on his shirt-front and waistcoat.
“Murdered!” exclaimed Morland, springing forward. “By some of that blamed committee! I’ll be revenged for this!” As he spoke, he was feeling for his father’s heart and pulse, though there was no possible doubt that the man was dead.
As we all stood in horror-stricken silence, my mind worked rapidly. “Hold on, Morland,” I said. “It can’t be murder, with this room locked up as it was. Your father did this himself.”
Morland turned from his father and stared at me. “Suicide!” he exclaimed. “Absurd! Why should Dad want to kill himself?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” I replied; “but as we couldn’t get into this locked room, how could a murderer have done so?”
“I tell you it was one of that committee,” declared Morland. “My father had no reason and no desire to kill himself!”
“As to that,” put in Archer, “why should those men of the committee want to kill him? He was about to give them his money. And, as Sturgis says, no one could have murdered him and got away, leaving this room entirely locked on the inside. But something ought to be done. You ought to send for a—a doctor or something.”
“What good could a doctor do now!” said Morland, looking a little dazed. “But I suppose it is the right thing to do. Carstairs, telephone for Doctor Mason and tell him to come at once. Don’t tell him what for—there’s no use of this getting all over until we know something more about it ourselves. Use this telephone here on the desk.”
With difficulty, Carstairs controlled himself sufficiently to obey orders. Morland strode about the room. “It’s so,” he declared. “Every window is fastened with these enormous bolts, that are more than burglar-proof. And this outside door, as you see, is bolted like a barricade. There is no other possible entrance except the door at which we came in, and you all know how secure that was. Consequently, it must be that my father killed himself. But why should he?”
“And how did he do it?” said I, suddenly realizing that there was no weapon lying about.
“I don’t know—don’t ask me!” and with a groan Morland flung himself into a chair and buried his face in his hands. He seemed like a man who had utterly collapsed after passing through a terrible ordeal, and I said to Archer, “Let’s leave him alone, and do what we can ourselves.”
“What can we do?” said Archer. “We mustn’t touch anything, you know, until the coroner comes.”
“Coroner!” I exclaimed. “Good gracious, does he have to come?”
“Isn’t he always called, in case of a mysterious death?”
“Well, this is certainly a mysterious death, if ever there was one,” I declared; “but I don’t believe that, about not touching anything until the coroner gets here. I’ve heard it’s a mistaken notion.”
“Well, do as you like, on your own responsibility,” said Archer; “if you think you can discover a clue to the mystery, go ahead.”
Chapter VI.
Surmises
But I could discover nothing, except to confirm the fact that there was no possible way for an intruder to have left that room locked up as it was; and that consequently it must have been either accident or intentional self-destruction.
But I looked in vain for a weapon. There was no revolver on the desk or on the floor, near the dead man. I scrutinized carefully the soft, thick rug, and was rewarded at last by finding a clue.
Without disturbing Morland, who still sat, with hidden face, I went near to Archer, and spoke in a low voice.
“At any rate, I know what killed him.”
“What?” and Archer looked amazed.
“He was shot,” I said, trying to hide my pride in my own discovery.
“How do you know?”
“Look on the floor. There, near his chair, are five or six small shot. See them?”
Archer stared at the floor and saw the shot almost at Van Wyck’s very feet.
“But how on earth—” he began, when Doctor Mason came into the room.
His professional calm a little upset by this tragedy, the doctor’s hand trembled as he examined the body of David Van Wyck.
It took but a few moments, for the red stain on the white shirt bosom told its own story.
“Suicide?” he inquired, as he completed his task.
“Must have been,” said Archer, “as he was locked in here alone. How was he killed? What is the wound?”
“I don’t know,” said Doctor Mason, looking puzzled. “He may have been shot by a very small calibre pistol, or he may have been stabbed by some sharp instrument. You see, this small hole in his shirt-bosom is perfectly round; but there are no powder-marks.”
I called the doctor’s attention to the shot on the floor, and he looked more puzzled still.
“But he wasn’t shot with a shotgun,” he said. “In fact, I incline to the opinion that he was stabbed with some sharp, round instrument.”
“A hat-pin,” I suggested.
“No,” said the doctor impatiently; “there isn’t one hat-pin out of a hundred made that could go through a stiff shirt-bosom without bending. But something like that, only rather thicker. You see the size of the hole.”
“But mayn’t it be a bullet-hole?” said Archer.
“It may be. At any rate, we must send for the coroner. Wake up, Morland.” The doctor had crossed the room and laid his hand not unkindly on Morland Van Wyck’s shoulder. He shook him slightly, and Morland raised his white, drawn face.
“Must we have the coroner?” he asked. “Can’t we call it a stroke or something, and not have any publicity? It’s going to be awful hard on—on Anne.”
Something in his tone made me realize Morland’s feeling for his father’s beautiful young wife. Doubtless he had concealed and even tried to overcome it, but now in his hour of trial his first thoughts flew to her. This explained to my mind his sudden collapse after his earlier attