve got a witness,” Durkin replied grimly. “And finally, here's still another little thing that you've got to explain. You stated just now that you went to Mr. Tilden's room with two glasses of champagne at a quarter to twenty minutes past ten. You admit that you said that, don't you?” “Yes,” the butler replied with some hesitation. “All right,” said Durkin, leaning forward and speaking very slowly, “I happen to know there was champagne in Tilden's room, two glasses, before ten o'clock. And from what we've got from witnesses, and from the examination by the police surgeons, we know that soon after ten o'clock Tilden was mur- dered.” The butler took two or three unsteady steps and leaned against the desk for support. “I was wrong,” he said huskily, “about the time. It was earlier.” “Good God!” cried Durkin in exasperation, “why don't you carry an alarm clock around with you? I never saw a man so foggy about time.” The butler swallowed once or twice and started to speak, but said nothing. “Tell me how you found the body,” snapped Durkin. “It was this way,” the butler replied uneasily: “Mrs. Tilden sent me to call Mr. Tilden so he could [76] THE DYED HAIR talk to the detective, Flynn his name is, who had just come back.” “Yes,” was Durkin's only comment. “So I go and knock on Mr. Tilden's door. No an- swer. When I tell Mrs. Tilden she says perhaps he is asleep, and orders me to try again. I knock louder. No answer.” “Well?” asked Durkin. “Mrs. Tilden told me her husband must be some- where about, and sent me again to look for him. I tried her room, but he was not there. Then, I went from her room through a little passage toward Mr. Tilden's room, and—in his bathroom I saw him, lying on the floor, bloody.” The butler regarded Durkin with a haggard face. “And what did you do then?” asked the detective, abruptly. “I went back and told Mrs. Tilden he was dead.” “How did you know he was dead? Did you try to help him? Did you touch him?” “Oh, no, no, no,” the butler protested. “He looked that way, you know, like he was dead.” Durkin faced him with a cold stare. “You're on a pretty hot spot, Mr. Stein,” said Dur- kin. “I’ll have one of my men look after you while you think things over.” “But, I want to say—” Stein protested. [77] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “No, you don't want to say anything now,” Durkin replied, pushing him toward the door, “you just go out and sit down and make up your mind to come clean, to tell the whole truth. It'll be better for you in the end.” “What do you think of him?” Durkin asked as the door closed behind the butler. Miss Townsend shook her head. “So far it's all inference and circumstantial evi- dence,” she objected. “Oh, I'll admit the picture isn't filled in yet,” Durkin replied confidently. “So far we've got only the outlines; but before I get through we'll find plenty more details.” [78] & CHAPTER VII § THE NEXT OF KIN M. SHAw walked quietly into the room, very pale, the dark hollows under his eyes more pro- nounced than ever. “You sent for me?” he asked. “Yes, Mr. Shaw, I did,” Durkin replied. “You are the step-son of-er, the late Mr. Tilden?” “I am.” “When did you last see your step-father alive?” “About the time the detective Flynn left, I should say twenty minutes before ten.” “Where was he then?” “In the living room. He said he was upset by the robbery, and was going to his room for a little while.” “Anyone go with him?” “No.” “And that's the last you saw of him?” [79 | TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “Yes,” Merritt replied steadily. “Will you tell me where you were between, say, 9:45 and lo:45?" “I went back to my mother's room and sat down at her desk to look over some business papers. Then I came back to the living room, watched the card game for a few minutes, and finally chatted with Mr. Biddle.” “Did you see anyone while you were in your mother's room?” “My mother came in, for a few minutes, and left.” “Which way did she go out?” “I didn't notice. I was occupied with my work.” “Was the door opening into the adjoining room, Mr. Tilden's, open?” “It was closed.” “And you saw nobody but your mother?” “Nobody.” “Did you go into your step-father's room?" “I did not,” said Shaw, emphatically. “What time did you go back to the living room?” Shaw took time to consider. “I was busy for some time, perhaps half an hour. I should say I left about a quarter past ten.” “Was that before or after your mother left the room?” “After.” [80] THE NEXT OF KIN “Did you happen to see the butler about?” “No.” “Did you hear any noise in the next room?” “No.” “The bathroom, where Mr. Tilden was killed, is right next to your mother's room.” “That is true. But my mother's is a very large room, and the desk is at the end away from her husband's room. And, as you have probably ascertained, the walls in this apartment are sound-proof, and the doors are thick and heavy.” “I’ve pretty good reason to think,” said Durkin softly, “that the murder took place while you say you were in the next room.” “I’m inclined to agree with you,” Shaw answered quietly. “Mr. Shaw,” cried Durkin suddenly, “can you throw any light on this thing? Do you know anybody who wanted to kill Mr. Tilden?” The other shook his head. “It's hard to see,” Durkin continued, “as I've ex- plained before, how anybody from outside could have committed the murder and got away without being seen. If there was no outsider, and frankly, I think there was none, it puts this crime up to one of the fifteen people who were here this evening.” “That makes it all the more horrible,” Shaw replied [81 ) TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL in a low voice. “Answering your questions, the thing is a mystery to me. The guests at dinner were all friends, or social acquaintances. The servants—well, I know of nothing that would make me suspect any one of them.” “Anything more to tell me?” asked Durkin. “Nothing,” Shaw replied. “You’re staying here tonight?” The other man nodded. “One thing more, Mr. Shaw,” said Durkin. “You've been asked to identify the body.” “I have done so,” Shaw replied, almost inaudibly. “There's no question that it is the body of the late Edward S. Tilden?” “Absolutely none.” After he had gone, Durkin scratched his head irritably. “Has a good, tight-fitting story,” he muttered. “Trouble with these tight-fitting stories is they're sometimes true and sometimes just well thought out. Anyway, he was near the scene of the crime as the newspapers say. I'll keep an eye on him.” When Laura Tilden entered the room, Durkin rose and politely offered her a chair. “Mrs. Tilden,” he said sympathetically, “I know this has been a pretty hard time for you. I'd just like [82 ) THE NEXT OF KIN to ask a few questions, and I'll be as short and con- siderate as I possibly can.” Laura bowed slightly, but said nothing. “You were in your husband's room this evening, some time after the detective, Flynn, left you.” “Yes,” Laura replied, in a low voice. “Alone?” “No, there was someone else there.” “Please tell me who was there?” “Mrs. Baker was there, talking to my husband.” “Can you tell me what they were talking about?” “They were making some plans that are of no con- sequence now,” Laura replied, slowly twisting and untwisting her fingers. “Then what happened?” “Sophie, Mrs. Baker, left after a minute or so, and I followed her shortly.” “Anybody else in the room?” “Nobody.” “What kind of a conversation did you three people have?” - “Please explain; I don't know just what you mean?” “Was it friendly, or was there a quarrel?” “Friendly,” Laura replied, in a smothered voice. Miss Townsend was fascinated by the ceaseless twisting and untwisting of those fingers. “And then what did you do, Mrs. Tilden?” [83] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “I left my husband's room and returned to the living room.” “Through your own room?” “No, through the door that opens into the hall.” “That door we found later was locked on the in- side,” said Durkin. “I know it,” Laura replied. “Where did you see your son?” Durkin asked sud- denly. The interlacing fingers were suddenly locked to- gether. “What do you mean?” asked Laura, in a very weak voice. “Where did you see your son?” Durkin repeated steadily. Laura hesitated. “He was in my room; I saw him there before I went in to speak to my husband,” she said at last. “When did you see him again?” “He came into the living room.” “After you?” “Oh, yes, after me.” “Was it soon after, Mrs. Tilden?” “Yes, just a few minutes.” “Did you happen to notice Stein, the butler, com- ing out of the hallway that leads to the bedrooms?” Laura brightened. [84] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL If an outsider, he would have had to go through the living room, where there were half a dozen people, to get away. None of them saw any such person. He isn't here now, that is certain. Not a closet, nor a square foot under the beds or anywhere else that hasn't been searched. So much for the outsider. “Now, for the insiders: the butler admits he was near Tilden's room as late as 10:20. We know he's been mixed up with a pool room and is the most likely link with the hold-up men. Mrs. Baker was in Tilden's room, and I think that dame is holding something back. Shaw was near his step-father when the murder was committed. His mother has been either terribly upset by her husband's death, or she knows something she's afraid to tell. She acted kind of funny to me. There, Miss Townsend, is that about the picture?” “As a picture my criticism is that it is too vague and impressionistic,” she replied. “That's right,” Durkin agreed. “But in a murder case I don't expect to walk right in and point to the criminal and say, ‘Tag, you're it.’ There's got to be a lot of work done or we detectives would be out of a job.” “As an occupation,” Miss Townsend remarked, “yours would be very distasteful to me. I must admit, [86] THE NEXT OF KIN however, to a keen and perhaps undue interest in people, to their reasons for doing things, to the hid- den sides of their personalities which often they try to conceal even from themselves. Of course,” she added, “there must have been a motive for this crime.” “Sure,” exclaimed Durkin. “But motives don't al- ways take you anywhere. What will simply irritate one person may lead another person to murder. I read in the papers not long ago about a woman who shot and killed her husband because he criticized her driving. Then, while she was in jail before the trial, she hanged herself. Still, there are always the good old stock motives; hate, jealousy, fear and greed. So far as the last goes, I guess young Mr. Shaw has lots of money.” “His wife is enormously wealthy,” Miss Townsend replied. “And Mrs. Tilden, too, is pretty well fixed,” Dur- kin continued, “unless her husband tied up his estate in some way. I've got to look into that. Well, Miss Townsend, let's call it a day, or a night rather. I've got to do some investigating in other directions be- fore I can go on here. Only hope my boss, the In- spector, don't come back from his vacation tomorrow. If he does, he'll jump right into this case and I'll be [87] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL out of the picture.” The door opened suddenly and a policeman en- tered. “Say, Lieutenant,” he exclaimed, “what will I do with that guy, the butler? He's crying and raising hell, and says he's got to see you.” “Bring him in,” said Durkin wearily. When the butler arrived, his red and swollen eyes and agitated manner bore out the policeman's de- scription of his actions. “Mr. Officer,” he began, “I wasn't telling you all the truth awhile ago.” “That's no news,” Durkin replied coldly. “I took the champagne to Mr. Tilden's room earlier than I said,” the butler continued anxiously. “Then, when he shut the door in my face, I—well, I stayed around.” “Why?" The butler seemed to have some difficulty in find- ing an answer. “He’d been mean to me,” he burst forth at length, “and I thought—I thought with another woman in his room maybe there'd be a scandal.” He paused. “I see,” was Durkin's contemptuous comment, “you were snooping.” “I saw Mrs. Baker come out of his room,” the butler [88] THE NEXT OF KIN went on, in an ingratiating manner. “Where were you?” “In the room across the hall.” “The Bakers' room?” “Yes, sir. Then I saw Mrs. Tilden come out. After that I heard voices in Mr. Tilden's room.” “Voices! Good God, why didn't you say so before? Did you recognize them?” “No, sir.” “Wasn't one of the voices Mr. Tilden's” “Yes, sir, it must have been.” “And whose was the other voice?” “I couldn't say. I just heard the sounds.” Durkin shook his head in exasperation. “You're a German so you know what dummhopf means,” he bellowed. “For heaven's sake, go on.” “And then there was a noise like something fell on the floor. After that I heard steps of somebody walk- ing about. And that's all I know.” “That's a lot,” cried Durkin impatiently. “Now tell me; you saw Mrs. Baker and Mrs. Tilden go down the hall. What other person did you see?” “Nobody.” “What did you do after you heard the noises in Mr. Tilden's room?” “I thought maybe I'd be missed so I went back to my place in the dining room.” [89] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “An anti-climax,” exclaimed Durkin sarcastically. “Well, Mr. Stein, I don't know whether your first story or your second story is true. But this I do know, and that is that I can hold you as a material witness. And that is exactly what I'm going to do. You'll be locked up.” The butler, visibly crestfallen, was led away. “And now,” exclaimed Durkin, “I’ve a pleasant duty to perform, and that is to explain to the people who are here, the Shaws, and the Bakers, and Mrs. Tilden, and the servants, that I would like their finger-prints, and at the same time make it clear to them that finger-printing means nothing, that it's just a routine police precaution, and doesn't for one sec- ond point the finger of suspicion at anybody.” [90) TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “Matilda,” she said in a shaking voice, “don’t go away; don't leave me.” And as Miss Townsend hesitated, the other's man- ner became more intense. “I'm afraid,” she whispered, “I’m afraid of what will happen if I am alone.” “But, Laura,” Miss Townsend exclaimed, “if you think there is danger, if you fear somebody, here, come away from this place; come with me to my apartment.” “Oh, no,” the other replied feverishly, “you don't understand. I don't fear anyone else; I'm afraid of myself—I don't know what I may do if I try to get through this night alone.” And as Miss Townsend still hesitated the other woman tightened the grip on her arm. “Matilda,” she said, with deadly earnestness, “you are an old friend, a friend of years. I have never in my life asked a favor of you, but now I do ask it. My nerves are shot to pieces, I'm so unstrung that I have no control over myself. I'm not responsible, I tell you, I'm not responsible. I might do anything. So, stay with me, stay near me, and help me to get through the terrible hours ahead until morning.” “Why, of course, Laura, of course I'll stay,” Miss Townsend replied, patting the younger woman's shoulder. [92 ) THE SHADOW IN THE DARK It was arranged, then, that Miss Townsend should spend the night with Tilden's widow in that lady's own bedroom. And while Laura departed to arrange that a small bed should be put up near hers, Miss Townsend leaned against the parapet of the pent- house garden and tried to think of anything but the events of the past evening. Once she stepped into the vestibule and peered through the door of heavy glass protected by an iron grille that opened into the foyer. The shield on the cap of a policeman, and a pair of eyes underneath met her gaze. “To all intents and purposes we are prisoners,” she thought, as she made her way with the brisk, light step which was characteristic of her, no matter how weary she might be, to Laura Tilden's room. If she lived to be one hundred years old, Miss Townsend felt, she would never forget that night. She found Laura Tilden in pajamas pacing up and down her room like a caged panther. “Thank God,” she exclaimed, with a shuddering gesture toward the door that led to her husband's room, “they, the police, have taken him away. I should go mad if he were still there.” Miss Townsend was shocked at her appearance. She seemed, in a few hours, to have aged. Her hair, [93] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL cut short, covered her head in disheveled, gray curls. Her face was gray. Her eyes, always a light gray, seemed to have turned white, so that her face gave the uncanny effect of a woman's countenance, all gray, with white eyes. Only her lips, over-tinted, made a vermilion gash. Miss Townsend had never seen a ghost, but Laura Tilden as she paced to and fro, restlessly, ceaselessly, fulfilled her idea of what a ghost would look like. “But, Laura, my dear,” Miss Townsend cried in dismay, “you must control yourself. You mustn't go on like this.” Laura lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and tossed the lighted cigarette away. “I can't,” she said, with clenched teeth. To and fro, to and fro, like a caged panther, she went, from one end of the big, luxuriously furnished room to the other. Once, in an abrupt turn, she brushed a bottle from her dressing table and it fell to the floor with a crash. “God dammit,” she cried, “let it lie.” “But, Laura, my old friend,” Miss Townsend pleaded, “what can I do for you?” “Nothing,” replied the other. Miss Townsend regarded the figure stalking up and down, the clenched hands, the nervous, jerky, un- controllable gestures, with dismay. Could this be [94] THE SHADOW IN THE DARK Laura Tilden, the pale, quiet, self-contained, re- served woman, whom she had compared to a white orchid? “Tell me,” she said at last, timidly, “is it Edward's going?” “Not his going, but the manner of his going,” the other replied in a hard voice. “I know,” said Miss Townsend, sympathetically, “it is a dreadful loss.” Laura Tilden lit another cigarette, but never for one instant ceased her restless pacing up and down. “As for that,” she cried, “I had lost him anyway.” “What on earth do you mean?” “Oh, he was through with me. My husband,” Laura replied in a bitter tone, “was never constant to but one thing—his own comfort, his own wishes, his own desires. He was through with me.” “How do you know that?” asked Miss Townsend. “Know?” cried the other, wildly. “I’ve seen it com- ing for weeks, for months. And this very night, in that room there—” with a shuddering gesture toward the closed door that led to the dead man's bedroom “–he told me so. “He told me so,” she went on, “with brutal frank- ness. It was all arranged between him and that other woman.” “What other woman?” [95] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “The Baker woman, Sophie Baker. He was going to divorce me, and marry her, his fourth wife. Good God, why couldn't he have been a Mohammedan and have four wives, or forty, all at once?” “But Sophie Baker, what would she say to such an arrangement?” “She'd jump at the chance,” Laura replied, grind- ing her teeth. “With Edward's money, and social position, why shouldn't she?” “And her husband, how about him?” “That little sot,” cried Laura contemptuously. “What does he amount to? This very evening, right in the next room, I walked in on Edward and Sophie toasting each other in champagne and laying their plans. Oh, it was not very pleasant. And when Sophie left, it was not very agreeable when my husband told me, in that cold, cutting way he had, just what he thought of me.” To and fro, up and down, the wealthy, admired, and envied Mrs. Tilden paced. She had been a beauty in her day and Miss Townsend's keen eyes noted amidst the devastation and wreckage of those pale features an occasional glimpse, like a face seen dimly through glass, or under water, a trace of her former loveliness. “Laura,” said Miss Townsend steadily, “there is something preying on your mind, something more [96] THE SHADOW IN THE DARK than the frightful events of this night. If you won't tell me what it is, I cannot help you.” Laura stopped short in her restless pacing up and down. “Hell,” she cried, “I’ve told you everything. Let's go to bed.” The look she threw at Miss Townsend was more than a sidelong, satirical glance, it was a sardonic leer. And Miss Townsend knew that the other woman was lying. For a long time, an interminable time it seemed to her, Miss Townsend lay in bed wide awake. From the other bed there came at times a heavy sigh, sometimes a moan, and the restless thrash of wearied limbs. “How little,” Miss Townsend reflected, “we really know each other. I look at a person, see the features, the form, the clothes. But those are only the outside covering of the real being, the personality, the thing that is actually each one of us. Personality is never fully revealed. You can't see it; you can't touch it; in the last analysis the best you can do is to guess at it. “Imagine Laura Tilden,” her thoughts ran on, “re- fined, cultured, a woman who has always preserved a fastidious attitude toward life, tramping up and down, swearing like a fish-wife. Think of her, a woman whose most marked characteristics have been [97] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL her air of repose, her reserve, her air of always hold- ing herself well in hand, in such a state of uncon- trollable frenzy that it was nerve-wracking even to see her. Why?” Miss Townsend asked herself. A sigh, a restless toss of a tired body came from the other bed. There was more in this sudden and complete trans- formation, Miss Townsend told herself, than the shock of Tilden's death. Had Laura herself—? But no sooner did this idea begin to creep into Miss Town- send's mind than she shut the door upon it. In a few minutes, however, the same idea began in another form. Had Laura loved her husband? Hard to tell about these reserved, self-controlled women. Had love turned to jealousy, and jealousy to hate? Miss Town- send found herself repeating the ancient and some- what hackneyed line: “Hell has no fury like a woman scorn'd.” Again she shut out the disturbing, insidious idea, and began the old practice of counting sheep passing through a gate one at a time, in an effort to get to sleep. And she slept; she must have slept. For suddenly, without knowing whether minutes or hours had elapsed, she was wide awake. She had a confused feel- ing of having come up suddenly from a deep pool of [98] THE SHADOW IN THE DARK sleep, and a fugitive, half-conscious sensation of being smothered, as if a clammy hand had been placed over her mouth. But as soon as she was awake, and that was instantly, she knew that the clammy hand was only a figment of the imagination. There were no sighs nor restless sounds from the other bed, and Miss Townsend listened intently for the quiet breathing of a sleeping person. Then, as if a hand had gripped her, she was seized with the feel- ing that someone was entering the room. “Nonsense,” she told herself, “it’s indigestion. I ate too much of that rich dinner.” The moonlight fell in silver squares through the open windows into the dark and shadowy room. One of these squares, the farthest, lay partly on the floor, partly on the door that led to Tilden's bedroom. Was it a trick of the imagination, or did that door move slowly, ever so slowly? She fastened her gaze on it. “Of course,” she reassured herself, “I’m just over- wrought, and acting like a silly old woman. There's nothing there.” At once the very thought that there might be some- thing there, SOMETHING, coming from that place where Edward Tilden had been murdered, brought on a panic. And the door actually was opening, with a deliberate, stealthy motion. Clammy sweat broke out on her forehead; there were prickles along her [99] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL spine; the blood thudded in her ears like the sound of drums. Inch by inch the door swung noiselessly wider. In the moonlight a white hand appeared, groping; then a dark something above it. Finally, a tall, shadowy figure glided silently into the room. Was it fear that made Miss Townsend shut her eyes as tightly as they could be shut, and be as still as if she were devoid of consciousness? Or was it something else—loyalty to an old friend which made her set her teeth in the determination not to see what she did not want to see? When, after a while she opened her eyes and made sure there was nothing in the room but the shadows and the pale moonlight, she whispered to herself: “Now I know Laura's secret.” Whereupon she fell into a doze. [1ool & CHAPTER IX § THE MORNING AFTER . % Miss Townsend, after an early and simple breakfast of orange juice, toast and coffee stepped through one of the French windows of the penthouse to the porch into a blaze of spring sunshine, she found Durkin stretched at full length in a com- fortable chair with a pile of newspapers on his lap. “Good morning,” was his greeting. “I had two hours' sleep and feel as fresh as a daisy. And how are you?” “I am not as fresh as a daisy,” Miss Townsend re- plied, sinking into a seat, “nor as any other fresh thing.” “That's too bad,” said Durkin sympathetically. “These murders are troublesome in many ways. Take the publicity. My God, everyone who was at the dinner last night is in the limelight. You're all in this [1ol ) TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “Who’s Who.’” Miss Townsend groaned. “It has some funny sides to it,” he continued. “Now, look at this picture of Mr. and Mrs. Biddle"—picking up a tabloid—“the reporters in a taxi chased them to the door of their home, and before they could get away the newspapermen caught them.” There was something ludicrous in the picture he held up of poor old Mr. Biddle in the very act of ex- postulating, protesting, trying to protect his out- raged dignity, while Mrs. Biddle, grimly resentful, shielded her face ineffectively with a lorgnette. “And the very second one of the maids went out to get the milk from the service elevator this morning, in popped a crowd of reporters and photographers. How they came up nobody knows—maybe they walked, twenty-three flights. Well, they've got pictures of the penthouse and the garden, and interviews with the maids. It's a famous case, already, Miss Town- send.” “You talk as if you were proud of it.” “In a way I am,” he answered simply. “It’s a chance for me.” There was a rustle of newspapers as Durkin turned the leaves rapidly. Miss Townsend tried to concentrate on the scene in front of her: the lawn of the pent- house garden like an emerald carpet, troops of yellow [102 | THE MORNING AFTER and pink and violet tulips nodding in the flower beds, and beyond the Park, a gorgeous mass of the varying shades of green of newly leaved trees. A gentle breeze fanned her cheek, and overhead was a cloudless sky, immeasurably lofty, dazzlingly blue. Oh, why, she thought, should Nature be so marvelously lovely, and man, the only animal that has the capacity to appreci- ate it, at times so incredibly beastly? A snort from Durkin roused her. “Sometimes you find truth even in a newspaper,” he exclaimed. “Now here's where some nosey reporter has found out, or thinks he has, that Tilden was plan- ning a divorce.” Miss Townsend was silent. “I must look into that,” said Durkin, “also the money situation, by which I mean, what sort of will did he leave.” “Mr. Durkin,” she cried suddenly and impetuously, “I am in a false position here. You asked me, last night, to help you. Why, I don't know, for I'm no detective. But, and I will be frank, I can't help you nor try to help you any longer. This tragedy has in- volved one of my friends, and nothing in my life comes before loyalty to a friend.” Durkin whistled softly. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head energeti- cally, “but I mean it.” [103] THE MORNING AFTER hate to think that any of the people who were here last night might be guilty. If the murderer was some- one whom we haven't seen and can't account for, how in the world did he get away? The door to Tilden's room was locked on the inside, and the only other exit, except the window, was through Mrs. Tilden's room, and from there into the other bedrooms. We found nobody in any of the rooms last night, and believe me we searched for him. If this outside person had tried to get out of the penthouse, he must have gone into the living room where there were people all the while from the time the murder was committed until the police came. Some of those persons would be certain to see him. And nobody got out of this place last night after I left, for I had men on guard all night at the front and the rear. Did he go by the window? Couldn't be done. It's a straight drop of a hundred feet to the next roof. Who'd have a hundred-foot rope along when he killed Tilden, and where's the rope? “The surgeon,” he continued, “puts the time of death at from 10:10 to 10:30. Four people admit they were in, or near that room pretty close to that time. They are: the butler, Stein; Mrs. Baker; Mrs. Tilden; and Shaw. The butler made threats against the mur- dered man, I've got a witness to that. Against the others I have nothing definite. But in my business, it isn't a case of being innocent until you're proved [107 ) TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL guilty; it's a case of being suspected until you're proved innocent. “As to finger-prints,” he concluded, “we don't get very far. There are plenty of Tilden's about and some of the chambermaids'. But on the knob and the key of the door that was locked, there is nothing. Some- body must have worn gloves. We got Tilden's prints and the butler's on one champagne glass; the other was smashed.” “But, Mr. Durkin,” said Miss Townsend, “glasses of champagne are not passed from hand to hand; there must have been a tray.” “There was,” Durkin replied briefly. “The butler held it at one end; Tilden at the other, that's all.” “And the broken champagne glass,” Miss Townsend asked, “had it been knocked over?” “Well, that's a funny thing,” he replied. “It was on the rug, smashed to smithereens, just as if someone had stepped on it.” Miss Townsend gave a start. “Stepped on it?” she repeated. “Looked like it. See anything in that?” “No,” she replied slowly. “Well, I do. Somebody who held that glass might have destroyed it, for good reasons. But who held that glass? Mrs. Baker, she says so herself. But then Mrs. Tilden admits she was in the room after the other [108) THE MORNING AFTER lady left. Did Mrs. Tilden touch that glass? What would she be doing, holding an empty glass? No, those little ideas don't get us very far. And that's the trouble, Miss Townsend, with the whole damned case. Out- side of the butler, I don't see any really likely suspect. I do wish to thunder I could find the weapon that killed Tilden.” Sophie Baker stepped suddenly out of doors, a slender, graceful figure in a knitted sport suit. Her features were as regular and lovely as ever, but her eyes were cold and hard. “I’ve been looking for you,” she said to Durkin. “If my suspicions are correct, something you have been hunting for is hidden within ten feet of you.” [109] § CHAPTER X & SOPHIE'S ACCUSATION ophie BAKER's voice was not musical, as low- voiced women's frequently are, for it had a peculiar timbre that reminded Miss Townsend of a 'cello slightly out of tune. It was distinctive though. Once you had heard Sophie speak you would remember her voice. She seated herself in a way that displayed her fault- less figure to advantage and fixed on Durkin a hard, bright look. “Remember what I told you last night,” she began crisply, “that when I had anything to say that would help the police I'd tell it; and that if I should find it in my power to bring the criminal to justice, I'd act?” “I remember,” Durkin replied, with his eyes on her face. And just then Laura Tilden and Linda Shaw [11o J TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL who sat next to me at dinner, on my left, got up and left the place.” “How did you know that?” Durkin asked. - “I heard him. I felt him, too, for he brushed against me.” “Who was it?” Durkin asked again. “Merritt Shaw.” “What are you driving at, Sophie?” Linda inter- rupted. “Merritt's just the kind of man who won't take a licking lying down. Why, he started out of his seat when those hoodlums first came in; they had to threaten him to make him sit down.” Sophie ignored the speaker while she deliberately lit a cigarette. “The point I am making is this, Mr. Durkin,” she said. “Mr. Shaw left his place at the table, slipped away somewhere, and after a time, an appreciable length of time, a flashlight held by someone in the next room played slowly along the line of people on my side of the table, until it came to Mr. Tilden. The light rested full on his face for a few seconds. Two shots followed.” “Yes,” said Durkin, “I know that. And the point you are making is—” “I am wondering,” Sophie replied slowly, “if there wasn't some connection between the handling of that flashlight, the shots, and the man who left his place at [112 ) SOPHIE'S ACCUSATION the table and disappeared God knows where.” Laura Tilden was on her feet. “That's a wicked, preposterous insinuation,” she began, when the stronger voice of Linda broke in. “Look here, young woman,” she roared, in tones reminiscent of her lunch-counter days, “you just put a clamp on your tongue. It's bad enough to be robbed of my jewels without having a puss like you come along and try to spoil my husband's good name. You shut up, or I'll sue you for libel, or defamation of character, or whatever it is, and sue you within an inch of your life, too.” Sophie puffed unconcernedly at her cigarette. “I’m not through yet,” she remarked. “Officer, do you have to listen to her?" Lindå de- manded. “Yes, ma'am, I have to listen to everybody,” Durkin replied. “I'm here to get at the truth, no matter how it comes.” “But, Mr. Durkin,” Laura exclaimed, in a trem- bling voice, “Mrs. Baker's accusation is utterly un- founded, totally preposterous. My son, Merritt, had no reason or desire even to wish my husband any harm. “That's another thing I wish to bring out,” Sophie retorted malevolently. “Only last night, Ed, Mr. Til- den, said to me: “There's one person who's getting -- [113] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL ready to raise a hell of a row, and that's Merritt. He's been looking daggers at me all the evening.’” “Pack of lies, don't believe a word of it,” Linda snorted. “Ladies,” cried Durkin in rather a distracted man- ner, “if this is going to turn into a cat fight, er, ex- cuse me, personalities and all that sort of thing— we'll never get anywhere. Now,” turning swiftly toward Sophie Baker, he asked: “Just what did Mr. Tilden mean by his remark?” Sophie, sitting cross-legged, swung one shapely, silk-stockinged limb to and fro. “It's a matter that was known to some, and would have been common property if—if things had been different,” she replied. “Neither Mr. Tilden nor I were happy in our matrimonial ventures. We had at last decided to make a new start.” “You mean,” asked Durkin, “you were planning to get divorces?” “Yes, each of us.” “Did you talk about it last night?” “We set the date for Reno last night,” Sophie re- plied in a bitter tone. “In his room, when you drank the champagne?” asked Durkin. “In his room, last night, we toasted each other,” she replied. [114] SOPHIE'S ACCUSATION “Did Mrs. Tilden know about this?" said Durkin. “Yes, I knew,” Laura replied quietly. “And your son?” “He guessed the state of affairs,” she faltered. “He knew all there was to be known,” Sophie de- clared. “There was a row about it between Merritt and his step-father before dinner last night.” “But why should Mr. Shaw feel so strongly about the matter?” Durkin inquired. “After all, this wasn't strictly his business. Mr. Tilden wasn't planning to take his wife.” Linda's snort at this idea would have done credit to an elephant. “It would be less embarrassing if I could talk to you alone,” Sophie replied deliberately. “Unless I am pushed out by the police I'm going to stay right here,” Linda exclaimed. “I might be able to set Mr. Durkin straight if your testimony gets too untrustworthy.” Sophie shrugged her shoulders. “Merritt Shaw objected to the divorce for three reasons,” she said. “In the first place, he is devoted to his mother to an extraordinary degree. In that respect he might be called a model son. Second, was the question of money. Mr. Tilden was a very wealthy man, but Laura, there, had nothing when he mar- ried her, and would have nothing if he divorced her.” [115] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL As Miss Townsend watched the handsome woman, there flashed into her mind the recollection of a cat she had once seen playing with a half-dead mouse, tapping it with her paws, her eyes glittering with the hope that the terrified creature might make one more abortive attempt to escape and thus give its captor a little further amusement before she killed it. Some- thing feline, something cruel about Sophie Baker. “And finally,” she concluded, “Merritt Shaw's furi- ous temper is notorious.” “You exaggerate,” Laura protested. “Well,” Sophie went on, implacably, “he was locked up while he was in college for assaulting a New Haven policeman. And less than a month ago he was bailed out in a police court by his wife after a fracas with a cabman.” “Just a little mix-up,” Linda declared. “The cabbie was fresh and my husband punched him. Then, in- stead of taking it like a man the cabbie ran whining to a policeman.” “You have said a lot that is interesting, Mrs. Baker,” Durkin interrupted, “but I don't see any close con- nection between what you have told us and the sug- gestion you dropped that Mr. Shaw might have used the flashlight and fired the shots at Mr. Tilden.” “If I had nothing more to go by than I’ve told you, I'd think my idea was absurd,” she replied. “But, I'm [116] SOPHIE'S ACCUSATION not through yet.” “All right, go on,” said Durkin. “Have you,” she asked, “in your search of this place discovered a flashlight or a pistol?” “We have found no flashlight. We did, however, turn up one pistol.” “Where?” “In a drawer of Tilden's desk in the library. But it was fully loaded; had not been discharged recently; and there were no finger-prints on it except those of Tilden himself.” “How do you suppose those hold-up men could have brought in and carried away with them a flash- light like the one that was used last night?” Sophie asked. “It was big, the sort of thing people use away off in country places where there are no electric lights. The beam, when it shone in my eyes, nearly blinded me. How could a thing like that be carried through the halls and into the elevator of this building with- out attracting attention?” “That's a good point,” Durkin returned. “It might have been carried in an overcoat pocket. I under- stand some of these fellows wore light overcoats over their evening dress.” “All three of them,” cried Miss Townsend, “and gloves. I saw them, especially the gloves of the man who poked his hands under my nose and made me [117 ) TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL give him my mother's bracelet.” “Of course,” said Durkin, “the flashlight might have been hidden in the apartment, but if it is here, it's well hidden, for we've given this place a pretty thorough combing.” Sophie deliberately lit another cigarette. “All this talk that's been going on,” she said, “is just leading up to the really important matter that I'm going to tell you.” Miss Townsend saw her throw a sidelong glance at Laura, a cat-and-mouse glance. And then, as she pre- pared with taut nerves to listen to Sophie's disclosure, Bobby Baker sauntered out from the penthouse. “It's like that game people play, called ‘murder,’ ” he observed. “Except,” Durkin replied with a frown, “that this game isn't in fun, it's in dead earnest.” “Do be quiet, Bobby,” said his wife impatiently, “and see if you can, for a little while, keep from mak- ing a fool of yourself.” Bobby Baker, as Miss Townsend looked at him, was a young-old man of slight, almost effeminate fig- ure. His face was colorless, his bald head fringed with sandy hair over his ears and above his neck, and he was noticeably knock-kneed. His only distinctive fea- tures were a delicate sandy mustache waxed into pointed tips, and little, beady eyes. He was, she [118] SOPHIE'S ACCUSATION thought, the sort of man who, in her young days, would have been called “sissy” and she wondered how a woman like Sophie Baker had ever married him. “Last night,” Sophie began, “my husband and I occupied one of the bedrooms in this apartment. We had the one directly across from Mr. Tilden's bed- room.” “Yes,” said Durkin impatiently. “I am not a sound sleeper,” she continued, “at any time; but last night, after the emotional stress I had been through, it seemed as if I never could go to sleep. I may have dozed, but, for hours I was wide awake. And finally I became obsessed with the idea that something was moving in the hall outside my door. It was just a feeling, an idea, for I could hear nothing through the sound-proof walls and heavy door. I am not an imaginative woman, and I did not attempt to explain to myself what, or who might be stealing along outside. But I am not a timid woman either. Partly to prove to myself that my nerves were playing tricks on me I got out of bed, tiptoed across the floor and very gently and very slowly opened my door just a crack.” “Well?” exclaimed Durkin. “There was something there, almost invisible in the darkness, but so near I could have touched it; so near I could hear the almost imperceptible sound of its [119] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL stealthy movements.” Miss Townsend felt her hands gripping each other as she grew more and more tense. “I am not, as I have said, a timid woman,” Sophie continued, “but I admit the sight of that figure seemed to freeze my blood. But, as I watched, it passed slowly down the hall in the direction of the living room. And when I finally mustered the courage to peep out, the hall seemed to be empty. And then, after some in- ward tremors, I made up my mind to follow this mys- terious person, or phantom, if it was one.” “Alone?” asked Durkin. “Yes, all alone.” “Why didn't you wake your husband?” “He was sound asleep and snoring heavily,” she answered. “Besides, what good would he have been?” Durkin regarded Bobby's narrow shoulders and slender white hands with a grim expression, and said nothing. “So, just as I was, in black pajamas and bare feet,” Sophie continued, “I crept down the hall. When I reached the big living room, I could see, silhouetted in one of the tall French windows, the same dark figure. Then, the window opened and it disappeared outside.” “And what did you do?” asked Durkin. “I'd gone so far, my curiosity, or my foolhardiness [12o ) SOPHIE'S ACCUSATION would not let me turn back. I crossed the room, reached the window, and peeped out. There was bright moonlight outside, and on the lawn, beyond the shade of this awning that covers the porch, I saw the figure stoop over one of the beds of tulips. What it was doing I could not tell. But I marked the spot, the bed to the left of the pool, and at the end nearest the pool. And suddenly, as I was peering out through the window, the figure straightened up, turned, looked, or seemed to be looking straight at me, while the moonlight shone full on its face. I could see every feature and the glitter of the eyes.” “Yes, yes,” muttered Durkin impatiently. “It was like a nightmare, then. I wanted to run, to flee, to scream for help at the top of my voice, and I could not move, was powerless to utter a sound. The figure came straight across the moonlit lawn toward me. By some means I pulled the heavy window cur- tain about me. I felt that figure pass close to me, heard its breathing. For a long time I remained wrapped up in the curtain, expecting anything. When, at last, I dared to peep out the room was empty. I stole back, my heart cutting up so outrageously that I thought I was going to faint, got into my room, locked the door, and in my bed had one nervous chill after an- other till daylight.” “You say the moonlight shone full on the face of [121 ) TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL this person who was on the lawn?” asked Durkin. “Yes.” “Could you see the face plainly, and did you rec- ognize it?” “Yes.” “Who was it?” “Merritt Shaw.” [122 ) § CHAPTER XI & THE LETHAL WEAPON RYBody seemed to be on their feet and talking at once. Above the gabble of voices rose Linda's. “Just a pack of lies,” she shouted. “Merritt was asleep in our room, for I heard him. No matter how refined he is, he snores.” Sophie alone preserved a contemptuous silence. “Sophie Baker,” cried Laura, “when you say you saw my son out here on the terrace last night, you say what isn't so. You were mistaken. Merritt was not there.” “I saw him,” Sophie replied doggedly. “You did not,” Laura persisted. “He was not there. I know. I can prove it.” “How can you prove it?” asked Sophie in a sharp tone. “Mr. Durkin,” Miss Townsend interrupted, “how [123 ] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL far should you say it is from one of these windows to the flower bed?” Durkin measured the distance with his eye. “Not less than twenty-five feet from the nearest one,” he replied. “Mrs. Baker,” said Miss Townsend, “you are near- sighted, I think.” “Slightly so, but not blind as a bat.” “I am sure I have heard you complain that you often passed your friends on the street because of your near-sightedness,” Miss Townsend insisted. “I saw him,” Sophie repeated with an angry glitter in her eyes. “At a distance as great as the width of an average street, and in the uncertain light of the moon, when you often pass acquaintances in broad daylight with- out recognizing them?” Miss Townsend's question was uttered in her blandest tone. But here Durkin interrupted. “Suppose we leave that for a minute, and go on to something else. You say,” he asked, addressing Sophie, “that you saw this person stooping over one of the beds of tulips—the one to the left of the pool?” “Yes,” she replied. Durkin stepped hastily over to the flower bed and examined it. “Can I have a trowel, or a garden fork, or some- [124] THE LETHAL WEAPON thing?” he asked. At Laura's order, Prudence Pack, the sour-faced maid presently appeared with pruning shears and a trowel. Durkin chose the latter, and dug cautiously in the flower bed. Suddenly he gave a grunt and straightened up, holding in front of him a long- handled, pointed instrument covered with earth. “Some kind of a dagger,” he announced. “There,” exclaimed Linda Shaw triumphantly, to Sophie, “you expected to see a flashlight or a pistol dug up, didn't you?” “Anyone ever see this thing before?” Durkin snapped, gingerly wrapping his handkerchief about the handle. Prudence Pack, who had remained in the back- ground, stepped forward. “It's a kind of dagger, a stiletto 'e called it, belonged to Mr. Tilden,” she declared. Durkin examined the blade, which was unusual in that it was round instead of flat like most daggers, tapering to a sharp point. “I’ll have this examined at once, for finger-prints and blood stains,” he said. “It might turn out to be the thing we've been looking for—the weapon that killed Tilden. Where did you see it last?” he asked Prudence sharply. “It was kept in the library with other knives and [125) TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL swords Mr. Tilden 'ad collected,” she replied. “In the library! Didn't Merritt go into the library to telephone the police after the hold-up?" asked Sophie, spitefully. No one answered. “Where is Mr. Shaw?” asked Durkin suddenly. Nobody seemed to know. “He was eating breakfast when I left the dining room,” said Bobby vaguely. With an uneasy expression on his face Durkin hurried into the penthouse. A few minutes later Miss Townsend, who had sharp ears, overheard a con- versation between the detective and the policeman on guard at the front door which was brief, but to the point. “You say he went out half an hour ago?” Durkin roared. “Yes, Lieutenant.” “And you let him go by? You didn't stop him?” “I had no orders to stop him.” “Yes, you did. Noobdy was to leave this place until I had been notified.” “I didn't understand that.” “You've got the kind of mind that don't under- stand anything. And you didn't telephone down to the men in the lobby to trail him?” “No, sir.” [126] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL enough, but this morning to have my husband walk right out of the picture just about killed me.” “We've had a series of experiences that might kill anyone,” Miss Townsend replied, sinking into a chair. Linda Lee tossed restlessly and heavily upon the bed. “Y”know,” she exclaimed, “I don't know just what to think.” “Think about what?” “About Merritt. Up to this morning I'd have sworn my head off he had no more to do with killing his step-father than I had. But this walking out on us looks bad, very bad.” “Not necessarily,” said Miss Townsend briskly. “What do we know about his intentions? He may have gone out for any one of a hundred different reasons, business, personal, who knows what? After all, he was not ordered to remain inside the penthouse, nor to explain his absence if he chose to step out. He may come back at any minute.” “Yes,” was Linda's comment, in a doubtful tone. “Maybe so. I do wish he'd come back quick; it would help me to believe in him.” “A wife should always believe in her husband,” ex- claimed Miss Townsend, repeating half unconsciously a platitude of her girlhood. [128 ) THE LETHAL WEAPON “H'm," said Linda sceptically, “what do you know about husbands? Ever have any?” *. > Miss Townsend shook her head. “Merritt is my third,” Linda declared, “and experi- ence is a great teacher, especially in matrimony. It takes time, I've discovered, to find out just what sort of prize package you've pulled after you get a new husband. Now Merritt and I have been married only six months, and I feel that in some ways I don't alto- gether understand him. But I was beginning to under- stand him and I was beginning to like him, yes, I was beginning to like him fine. “You see,” she continued, “I’ve gone into matri- mony for a career, just as some women go into busi- ness, or art, or the opera, for their careers, y'under- stand. I never took any stock in that mush I was handed out when I was a girl, about ‘marriages are made in heaven,' and ‘love at first sight.' Even when I was slinging hash in Dunkenfeld's beanery, I'd tell myself: ‘Linda, you've got looks and personality and ambition. Set 'em to work, girl, set 'em to work. Don't fall for the first boob that comes along. Hitch your wagon to a star, and all that sort of thing.' Well, after a while Ed Seybold came along, traveling man, good looker, smart, so I took him. But in no time at all I was dissatisfied. He was all for settling down in slip- pers for the evening, and what he wanted was a home, [129] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL kiddies, and a wee wifie. Well, I stand five foot ten in my stockings, and even in those ways I was no thistledown when it came to weight. I couldn't be his wee wifie, and I wasn't Ed's ideal, and believe me, he wasn't mine. I could just see him getting fat, and lazy, and jogging along in the same tracks until old age overtook him. So we got a divorce. “My next venture, Willie McNutt, was a grand success. He was much older than me, but an awful nice sort of fellow, genuine, y'know. And was he crazy about me? He was worth millions, made it all himself too out of a special kind of false teeth. He used to say, ‘Lindy, I've got only one thing against you, and that is that you'll be seventy before you need a set of Bitewells.' That's what made his pile, McNutt's Bitewell False Teeth.” Linda yawned and showed two magnificent rows of white teeth. “Well, he died, and left me a widow, with more money than I knew what to do with. The next thing I wanted was style, and, after I'd seen a little of Mer- ritt Shaw, I said: ‘Lindy, he's got style and no money; you've got money and no style. Why wouldn't a mar- riage with him be on the up and up?' So, I worked that problem out.” Linda tossed until the bed creaked. “One thing that worries me,” she complained, “is [130 ) THE LETHAL WEAPON the fact that I don't feel I know Merritt so very well. He has his reserves. That's what makes me feel so wobbly and uneasy about him.” “After all,” said Miss Townsend, “nothing really definite has been proved against him.” “That is so,” returned Linda, brightening. “But there are some bad spots in his picture. That old so- and-so, I'll call her that out of respect for you, Sophie Baker, was right about the feeling between Tilden and my husband. They had a hell of a row be- fore dinner. I thought Merritt would throw a fit while he was dressing. And then, too, he was the last to come down the hall before the murder was discovered. But,” she sighed, “I’ll go on believing in him. That's got to be my programme. “As for that yarn of Sophie Baker's that Merritt buried that dagger in the flower bed, I just won't be- lieve it. I wouldn't believe anything that woman said on a stack of bibles high as the Empire State build- ing.” Suddenly she raised herself on one elbow. “Miss Townsend,” she exclaimed, “I’ve got an idea. What do we know about that Sophie Baker's story except what she's told us? Suppose, instead of their arranging to get divorces and remarry, when she was in Tilden's room, he threw her over. He was just the kind to blow hot one minute and cold the next. Well, [131 ) TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL that woman is hard-boiled, she's so hard-boiled she'd make a Sunday School picnic egg alongside her seem like a marshmallow. If he threw her over or turned her down at the last minute, she's just the kind would stick at nothing to get even. What do you think of that idea, for a hunch, or woman's intuition?” “I don't see,” Miss Townsend replied, doubtfully, “why, if she had anything to do with the crime, she would call the attention of the police to that stiletto buried in the flower bed.” “That's a plant,” declared Linda. “Done to fool the police, or throw suspicion on the wrong person. Oh, I wouldn't put anything past that cat. And when I say cat I'm thinking of the female of another species. No,” said Linda solemnly, “I don't know that I have any more than my woman's intuition to guide me, but if it turns out in the end that that hard-boiled, egotistical, cold-blooded Sophie Baker is the one who killed Ed Tilden, why, Linda Shaw won't be the least surprised." A “It's a very difficult and complicated situation,” said Miss Townsend irritably. “Until some of the blind clues are cleared up, you may suspect this one, I may suspect somebody else, and other people may sus- pect us." “Yes, it's a mix-up all right,” Linda agreed. “The more I think of it the more bewildered I get. One [132 ) THE LETHAL WEAPON thing especially weighs on my mind, but maybe I'd better not mention it as it might be a family secret.” “Don’t tell me, then,” cried Miss Townsend. “I know too many things, already.” That seemed to decide Linda to act in direct con- tradiction to the advice she had been given. “Have you known the Tildens long?” she asked. “Mrs. Tilden is an old friend of mine.” “And Merritt?” “He was away so much at school and at college that I don't feel that I know him well.” “Same trouble here,” Linda responded. “I don't feel I know him well enough. Did you ever,” she asked cautiously, “hear of anything queer in his fam- ily?" “Queer! What do you mean?” Linda paused. “Like insanity,” she said at last. “Good gracious, no,” Miss Townsend protested stoutly. T “Well,” said Linda, “once, after we were married a few weeks, I was talking to him, when all of a sud- den he did the queerest thing. He stopped talking, and his eyes took on a fixed, glassy stare. It lasted only a minute, but believe me he gave me a scare. He didn't seem to know about it himself, when he came to, or he pretended he didn't. Told me he sometimes got [133] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL absorbed in an idea so that he was unconscious of his surroundings. I didn't dispute him, but when I was a girl I had an uncle who was subject to fits, epileptic fits, and the way Merritt looked and acted reminded me very strongly of that uncle. He had another one of those fits of absorption, as he calls them, a couple of weeks ago. Now, Miss Townsend, honest, did you ever hear of Merritt having fits?” Miss Townsend hesitated. “As you're his wife,” she said at length, “you ought to know the truth. As a matter of fact it was the duty of someone to have told you before you married. Yes, I have known for years that Merritt is subject to a mild form of epilepsy. It is very mild, the attacks are in- frequent and last only a short time, often a minute. The technical name for his form of epilepsy is petit mal, and, as I have said, it has never developed into a more serious form.” “But it will,” cried Linda lugubriously. “They al- ways grow worse, and finally get loony.” “Not necessarily,” Miss Townsend retorted. “Some very famous men suffered from that disease. I believe it is well authenticated that among others Julius Caesar, Mohammed, and Napoleon Bonaparte were epileptics.” “Well,” said Linda, “I’m fond of Merritt, and ad- mire him, but he'll never step into the ranks with the [134] T--~ º is | º.. - - > f - - ~ § CHAPTER XII A / & - - *. ~. * - FOOTPRINTs vs. FINGER PRINTs * - • * * / D A / . URKIN, stepping out on the portico which ran along the front of the penthouse was astounded to see Miss Townsend, bent double, slowly emerge from the dense shrubbery that enclosed the garden at one end. “What in time!” he exclaimed. “Hey, Miss Town- send, what are you up to? Are you looking for clues?" Miss Townsend straightened up. “I may be hunting for them,” she said briskly, “or I may be snooping, just snooping. You know that old maids like me love to snoop.” “Wish one of your snoops would start something," cried Durkin, throwing himself into a chair. “So far this damned case is full of dead ends. Take that dag- ger, or stiletto, did that help? Believe me, the guy that handled that little tool knew how to take his finger-prints off. There wasn't a thing on it to go on, [136] FOOTPRINTS VS. FINGER-PRINTS not a thing.” “Was it,” asked Miss Townsend with some hesita- tion, “the weapon the murderer used?” “Yes, it was that all right. The blade fits the wound and the blood on it seems to be Tilden's. Well, I'm here to have a little talk with young Shaw when I get my hands on him.” “And when will that be?” - “Oh, any time, any time,” Durkin replied expan- sively. “We soon picked up his trail. He's interview- ing his lawyer. Well, I guess he's going to need a law- yer, and a good one too.” Miss Townsend seated herself in a capacious Queen Anne chair, where her small, erect body looked like a child's, and stared at the detective with the air of one who would like to ask questions, but refrained. “Found a few more little things,” said Durkin, re- plying to her unspoken inquiry. He lit a cigar. “I told you last night,” he began, “that we found nothing in Tilden's bedroom that was at all out of the way except one of the two champagne glasses that the butler says he carried to the room. That was on the floor, smashed to smithereens. It was broken, not as if it had been dropped, but as if something heavy had landed on it, as if, perhaps, someone had stepped on it.” “That in itself was unusual,” was Miss Townsend's [137 ) TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL COmment. Durkin blew a perfect ring of cigar smoke and watched it slowly dissolve. “Maybe yes, and maybe no,” he replied. “Might have been stepped on accidentally; might have been smashed with a purpose—to hide somebody's finger- prints. Well, anyway we found something else. On one of the rugs,” he said impressively, “were some small spots. They might have been stains of anything —coffee, medicine, wine. But we took that rug to the laboratory, and what do you think they were?” “What?” “Blood. And maybe Tilden's blood at that. Those fellows at the laboratory can't tell everything, but they find out a lot. The stains are fresh—not more than a day old. Well, if they're Tilden's, there's a queer piece of business. Does it mean that Tilden was killed in his room, and the body dragged into the bathroom? Certainly not. For there were only four of those little drops, and where Tilden's body lay he'd certainly bled a-plenty.” “Please don't,” Miss Townsend protested in a faint voice. “I’m sorry,” he replied. “I’ll keep the ugly details of a detective's profession away from you as well as I can. But, how in time did those blood spots get on the rug? One explanation is that they were dropped [138] FOOTPRINTS VS. FINGER-PRINTS on the rug after Tilden was killed; and that would mean the murderer went back into the bedroom after the crime was committed. Well, in itself the clue don't amount to much yet one way or another.” Durkin smoked and watched the blue cigar smoke rise and float away. Miss Townsend gazed at the sway- ing tulips on their tall stems, and thought about the mysterious burial among them of the stiletto, and its dramatic discovery. “Found something else,” Durkin announced abruptly, “and it's a better bet. Under one of the radiators right by a window I found the end of one of those studs a man wears in his dress shirt—a sort of pearl button. It's not one of Tilden's, either; at least it doesn't match any he had. And we've gone through that poor fellow's belongings with a microscope.” “You found it by a window?” asked Miss Townsend. “Right beside it, under a radiator. When I find the mates to that I'll want some explanations from the man who owns them.” “Too bad,” said Miss Townsend drily, “that so many of the men who were here last night—and all of them wore evening clothes—have scattered. Even the Bakers have gone away.” “But not far,” Durkin replied. “She, Mrs. Baker, told me she could not stay here after the scene this morning. So the Bakers agreed to move over to the [139] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL Westminster, only a block away, and stay there in case I wanted them. They're being watched. “Miss Townsend,” Durkin exclaimed suddenly, “I’m wondering if you haven't some ideas in that clever brain of yours that you ought to share with me.” “I have ideas,” she replied, “but they are like your clues, they all lead to dead ends, or rather there are gaps in them that I can't fill up. But I am going to advise you, although it seems silly for an old woman like me to poke advice at an expert like you.” “Go ahead,” said Durkin. “Well, the finger-prints, as I understand it, have not taken you very far.” “The absence of telltale finger-prints,” exclaimed Durkin, “is one of the queerest features of this case. We've photographed and enlarged everything about Tilden's room and his bathroom: doors, bathroom fix- tures, furniture—everything we could think of, and what do we get? Tilden's prints here, Tilden's prints there. Occasionally there's a print of that sour-faced maid, but it was her duty to clean and dust in those rooms. And at the time of the murder she has a cast iron alibi, unless half a dozen other people are lying.” “As your finger-prints are not helping you, have you thought of footprints?” Miss Townsend asked. Durkin stared. “What do you mean?” he said. [140 ) FOOTPRINTS VS. FINGER-PRINTS “I’ll show you some in a minute,” she replied. “But first, did you examine the floor of Mr. Tilden's bath- room very carefully, and photograph it?” “Every square foot of it.” “There is a large closet opposite the bathroom and across the passage-way that leads from his room to his wife's. Have you looked into that place, and photo- graphed it with bright lights and scrutinized enlarge- ments of the photographs, and made use of the facili- ties that modern police have at their disposal?” Durkin scratched his chin. “We searched that closet, of course,” he replied. “Took out Tilden's clothes and went over them suit by suit, and believe me he had plenty. But we took no photographs.” “Some servant in this household,” said Miss Town- send severely, “has been skimping her work. The floor is dusty, disgracefully so. I advise you to photo- graph that floor and study the results.” “Yes,” Durkin grumbled, “and find twelve-inch footprints of the New York police department all over it. But I'll take your advice.” “Very well,” Miss Townsend replied calmly, “maybe I'm becoming over enthusiastic about foot- prints, but I'll show you some that interest me.” She led the way to the clump of shrubbery in the corner of the penthouse garden, stooped down, lifted [141 ) FOOTPRINTS VS. FINGER-PRINTS clear and distinct trail leading out, but none heading in. What I want to know is—where did the person come from who walked out through these bushes?” Durkin hunted busily to and fro along the edge of the shrubbery which covered a space about twenty feet long by five or six deep. “Didn't walk in through the bushes,” he announced at last. “But anyone could have walked out on the grass, beyond this patch of bushes, gone along the in- side of the wall, you see there's a spread of concrete along the bottom of it a few inches wide, and come out again across the dirt.” Miss Townsend took Durkin by the sleeve and led him to the parapet at the edge of the garden. “Someone might have gone through the meaning- less performance you have just described,” she said. “But look outside this parapet. Do you see that ledge at the foot of it? Lean over. Do you see that the same ledge runs back sheer across the side of the penthouse? The architect of this building undoubtedly placed it there to break the effect of a huge blank wall. You see that ledge, don't you?” “Yes,” he replied, “I see it.” “It runs,” Miss Townsend exclaimed dramatically, “clear across the side of the penthouse, and passes right under the windows of Tilden's room.” Durkin stared down at the ledge. [143] FOOTPRINTS VS. FINGER-PRINTS “It's a clever idea,” Durkin rejoined, “and I'll keep it in the back of my mind. I don't understand those footprints. Maybe they have some meaning; maybe not. But I'll have them measured and photographed and added to the records.” “Very well,” said Miss Townsend, “that is that. My idea is probably ridiculous; still, I won't abandon it entirely. I'll just keep it in the back of my mind too, for future reference.” “Have you any suspicion,” he asked, “as to who might have crept along that ledge?” “I can think of one person,” she replied. “Who is it?” “I won't tell you. If the feat is humanly impossible, the suspicion is absurd. Besides, there are too many gaps in my theory. If I can fill them in I'll give you all my information promptly. In the meantime, come and sit down and let us talk about another matter.” When they were seated, she opened her handbag and began: “Here's a newspaper clipping about a man who hired a gangster to commit a murder for him. Paid him only two hundred and fifty dollars. Is that pos- sible?” “Oh, yes, that has been done.” “One of the most exasperating mysteries of this whole horrible business,” she exclaimed, “is the ac- [145] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL tion of those robbers in trying to kill Mr. Tilden.” “Mrs. Baker supplies an answer when she says they didn't try to kill him, and that young Shaw did the shooting.” “Oh, come now, Mr. Durkin,” she protested, “that is too absurd. Why on earth would a man who wanted to commit murder choose a time when there were a dozen people right at hand?” “It was dark,” he replied doggedly. “The dozen people could not see what he was up to; and it was a grand chance to throw suspicion on the gangsters.” “But how could he have laid his hands on the pistol and the flashlight so promptly? Where did he keep them, and how could he have concealed them so suc- cessfully that you and all the other sharp-eyed police- men have been unable to find them? And answer me this: how could he have foreseen that the gangsters were going to arrive, and would turn out the lights?” “Answering your last question,” Durkin replied, “he needn't have known in advance. When they were leaving, and the place was in darkness, he might have seen a good opportunity and seized it.” “And might have been shot by the gangsters while he was hunting for his pistol,” she cried scornfully. “Mr. Durkin, I am surprised at you.” “Well,” he admitted, “the idea isn't so hot. Still, I'm keeping it in mind.” - [146] FOOTPRINTS VS. FINGER-PRINTS “Now, I have another theory, and I'll admit be- forehand it is nothing but an old woman's guess. Some- one, you feel pretty certain, gave those robbers in- formation about the dinner, about the arrangement of the apartment, and, perhaps, that Linda Shaw would be wearing jewels worth a king's ransom.” “Sure,” Durkin replied. “Someone tipped those gunmen off, that's one of the few features of this case that is not a mystery. The most probable someone is the butler, and that's why I jumped on him. But I don't feel at all sure now that he is the murderer. After all, he was safely locked up in a cell when that dagger was buried in the flower bed.” “Mr. Durkin,” she exclaimed, sitting on the edge of her chair to make her words more impressive, “here is the crux of the whole matter. If the robbers had come last night, taken their booty and gone away without any other incident, that would have been one occurrence. The murder of poor Tilden later would have been another. And the two, the robbery and the murder, would have been separate, distinct, unrelated facts. But the cool, deliberate attempt to take Mr. Tilden's life while those gunmen were still in the next room—and remember, we heard the sound of hurrying feet and the bang of a distant door after the shots were fired—binds those two apparently un- related facts together. They were, in my opinion, two [147] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL acts in the same tragedy.” “That's possible,” he replied. “One of the half dozen theories I've had all along is that the same per- son might have been at the bottom of both attempts to murder Tilden.” “That is my idea,” she declared. “I suspect that someone who hated Tilden and wanted to put him out of the way arranged with those brutal robbers to break into the penthouse, rob the guests at the dinner party, and, as part of the transaction, kill Tilden. They tried and failed. Later, as we know, someone tried and succeeded.” “Yes,” said Durkin appreciatively, “that's all of it possible. It's not so hard to hire one of these tough gangs to bump off a man. Well, there were a dozen guests here last night. Which one is at the bottom of this business?” “I don't know.” “Shaw might have done it.” “He might. And then again, he might not. Whoever worked out the plan, if there was such a plan, is a very crafty, cunning, dangerous person. You'll have to dig deep, Mr. Durkin, to find the truth.” “You bet I'll have to dig deep,” declared Durkin. “And there's one man I'm ready to start with.” Through one of the French windows behind them Merritt Shaw stepped quietly. Miss Townsend turned [148] FOOTPRINTS VS. FINGER-PRINTS with a start and looked into his black, somber eyes, underneath the heavy brows that met in a V over the bridge of his nose. The deep hollows underneath gave him, as always, a haggard look. “The policeman at the door tells me you thought I'd run away,” he said quietly. "Sorry to give you a scare. I've only been out on some private business.” “Oh, you wouldn't have run far before we picked you up,” Durkin replied confidently. “Sit down, Mr. Shaw; I want to talk to you.” * * | ". | f J- [149] & CHAPTER XIII § THE BLOOD-STAINED HANDKERCHIEF A. right,” said Merritt. “To begin at the beginning,” Durkin asked, “tell me where you were when the gangsters broke into the apartment?” “I was at the dinner table, between Mrs. Baker and Mrs. Richards, and opposite Miss Townsend.” “Did you see the men come in?” “I did not. My back was toward them. I first noticed an expression of astonishment and then terror on Tilden's face. Then I turned around, saw the three masked figures, and started to my feet. One of them pointed a gun at me and told me to sit down, and be quick about it. Well, I was unarmed, so I sat down.” “Then what?” “I remained in my seat while one of the robbers went around the table and helped himself to the [150 THE BLOOD-STAINED HANDKERCHIEF women's jewelry.” “Did they take anything from you?” “Not a thing.” “What next?” “When those fellows turned out the lights and moved off into the next room, I got to my feet, trust- ing that the darkness would prevent their seeing me.” “Why did you do that?” “Because the robbery was a damnable outrage,” Shaw replied impatiently, “and I'm not the kind of man to take a thing like that lying down. If I'd had a gun, or could have laid my hands on one, I might have taken a chance and shot it out with those devils.” “You had no gun?” “Of course not. Why should I, at a dinner party?” “And did not know where you could find one?” “I don't quite understand what you're driving at,” Shaw answered. “I certainly did not know where I could find one in time to use it.” “Tilden kept one in his desk,” Durkin remarked. “Did he?” Shaw replied indifferently. “That would have done me no good, even if I'd known about it. The gangsters were between me and the library.” Durkin nodded. “And when you got to your feet, Mr. Shaw,” he asked, “where did you go?” “My first impulse was to go back into the kitchen [151 ) THE BLOOD-STAINED HANDKERCHIEF to the living room.” “I’ve wondered,” said Durkin thoughtfully, “why there was such a delay between the time the gangsters left and the call for the police was put in.” “As a matter of fact there was no great delay, and what there was is easily explained. The gunmen cut the telephone wires in the living room, and there was a lot of confusion and uncertainty about Tilden. At first we thought he had been shot. It was not until it turned out that he had only fainted that I ran to the library and put in a call from there.” “H'm, the library,” said Durkin quietly, “some- thing was taken out of there.” “What?” “The weapon that killed Tilden.” “How do you know that?” “Several little reasons,” said Durkin. “It fits the wound; dried blood on it, according to laboratory tests, is Tilden's. Mr. Shaw,” he asked suddenly, “did you come straight here when you reached the apart- ment?” “Yes.” “That's good,” was Durkin's comment. “I told the cop at the door to see that you did. Now, Mr. Shaw, you told me last night that between 9:45 and 10:15 approximately you were in your mother's room.” “Yes, that is so.” [153] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “And that your mother came into the room while you were there and left after a few minutes.” “Yes.” “She went into your stepfather's room. You know that, don't you?” Shaw hesitated, just the fraction of a second. “I didn't notice where she went,” he replied. “H'm,” was Durkin's comment, “that's funny. Even when a man is busy he's likely to notice another per- son moving about.” Shaw did not answer. “You told me I think,” Durkin continued, “that you were looking over some business papers. What kind of papers?” “Bills.” - “We've searched that desk very carefully,” said Durkin in a quiet voice, “and we have found no papers or bills of yours. Everything there is personal— belonging to Mrs. Tilden.” “I took the bills away with me.” “Oh, you took the bills away with you. May I see them?” - “They're not here. I left them in my dress suit.” “Well, I'd like to see them when we're through this little interview. Now, here's another funny thing, Mr. Shaw. We put a finger-print expert on that desk, and we can't find on the polished top, on the front—it's * [154] THE BLOOD-STAINED HANDKERCHIEF one of those antique affairs that lets down on hinges —on the blotter, on the pens, on the chair in front of the desk—anywhere, a single finger-print of yours.” Shaw's somber black eyes looked squarely at the detective. “I was there,” he said shortly. “Your story then is that you were sitting at that desk for a half an hour, while, a few feet away a man was murdered. Is that so?” “I don't know when Tilden was killed. But I was sitting at the desk,” Shaw replied doggedly. “And you heard no sounds in the next room?” “No.” “Someone smashed a wine glass in there.” “I didn't hear it.” “Tilden was a heavy man. When he fell on the tiled floor of the bathroom there was a considerable crash.” “I didn't hear it.” “Why didn't you hear those noises? How could you help hearing them?” “I told you last night, and I tell you again, the door into the next room was closed.” “Closed was it? Flynn reported that when he found the body, that door was wide open.” “Then it was opened by someone after I left my mother's room.” ' [155] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “You realize, don't you, that your mother was the last person, according to the stories we've been told, to leave her husband's room?” “Good God!” cried Shaw. “Don’t try to pin this crime on her.” “When I get ready to pin the crime on somebody, I'll come pretty near knowing the right person to pin it on,” Durkin replied calmly. Picking up a brief case he drew from it an object wrapped in tissue paper. Removing the wrappings he displayed a long-bladed stiletto tapering to a point like a needle. “Ever see this?” he asked. Shaw shook his head. “It killed Tilden,” Durkin declared, staring at the sinister looking weapon as if he would like to drag its secret from it. “This weapon,” he continued, “so I'm informed, was in the library yesterday. In some mys- terious way it got from there into Tilden's bathroom, and with one vicious, ugly stab killed him. Death was practically instantaneous, the surgeon says. It wasn't left in the wound. Whoever the murderer was he, or she, was too cunning for that. But this morning it turned up, and where in the world do you think I found it?” “I don't know,” Shaw muttered. “See that bed of tulips?” Durkin asked, pointing. [156] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “No.” Durkin took a pencil from his pocket and balanced it on his forefinger. “There's the situation,” he said. “Tip the balance this way, and the hounds of the law, I believe that's what we're called, are after your mother. Tip the balance that way, and they're after you. Well, which shall it be? Come, Shaw,” he cried suddenly, “admit it. You went into your stepfather's room.” Shaw moistened his lips with his tongue. Once he started to speak, and stopped. “I did not,” he muttered at last. “And late in the night, when you thought every- one in the place was asleep, you slipped out of the room, took this stiletto from the place you had hid- den it, stole quietly out here and buried it in the flower bed.” “I did not,” Shaw cried. “I swear I did not. I swear I never got out of bed last night from the time I turned in until this morning.” “Have it your way,” said Durkin. “Remember what I've told you about the balance.” “Mr. Durkin,” Shaw protested passionately, “you're wrong, you're terribly wrong. Neither my mother nor I are guilty. Someone else killed Tilden.” “Ah, someone else. Well, who is this someone else?" Durkin asked. [158] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “I’m caught in this tragedy,” she exclaimed. “You may well believe that if I had known how the usual, conventional dinner party last night would have re- sulted, Maltilda Townsend would have certainly stayed away. But I came, and I saw certain things. I too, like the detective, have my suspicions. But none of them point toward your mother. She is an old and dear friend of mine, and I believe in her.” “Thank you for that,” cried Shaw. “Keep your belief in her. She is innocent. But the thing that is driving me mad is—who is guilty?” Shaw gazed out over the garden, his features twitch- ing and working. “You wonder,” he cried, “why I don't tell you I am innocent.” “I ask for no confidences.” “But you think things just the same. And I can't tell you what I know. I can't tell you what I know because it is all mixed up with what I don't know. The whole thing is one damnable, hellish mess.” After a while he burst out: “Miss Townsend, who told that abominable lie about my burying the stiletto in the flower bed?” “Well,” Miss Townsend replied deliberately, “I’m afraid I can't answer you. In all this confusion of suspicions, and circumstantial evidence, and con- flicting clues, I cannot go from one person to another [16o ) THE BLOOD-STAINED HANDKERCHIEF tale-bearing, and thereby run the risk of making bad matters worse.” “I see that; I think you're right,” he said hastily. “But tell me, was the detective lying when he said he found the weapon in a flower bed?” “No,” she replied gravely, “he was not lying.” And then Durkin came briskly across the portico. “Mr. Shaw,” he said, “have you any middle ini- tial?” “No.” “Just ‘M.S. for a monogram?” “Yes.” Durkin produced a folded handkerchief and held it in front of Shaw's face. º “Look at that, please,” he said. “Monogrammed “M.S. Is that yours?” “It might be.” “It might be!” Durkin ejaculated. “Tell me some other person in this apartment that owns a man's fine linen handkerchief with that monogram on it.” “Well,” Shaw replied unsteadily, “what of it?” For answer Durkin held the handkerchief by one corner and gave it a shake. Here and there on the white surface were red splotches. “What of it?" cried Durkin scornfully. “That's what of it. Blood stains.” Shaw rose to his feet, but he clutched a chair for [161 ) § CHAPTER XIV & WAS THERE SOMEONE ELSEP Iss TownsEND sat alone in the great living room of the penthouse engaged in doing something that she rarely attempted and never with success— trying to smoke a cigarette. Her method was to hold the cigarette to her lips, exhale, and after each puff nervously tap the ashes into a tray. Her forehead, always lined with undisguised wrinkles, was deeply furrowed from anxious thought. What was at the bottom of these strange, over- wrought, inexplicable actions on the part of Merritt Shaw and his mother? She had seen Laura trans- formed from the calm, restrained, self-controlled per- son she had known for years into a woman who was beside herself. And why should the question as to who was guilty be driving Merritt Shaw mad? If he were guilty, undoubtedly he would know it. And if [163] WAS THERE SOMEONE ELSEP “Strong language!” Laura exclaimed, “I could scream oaths, shriek them at the top of my voice, if they would do any good.” Miss Townsend dropped into a chair. “If this old heart of mine gets a few more such shocks as it has had within the past twenty-four hours, it will stop beating altogether,” she declared. Suddenly Merritt straightened up and looked at her grimly. “You thought, awhile ago, that I'd run away, didn't you?” “So did everybody else.” “Everybody else was wrong,” he replied angrily. “I may be all kinds of a fool, but not so crazy as to try to hide and have the police in full cry after me. No, I had some business to attend to, and walked out to see about it. No one stopped me or objected, or ques- tioned me. But when I came back the fat cop at the door nearly had hysterics.” “Merritt went to see his lawyer,” Laura explained. Merritt frowned. “He was very unsatisfactory,” he complained. “Like most lawyers he was too cautious, too tentative, too inconclusive. I got nothing out of him. Miss Town- send,” he cried suddenly, “I’ve a great mind to tell you just what a mess I'm in.” “Please don't,” she protested. [165] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “Why not, you're my mother's old friend, aren't you?” “Yes.” “You're afraid you might have to use what I'd say against me later, as a witness?” “Something like that. Please leave me out of it.” Merritt drummed on the arm of his chair. “Do you believe that damned Baker woman saw me last night?” he asked, in his nervous, abrupt manner. Miss Townsend slowly shook her head. “Have you any idea whom she did see?” “I have an idea,” she replied, after a pause. “Her?” he asked, with a gesture toward the pacing figure. “Yes,” Miss Townsend whispered. “You saw her?” “Yes,” said Miss Townsend again. Merritt made a gesture as if he were freeing his arms from something that had bound them. “Then you have your suspicions,” he said. “And that busy little detective has his suspicions. And he is winding a net just as fast as he knows how, and in that net he expects to catch one of two people or perhaps both—my mother, and me.” “I think you are right,” Miss Townsend replied. “She's as innocent as you are,” he exclaimed. “But [166] WAS THERE SOMEONE ELSEP last night she did something that was very reckless, very dangerous, very noble, and she did it to pro- tect me.” “I’ve thought that was the way of it,” Miss Town- send murmured. “You’ve seen something of the panic, and the efforts to cover things up, that have gone on here,” he cried. “Now I'm going to tell you my story, my whole in- credible story.” “Be careful, Merritt,” said his mother wildly. “Re- member, you are not guilty.” “I’m going to tell you just what I know about the tragedy that's occurred in this house,” Merritt re- peated, “and let you judge for yourself. Do you think,” he asked, with the suddenness that was characteristic of him, “that I killed my stepfather?” “I don't know,” murmured Miss Townsend. “Neither do I,” he declared, “I don't know.” “Don’t know,” she echoed. “How is that possible?” “It's possible; it's a fact. I actually don't know,” he replied grimly. “It's unheard-of; it's incredible. Istand here and ask myself:—‘Am I the one that killed him?" And I can't answer yes, and I can't answer no. I sim- ply don't know.” “But, Merritt,” his mother protested, “you didn't. I know you didn't.” - “Maybe I'd better begin at the beginning,” said [167] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL Merritt, “and describe what happened in the next room last night, so far as I know what did happen. For one thing, it's no secret, I suppose, that my step- father and I had no use for each other.” “Don’t be too harsh, too bitter,” cried Laura. “It's a fact, we disliked each other from the day we first met, and, as time went on the antipathy increased. Why he felt as he did toward me I don't know and don't care. But my feeling toward him was partly be- cause I detested the utter selfishness of the man, his complete indifference to the comfort or happiness of anyone but himself; and more because of the way he treated my mother. Last night the fright he got from the gunmen stripped the veneer off him, and in spite of his impressive manners and his savoir faire there was a lot of veneer in Tilden's make-up.” “Merritt, please don't speak so of one who is dead,” his mother protested. “I’m telling the truth as I see it,” he replied dog- gedly. “Well, last night, in the next room, he and that Baker woman were talking about their divorces, and toasting each other with champagne, and sniggering, when my mother, not knowing that Mrs. Baker was there, walked in on them. He was furious at the in- terruption, and, as soon as Sophie Baker left, began to talk to mother in a way that I, sitting in this room and overhearing his remarks, simply would not stand. [168] WAS THERE SOMEONE ELSEP So, I went into his room, asked her to leave, and then told my stepfather just exactly what I thought of him. He tried to hit me—at least I think he tried to hit me —and then—” “And then?” said Miss Townsend breathlessly. “Then I don't know what happened. One of the little blessings that some good fairy bestowed upon me is a tendency to epilepsy. You know about it, I suppose.” “Yes.” “It's a mild form, called technically, I believe, petit mal. Usually an attack lasts only a few seconds. I gasp, stare, and resume consciousness without know- ing, except for the effect on other people, that I've had a seizure. Before last night I've never fallen, nor been unconscious for more than a very brief time. But last night I must have had a real fit.” “Ah,” said Miss Townsend quietly. “I’m beginning to understand.” “All that I remember,” Shaw exclaimed, his features working, “was seeing my stepfather's face in front of mine, hearing his jeering voice—and then everything - went black.” “And then?” “The next thing I remember I was lying on the floor.” “Where?” [169] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “In the middle of his room. I started to pick myself up, feeling terribly dazed and shaky, and I was sur- prised to find that he was gone. I wondered vaguely where he was. And then I noticed that stiletto. It was right beside me, and there was blood on it.” Miss Townsend nodded. “That explains the stains that Durkin found on the rug,” she said. “Probably. I didn't notice them.” “And you found the weapon right beside you?” “Close beside me; by my right hand—touching it in fact.” “Were you holding it? Try to remember.” “No,” said Merritt positively, “I am sure I was not holding it. My hands were clenched tightly—from the fit, I suppose, but they were empty.” “I’m sure they were empty,” Laura cried. “I sat there on the floor and stared at the dagger, and tried to realize where I was and figure out what had happened. Then I got to my feet and staggered toward my mother's room. On the way I passed his bathroom—Tilden's—looked in perfunctorily, and, good God, there he was, sprawled face down on the floor, with the blood oozing from the wound in the back of his neck.” Merritt stood up and paced back and forth several times before he was able to go on. [17o J WAS THERE SOMEONE ELSEP “I never,” he said at last, in a shaking voice, “had such a shock in my life. It paralyzed my body, but my mind, all of a sudden became fiendishly active. The one idea that danced before my eyes, that I couldn't get away from, was the predicament I was in. There I was, alone, with the body of my stepfather. We were on bad terms, that was common knowledge. And on the floor, right where I picked myself up, was that dagger, with blood on it. All that looked black enough. But the fear that came sweeping over me in great waves was—that actually I had killed him.” “Don’t say that. It isn't true; it can't be,” cried Laura. “As to that I really didn't know then,” he went on, lips trembling. “I don't really know now. What hap- pened from the time his face disappeared in a kind of black haze, until I came to lying on the floor, is a com- plete, utter, total blank. What I did, what happened while I was unconscious, I don't know.” “Terrible,” murmured Miss Townsend. “I did not try to find out if he was dead, or not,” Merritt went on. “But I knew it, from the way he lay, from his dreadful stillness. And I was afraid to give the alarm. I thought, over and over, until the thing ran in my brain like a refrain, They'll believe you killed him, and maybe you did; they'll believe you killed him, and maybe you did.' So I kept my dis- [171 ) TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL covery a secret. Do you think I was wrong?” he asked. “I don't know,” said Miss Townsend. “I must have time to think.” “The longer I stood there the more urgent became my desire to get away, to conceal what I knew, to hide every trace of my presence. I picked up the dag- ger—” “Picked it up!” Miss Townsend interrupted. “What a mistake!” “I realized the minute I touched the thing what a fool I was. Possibly the finger-prints of somebody else were on the handle, but mine undoubtedly were. So, with infinite pains I wiped the only part of the stiletto my fingers had touched, with my handkerchief and hid the thing back of a radiator in Tilden's room. Then I went back to the others in the living room and waited with all the self-control I possessed for the in- evitable discovery.” “And the handkerchief?” “I placed it inside a folded newspaper, and tried to- day to get it into the incinerator.” “And Durkin found it?” Merritt nodded. Miss Townsend shook her head gravely. “That's bad,” she said. “I know it,” Merritt replied gloomily. “When you went back to the living room,” Miss [172 ) WAS THERE SOMEONE ELSEP º: Townsend asked, “by what way did you go?” “I went out as I’d come in, through my mother's room.” “Why?” “I didn't want to be seen coming out of Tilden's room.” “Did you know that the door from his room to the hall was locked on the inside?” “Not then. I learned later, from the butler's story and from Flynn about that.” “Laura,” said Miss Townsend, “through what door- way did you leave your husband's room?” “Through the door that opens directly into the hall,” she replied. “Of course it was not locked then; but it was locked when Stein tried it later. Now, Merritt, did your step- father lock the door after your mother left?” Shaw paused and frowned. “No,” he said deliberately, “I’m sure he didn't. We were both in the middle of his big room, and our quarrel was short and hot. I'm positive he did not go near that door, and neither did I.” “Someone locked it,” exclaimed Miss Townsend. “The question is—who? Tilden, himself, might have done so after you were unconscious, although I can see no reason for it. Now, here's another question, and I want you to think carefully before you answer. [173] WAS THERE SOMEONE ELSEP “As to the dagger on the floor, had you ever seen it before?” “Oh, yes. It was one of the odd things Tilden had picked up in his travels. I'd seen it in his library.” “Do you know how it got into his bedroom?” “Miss Townsend,” he cried dramatically, “I swear I don't.” “Did you notice it in his room before you saw it ly- ing on the floor?” “No, I'll swear to that, too.” “And last night your mother, fearing that your hiding place was not safe, slipped into the next room, stole out like a ghost, and buried the dagger among the tulips.” “Matilda, you saw me!” Laura exclaimed. “Yes, I saw you. Or rather I saw a figure, a dark shadow. But your bed was empty; the moonlight showed me that.” “And you suspected me?” “I did not suspect you,” declared Miss Townsend stoutly. “But I had more than a suspicion of your rea- son for doing what you did.” “And that was—?” “To protect your son.” “I’d do more than that for him. But, Matilda,” Laura exclaimed suddenly, “you're so shrewd, and [175] WAS THERE SOMEONE ELSEP “Well,” said Merritt, “I’m going into the library and think up my line of defense before that smart little detective returns, jingling the handcuffs.” “If you talk that way,” his mother cried passion- ately, “I shall simply go mad.” “We've got to take it,” he replied. “It will work out all right in the end, you'll see.” He kissed his mother, and with his head up, walked out of the room. “Laura,” Miss Townsend asked, “you knew of course that Merritt had been in his stepfather's room?” “Yes.” “And that's why you were so agitated when the butler reported that he could not find your husband?” “Yes. I was petrified with terror. I had a premoni- tion that something was wrong. Did you notice me?” “I have a way of noticing things,” replied Miss Townsend drily. “And when did Merritt tell you his story?” “While we were alone together and the detective was questioning the others.” “It's most unfortunate about that handkerchief,” exclaimed Miss Townsend, rubbing her nose. “I won- der how Durkin ever found it.” “That's a surprising thing,” Laura replied. “For some reason Pack went through the waste basket that was to be emptied into the incinerator, discovered [177 ) & CHAPTER XV § WHAT IS A CRIME? M. Townsend sat alone at the long, polished dining room table of the Tildens', looking diminutive but determined. What a contrast this darkened, empty room was, to the lights and life and gayety of the din- ner party not so many hours ago. Facing her stood Prudence Pack. Miss Townsend looked with disfavor at her narrow, compressed mouth and expressionless eyes with their semi-circles of white eyeballs. “I have sent for you,” Miss Townsend said tartly, “to ask you a few questions.” “Yes, ma'am,” replied the maid. “You seem to have a predilection for getting peo- ple into trouble.” “In what way?” “First you told the detective about Stein's outburst of temper. Then you brought out the fact that the [179] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL dagger that was used by the murderer had been in the library not long before the crime was committed. And finally, you went to infinite pains to hunt through the rubbish from this house, found the bloody hand- kerchief and took it to Mr. Durkin.” “What I said and what I did was the truth,” the maid replied in her flat voice. “’Aven't I a right to aid the police?” “You can overdo it,” said Miss Townsend coldly. “Look what you've done to Stein. The man is prob- ably innocent, innocent as I am, but through your chatter he is locked up and may be in serious trouble. What's your motive in all this busy-body business?” “It's exciting,” Pack replied. “Exciting! Of course it is, but what of it?” “It's like 'aving a detective story going on right under your nose, in a manner of speaking.” “Oh, so you like detective stories?” “Yes, ma'am. I read all I can lay my hands on.” “But don't you see that you must be careful what you say for fear of doing a great deal of harm?” “There's no harm in telling the truth.” “There's much harm,” Cried Miss Townsend ir- ritably, “in starting people on false clues that may lead goodness knows where, and do nobody knows how much damage. You must be considerate of other people.” [180) WHAT IS A CRIME? Pack gave a mirthless laugh. “Nobody's hever been considerate of me,” she said. “What do you mean?” “I’ve never 'ad nothink in my life, no 'ome except what I'd like to forget; no friends; no lover; no noth- ink,” Pack stated as dispassionately as if she were discussing the weather. “My father was a good-for- nothing drunk who beat my mother to death. 'E'd 'ave killed me too, but the War took 'im, and he got killed. Gawd, wasn't 'e a 'ero to die for King and Country?” Miss Townsend regarded the warped specimen of humanity before her with some compassion. “Maybe I'd feel the same way myself if I'd had your life,” she said. “Well, I'm going to ask you one thing—if you dig up any more bits of evidence, come and tell me about them first.” “Yes, ma'am,” replied the maid doubtfully. “The reason I make this rather extraordinary re- quest,” said Miss Townsend briskly, “is that I think it will not be long before the mystery that has been hang- ing over this household is cleared up and the real murderer discovered. And I have an idea in the back of my mind that you may be very useful to Mr. Dur- kin and to me. So, play fair with me, and when I see my opportunity I'll give you a chance to play your part in a real detective story. That will be something [181 ) TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL to talk about for the rest of your life, won't it, Pack?” “Yes, ma'am. Thank you kindly.” “That's all for the present, then,” said Miss Town- send. And as the maid walked silently away, she won- dered if she had made any impression on that strange colorless creature. Miss Townsend and Willett, the bulky Englishman, were alone in the portico taking tea. “This place is as unusual by daylight as it is by night,” Willett declared. “The luxuriance of the lawns and flowers and shrubbery right in the heart of a great city and hundreds of feet above the streets is really extraordinary. And what a view—the tall build- ings seen across the varying shades of green of the park trees, and the clear sky—it's all amazing.” “I would enjoy it if it were not for that tragedy last night,” Miss Townsend replied. “Ah, yes, of course. Most distressing. And how is Mrs. Tilden bearing up under the shock of her be- reavement?” “As well as can be expected. In addition to the frightful shock, there's the strain and anxiety that is inevitable until the identity of the murderer has been established.” “Quite so, of course,” Willett replied, sipping his tea. “And the publicity and the police methods—all [ 182 ) WHAT IS A CRIMEP most distressing.” “You realize, Mr. Willett,” said Miss Townsend earnestly, “that until the criminal is discovered, all of us who were here last night are under suspicion, or at least under surveillance.” Willett set down his cup with evident signs of perturbation. “Why, bless my soul,” he exclaimed. “That doesn't mean that the police are not watch- ing some more closely than others, but their eyes are on all of us.” Willett picked up his cup and stirred his tea thoughtfully. “The idea, as you presented it, was startling,” he said. “But on second thoughts it seems to be the usual process and natural enough.” “Mr. Willett,” she asked suddenly, “have you had any experience with criminal cases?” “Dear me, no,” he exclaimed. “My practice is en- tirely with civil cases, largely before the Privy Coun- cil.” “But you are a lawyer.” “Yes, I admit that.” “I have been turning over in my mind a very strange, an almost incredible case,” said Miss Town- send slowly, “and I should very much like to get a lawyer's point of view on it. May I tell it to you?” [183] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “By all means.” “Suppose a man who was occasionally subject to epileptic fits should have a quarrel with another man, and at the height of the quarrel be seized with an at- tack of epilepsy, and lose consciousness. When he re- gained consciousness he found himself lying on the ground, and not far away was the body of the other man, dead. Would the first man be in danger of con- viction for murder?” Willett fitted the tips of his fingers together and assumed a judicial manner. “In the first place,” he asked, “were there any wit- nesses?” “Apparently none.” “Then your man would have a difficult time prov- ing his story. The quarrel in which he was implicated, and the body of the victim near him would build up a pretty strong case from circumstantial evidence.” Miss Townsend sighed. “But, supposing it was true that he did have an epileptic fit,” she persisted. “And supposing that while he was out of his mind, as epileptics are, and ignorant of what he was doing, he actually killed the other man. Would he then be guilty of murder?” “That is an extremely interesting problem from the legal point of view,” Willett replied. “A man may have the motive to perform a certain act, be seized [184] WHAT IS A CRIME? with a fit, and while he is unconscious carry out the very action he was meditating while he was conscious. For example, the man you speak of may have wanted to kill the other, became unconscious, and carried out automatically the intention he had in his mind be- fore he lost consciousness. That is not an unheard-of phenomenon. But what then; is he guilty of murder? Of course I am unfamiliar with your American law, but I understand that in its essentials it corresponds to ours. And answering my own question I should say that it would be very difficult to convict him of murder. Even if it were brought out that the man you speak of had every intention of killing the other before the paroxysm did intervene that would not in my opinion, be likely to convict him. In fact I have if mind cases where the situation was as I have de- scribed it, and the person on trial was either acquitted or sent to an asylum. For after all it is a fundamental of common law that a crime is the result of an intent and an act, and the intent must be a conscious one. If there is no intent, and I would say no conscious intent, then there is no crime. There, I give you my opinion for what it is worth and I hope it may be of service to you.” “I thank you very much for your counsel,” Miss Townsend replied. “I may make use of it.” “Really, I must be going,” said Willett rising. [1851 TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “Will you be so good as to express my sympathy to Mrs. Tilden?” As he walked away he looked over his shoulder with a chuckle. “Upon my word,” he declared, “I shall enjoy de- lightful thrills as I walk about New York from the consciousness that some lynx-eyed police officer is watching me. And what tales I shall have to tell when I get back to London!” [186] THE GANGSTERS NABBED terviewing them, and those interviews are generally kept up until something cracks.” “You talk like a real policeman,” Miss Townsend exclaimed. “Well, I am a policeman. But why do you think I talk like one?” “Because a real policeman seems to have a sheer love for hunting down and capturing the people he's after. It's one of our primitive instincts, I suppose.” “I’ll admit that I enjoy the game,” said Durkin. “Is there any other news?” Miss Townsend asked hesitantly. Durkin looked at the glasses—both empty—in his hands. “There's luck in odd numbers,” he exclaimed. “I could stand another. What became of that girl?” “Take mine,” said Miss Townsend. “I rarely touch them.” Durkin, with a “thank you,” dropped into a chair. “About the other part of this business there's noth- ing definite as yet,” he said. “Those boys in the lab- oratory are sometimes pretty slow, but they're sure, scientifically sure. You see, all they can get from their tests are negative answers. For example, they can't take a specimen and say for sure that this is your blood, or this is mine. But they can compare two specimens of blood and say these did not come from [189] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL him bury that dagger in the flower bed where I found it and Shaw's goose is cooked.” “Mrs. Baker's statement has not been proved,” Miss Townsend objected. “She is known to be short- sighted, and may have thought she was looking at Shaw when she really saw someone else.” “She saw where the dagger was buried all right,” Durkin returned. “And as for someone else, can you tell me any other person in this happy household who would be walking about at midnight burying a bloody dagger? By the way, Miss Townsend,” he cried sud- denly, “this is the second time you've questioned Mrs. Baker's story. Why is that?” “Partly because I'm not, like you, convinced that Merritt Shaw is the criminal,” she replied calmly. “There was bad feeling between the men,” said Durkin. “I’ve been checking up on that, and I find there was a regular scene at the dinner party.” “But surely,” Miss Townsend protested, “a sudden fit of anger at dinner isn't sufficient motive for a de- liberate, cold-blooded murder.” “There's more to it than that,” Durkin replied. “When you come to the real, underlying motive, it's all tied up as I see it with the divorce Tilden was plan- ning. We'll say that Shaw loves his mother and re- sented the way her husband was treating her. That, in itself is hardly enough to account for a murder. [192 ) THE GANGSTERS NABBED But behind that is the question of money. If Tilden died while Shaw's mother was his wife, she'd have at least her dower rights as the widow and a generous slice of the big estate no matter what kind of a will Tilden made. But, if Tilden divorced her, she'd be left pretty flat. I've been checking up on the Shaws and I find that before Tilden married her they were what is called nice people in very moderate circum- stances. So, there you are.” “But you realize that Merritt Shaw is a wealthy man.” “No, ma'am, he isn't. His wife is a very wealthy woman, and that is a horse of a different color. Maybe she gives him an allowance, or maybe she gives him a hundred-dollar bill now and then and says: ‘Here, big boy, go get yourself some cigarettes.' That's the way with these millionaire dames. And if my experi- ence is worth anything rich people are generally pretty tight with their money. That's one way they stay rich.” “The case you are building up against Merritt Shaw,” said Miss Townsend, “takes no account of the attack by the gunmen on Edward Tilden. How do you account for that part of the mystery?” “I’ve been thinking about that a lot,” Durkin re- plied, “and I've about made up my mind that there is no connection between the attempted murder in [193] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL the early part of the evening and the real crime later. That is, unless Mrs. Baker's story is correct, and Shaw was prowling about in the dark with a gun. Some- how, I don't think much of that idea. No, I believe that the two attempts on Tilden's life were uncon- nected, and the fact that they happened on the same night is just due to old man coincidence.” “Then how do you explain the clearly evident ef- fort of the gunmen to kill Mr. Tilden?” “When everything is straightened out and cleared up, my guess is that the robbery was cooked up be- tween the butler and Tommy Doolin's gang. That's logical, isn't it, the butler being the one to give them the tip-off? As to why those toughs took a crack at Tilden, I'll admit that is beyond me. Possibly he'd been mixed up with them in some racket, like boot- legging or smuggling narcotics. Or, maybe Tilden had been making love to some gangster's girl. That sort of thing makes trouble, and Doolin and his kind are spiteful devils and would as soon kill a man they have a grudge against as look at him.” A long silence followed which was broken at last by Miss Townsend. “Mr. Durkin,” she said earnestly, “if I could bring you proofs that there was someone in Edward Tilden's bedroom last night other than the people you know, or suspect were there—Mrs. Baker, Mrs. Tilden, Mer- [194] & CHAPTER XVII § “TOUGH TOMMY'S" PARTY D. walked briskly into the library the next morning. “More good news, Miss Townsend,” he cried, to the little old maid who was the only other occupant of the room. “Things are going to break wide open.” “And you'll be famous,” she replied, smiling. “Clearing up this case won't do me any harm,” he admitted. “Well, be ready for a big surprise.” “I am ready.” “‘Tough Tommy' has squealed.” Miss Townsend shot a quick look at him. “Just what does that mean?” she asked. “Well, it's a queer story. Usually a fellow like that won't give away his little secrets for one reason or another. Maybe it's loyalty, maybe it's fear of what happens to 'squealers.' But this fellow is caught with [197] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL the goods on and he's going to do a turn at Sing Sing and a pretty good one, as he's not a first offender. He knows it, and what makes him sore is that he is nabbed and somebody else who had a hand in the raid is get- ting off scot-free. Especially as this one he's got it in for doesn't belong to his gang and is not the sort that does belong to such a gang. So, to get what you might call the silent partner into trouble, he's spilled the whole story. There was a conspiracy, and Tommy and his gang got the information about the layout of the apartment and the dinner party from an insider. That's just as I said it was, all along.” “And it's just as I've said it was, all along,” Miss Townsend exclaimed excitedly. “Who is the insider?” “Well, that's a mystery for the present. This mys- terious insider—call him Mr. X. if you like—went to a lot of pains to cover up his tracks. All the dealings with Tommy were through a middleman, a fellow named Hymie Solomon. The whole thing was very much on the hush, hush. Tommy never saw this Mr. X., but got his dope, even to a plan of the apart- ment which Hymie drew for him, from this same Hymie Solomon. And Hymie never for one second let on as to who this “X” was. Now, Hymie has dis- appeared; he's hiding somewhere. We'll dig him out; but, as a matter of fact, “tough Tommy’ swears he has seen the man; says he got a good look at him talking [198] “TOUGH TOMMY'S” PARTY with Hymie, and saw the same person here at the dinner the night of the robbery. “You see, gangsters don't walk into a hold-up like the one in this apartment, recklessly. They're suspi- cious devils, and they take no more chances than they have to. So, when the hold-up had been pretty thor- oughly planned, Tommy and his gang did a lot of prowling around in the neighborhood. And in that way Tommy set eyes on “X,” who was trying to keep his identity out of sight. And, as I've said, he's sore at Mr. X. and wants to get him into trouble, which is all to the good for us.” “Very much so,” Miss Townsend replied. “Any guesses as to who Mr. X is?” “Oh, yes. From my police experience I'd expect it's Stein, the butler. A servant is the most likely person to be mixed up in a conspiracy of this kind. Besides, he'd been playing the races and frequenting pool rooms where he was likely to meet shady characters. Very likely, too, he'd lost money gambling and was looking for a chance to make it up. So, Stein is my first bet.” “Did this “tough Tommy' person explain why he tried to kill Mr. Tilden?” “Not a word out of him about that. He seemed to feel he'd done enough to offer to identify the fellow who made the hold-up possible. But as to why he, or [199] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL one of his gang, took a couple of pot-shots at Tilden, he was mum. We couldn't get a thing out of him, and believe me, we tried.” “So that shooting is likely to remain a mystery,” Miss Townsend exclaimed. “Oh, it will probably all come out in the wash, when everything is cleared up. It's just possible that the paths of “tough Tommy’ and Tilden had crossed in some way.” “And how,” Miss Townsend asked, “will this gang- ster identify the mysterious Mr. X.?” “It's a common practice of the police,” Durkin re- plied, “in unraveling a case to get the suspected peo- ple, if possible, back to the scene of the crime and question them on the spot, so to speak. So we're bring- ing Tommy up here, and I've invited everyone who was present night before last to come to this apart- ment. I won't have a line-up—that's awkward and rather the wrong thing for a prominent banker like Mr. Biddle—but I'll arrange that you are all sitting at the dining room table just as you were night before last when the gangsters walked in on you.” “Dear me, that's theatrical,” Miss Townsend ex- claimed. “And how do you know that the Biddles and the others who were here will consent to come?” “They've got to come,” said Durkin grimly. “This is a case of murder. They'll all be here by eleven [200 ) TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL big enough anyway without being made any bigger. There's just one place where there's a faint outline of a small foot, and there are a couple of places where there are marks as if somebody's shoes with heels worn so that the nails protruded a little had been in there. And here's a picture of the footprints in the dirt under the bushes. They're clear enough for anybody. And here's a plaster cast I've brought you of one of those prints.” Miss Townsend leaned over the prints and studied them long and closely. At first her expression was gloomy, but gradually it brightened. “See here,” she exclaimed sharply, tapping one of the prints with her forefinger, “tell me what marked characteristics of these footprints that I found in the shrubbery you can point out. Come now, you're a detective and a clever one, tell me what you see.” Durkin scanned the photograph attentively. “The shoes that made those prints are worn slightly on the inside of the heels. That's unusual. Most heels wear down on the outside.” “Would a person who is knock-kneed wear down the heels on the inside?” Miss Townsend demanded. “Possibly,” Durkin replied. “Tell me what else you see,” cried Miss Townsend. “The shoes were not new,” said Durkin. “The leather has been worn down so that the heads of a few [202 ) “TOUGH TOMMY'S" PARTY nails project just enough to have made a faint im- pression in the dirt.” “Here,” said Miss Townsend abruptly, “take this pencil and draw me the pattern of those heels. I can't draw.” “All right,” said Durkin, “I’ll take the clearest im- pressions.” Very slowly and painstakingly he traced two out- lines on a sheet of Tilden's notepaper. When they were finished the sketches looked like this: “Wonderful,” Miss Townsend cried. “You’re an artist. Now, Mr. Detective, take those very clever sketches of yours and compare them with the faint, barely distinguishable prints that appear in the pic- ture of the floor of Mr. Tilden's closet along with the big, flat-footed imprints from your policemen.” * Durkin compared his drawings with the enlarged photograph. “You're right,” he said after a while. “These prints [203 ] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL in the closet were so faint that only a powerful camera could have picked them up. But here's a right heel like the one in the dirt, and here's another, and here's the left-hand one.” “Proving,” declared Miss Townsend triumphantly, “that the same person stood in Mr. Tilden's closet and sneaked through the shrubbery.” “And what do you prove then?” Durkin objected. “We can't tell when these footprints were made. It is possible they date back to some time before the mur- der, or they might have been made since the night before last. And we have nothing to go by as to why the owner of these shoes was in Tilden's closet and later walking under the bushes. We haven't the slight- est idea as to how this person got from one place to the other. I see what you're driving at, Miss Town- send: you've made up your mind that somebody who has so far been unsuspected is the murderer of Tilden. But these footprints by themselves don't get you very far. We don't know when they were made nor who made them. In short, there's got to be some missing links supplied before these get us very far.” “All right,” said Miss Townsend, triumphantly, “I’ll supply a missing link.” There came a knock on the door. It opened and a policeman appeared. “What do you want?” growled Durkin. [204] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL I'd a great mind to disregard your invitation and stay away.” “Just what I say,” Al Richards exclaimed in an ag- grieved tone. “Hell of a nerve, you have.” Durkin paid no attention to the last speaker but fixed his gaze on old Curtis Biddle. “You told me night before last, Mr. Biddle,” he re- plied calmly, “that you had known Mr. Tilden all his life and his father before him. I think, then, that you won't object to being put to a slight inconvenience if you can do your part to help clear up the events of the night before last and perhaps bring the murderer of your friend and client to justice.” “No, of course not,” said Biddle testily. “Anything I can do, I'll do, naturally. What do you propose?” “I have some news for you and the other people here,” Durkin answered. “The hold-up men who broke into this place and got away with the jewelry have been caught.” “What!” cried Linda Shaw. “Have you got the jewels?” “All of them.” “My necklace? Are you sure?” “Yes, ma'am.” “Then, thank God, there is some justice in the world,” exclaimed Linda fervently. There was a murmur of pleased excitement, espe- [206] “TOUGH TOMMY'S” PARTY cially from the women who had been the losers. “We are going to bring the head gangster and one of his pals here,” Durkin announced, “for this reason. Just as the police suspected from the first the robbery night before last was partly an inside job. That is, the gangsters were tipped off about the dinner party and given a plan of the apartment so that they knew how to get in, just where to go, and how to get out. The information was handled through another crook, who acted as a middleman. But it came originally from someone who was here when the robbery took place, so the gangster tells us.” “But how does this gangster know who the some- body is?” asked Biddle in a doubting tone. “We'll let him tell his own story,” Durkin replied. Suddenly, as his eye lighted on Stein, who was stand- ing in the background, he barked: “Here, you; what are you all dolled up in a white tie and tail coat for? Are those your everyday clothes?” “I’ve been in a cell all night,” Stein replied. “No chance to change.” “Well, put on your daytime clothes in a hurry,” Durkin commanded. “I’ll give everybody an even break.” As Stein hastened away the detective addressed the others. “My plan has been criticized as being theatrical,” [207 ) TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL he said. “Well, maybe it is, but I think it will work. I'm going to ask all of you to sit around the dining room table just as you were night before last. Then we'll bring in this hold-up bird and see what he has to say.” “Theatrical,” was Sophie Baker's scornful com- ment, “it’s fantastic." “Rather ghastly, under the circumstances,” Willett murmured to Miss Townsend. “It’s like exhuming a corpse.” “Don't you think that will be pretty trying for some of us?” Mrs. Richards asked, with a significant glance at Laura Tilden. Before Durkin could answer, Biddle interposed. “No doubt it is trying, very trying, and to all of us,” he exclaimed with the manner of one who was accustomed to deciding for other people, “but it strikes me as a good plan. If this hold-up fellow has anything to tell, let him see us as we were all together the night before last.” Slowly the entire company trooped into the dining room and arranged themselves at the table exactly as they had been at the dinner party. Stein appeared dressed in morning coat and striped trousers. Durkin hovered about with the air of a theatrical producer who is getting ready to put on a show. There was a pause. [208] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL To Miss Townsend he looked like a man who held his quivering nerves under control only by a des- perate effort. “Here they come,” said Durkin suddenly. Through the swinging door from the butler's pantry, the same door by which the hold-up men had entered, came a policeman followed by two men who were handcuffed together. “This,” said Durkin, pointing to one of the men, “is Thomas Doolin, known in Hell's Kitchen where he lives as “tough Tommy.” And this,” pointing to the other, “is Nick Giordano.” “Tough Tommy” had a mop of curly hair, a cold eye and a pugnacious jaw. Nick was a rat-eyed, slick- haired Italian. “Now, Tommy,” Durkin began in a pleasant tone, “We'll get right over the preliminaries. We all know that you've been here before and took some things that didn't belong to you. But you never would have come here if somebody had not tipped you off about the dinner party, and the jewels Mrs. Shaw is in the habit of wearing, and even given you a plan of the apartment. Is that so?” “Yeah,” replied Tommy. “Tell us how the job was cooked up.” “The infmation was brought to me by a friend of mine, God damn him,” said Tommy, apparently re- [21o J TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL up in such an affair? You must be mistaken.” “I ain't mistaken; I remember faces,” Tommy re- plied doggedly. “What have you got to prove it?” Durkin barked. “Nick here, he was with me. Hey, Nick, is that the guy?" Tommy asked, pointing at Bobby Baker. “Sure, that's him,” Nick replied. Sophie Baker slapped her hand on the table. “It's a lie, a damned lie,” she cried. Bobby Baker, who had been sitting slouched down in his chair, straightened up. “I don't for the life of me know what he's talking about,” he declared. Then, as Miss Townsend thought things over after- ward, he made a fatal mistake. Turning toward Dur- kin he said: “It's easy enough for a gangster like this to come here and bring accusations against me or against any- one in this room. But they mean nothing. This fellow is nothing but a common crook who is caught with the goods on, and he's just spiteful and trying to get somebody else into trouble.” “Just a common crook, says you,” cried “tough Tommy.” “You God-damned little snipe, if I had a chance I'd knock your block off for that.” “Here, none of that kind of talk,” Durkin snapped. But Tommy was working himself up into a rage. [214] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL cance, was Baker's action when the lights were turned on after the bandits had left, and we saw Tilden with his head fallen forward on the table. Baker was the first to speak, and he cried out—he's dead.' Now, if he were really drunk would he have reacted more quickly than the other people, who were sober?” “I guess not,” said Durkin. “When Mr. Willett and I entered the living room the detective, Flynn, was talking to Laura Tilden. That, according to your own record was at 10:45. Young Baker was lying at full length on a chaise- longue, and it just happened that as I came toward him the soles of his feet were right in my line of vision, and the glitter of something on one of the shoes caught my attention. You remember he told you he was in his room from soon after dinner for some time. When you asked him how long he stayed there, he was indefinite. But, we must find out if anybody in the big room saw him come out of the hallway that leads from his room, and also from Edward Tilden's.” “Of course,” Durkin agreed. “Let me see who'll be questioned. Mrs. Tilden, and her son, and Mrs. Baker are out of it. But the two Richards were playing cards right at the end of the room near the hallway. I'll ask them and Mr. Biddle.” “Good. Now, there's one thing more. Have you the shirt stud that you picked up under the radiator in [226] TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL “Anyone else?” “Miss Townsend, here, took very little.” “Anyone else?” Durkin demanded impatiently. “Yes, sir, now that I think of it, Mr. Baker put his hand over his glass nearly every time I offered him wine. The glasses at his place after the dinner were empty and clean, now that I come to think of it.” “You’re sure of that?” “Yes, sir, I'm sure.” “Well, that's all I need from you now. When you go back to the dining room ask Mr. Richards to step in here.” When Richards appeared, Durkin began: “On the night before last you were playing cards from the time Flynn, the detective, went away until he returned an hour later just a few minutes before the murder of Mr. Tilden was discovered. Is that cor- rect?” - “Quite correct,” Richards replied. “Now, as you sat at the card table, you were facing so that you could see the doorway into the hall that leads to Tilden's room. You told me, I remember, that if anyone came out of that doorway you would have seen him, or her. Is that so?” “Yes, as to the position, and I can pretty safely an- swer yes as to the second part of the question. When I [228] “TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL” on a couch near the window.” “What did you think of that?” “I thought it was an impolite thing to do, and that he had probably drunk too much wine.” “Did you see him enter the room?” “No, I don't know how he got there.” “Thank you, Mr. Biddle,” said Durkin. “That's all; I expect to be through with this investigation in a very short time.” “It can't be finished too soon,” Biddle sighed. “This suspense is very wearing.” “And now,” Durkin exclaimed, “who else?” “Prudence Pack; she's expecting to be called,” said Miss Townsend. “I’ve warned her.” When Pack appeared she clutched in one hand a small, Watteau-like china shepherdess. “Pack,” Miss Townsend explained, “reads detective stories, and she is quite thrilled to be in the midst of a real mystery. She has made one or two false moves that have hindered rather than helped us, but she is really very sharp-eyed and clever. In fact, she is an excellent amateur sleuth.” “If she is anywhere near as good as some amateurs I know, she's damned good,” said Durkin. “Well, Pack, what have you got in your hand?” Pack faced him with her impassive look, and those strange eyes with the semi-circles of white. [2.31 TWENTY MINUTES TO KILL he was innocent, as she hoped and believed, his quar- rel, his presence in the bedroom, his concealment of the weapon, all these circumstances put him in a very precarious position. It was she who got up in the dead of night and buried the stiletto in the bed of tulips.” “You knew that, did you?” Durkin ejaculated. “Of course, I slept in the same room with her. And right away I divined her reason for doing what she did.” “Well, this is a grand day's work,” exclaimed Dur- kin. “I’ll have a pretty tight story for the D.A.'s of fice. There's just one thing I'm not clear about, and that's the regular old standby in cases of this kind— the motive. I suppose Baker was in love with his wife, and jealous, and killed the man who was going to take her away from him.” “I’ve lain awake nights, thinking and thinking and thinking about that end of it,” Miss Townsend re- plied. “I think your explanation is partly right, but even from the little I know of Bobby Baker I can see another reason that had some influence. I think he's a man who suffers from an acute inferiority complex. He is small, he looks insignificant, and whenever I have heard him talk he impresses me as one who is constantly trying to bolster up his ego. I believe psy- chiatrists claim that paranoia sometimes develops from an acute inferiority complex. I believe that Bobby [236] § CHAPTER XX § A LEAP TO DEATH M. Townsend rose. “Mr. Durkin,” she said, “I have done all I can in this matter. It has been a strain, a dreadful strain, but I have been glad to do my part for an old friend. The rest of the work is yours and you know how to handle it. You must let me go, now.” Durkin also rose. “Of course you can go—” he began, when the door swung open and Bobby Baker appeared. “See here,” he cried to Durkin, “what right has your policeman at the door to prevent me from leaving this place when I want to leave?” “Don’t you understand, Mr. Baker,” Durkin re- plied, “that a murder has been committed here and that the murderer has not yet been found?” “What of it? I’m not the murderer.” [239] - -- Nº THE UNIVERSITY Cº. GRADUATE LIBR. İill 3 9015 03072 7971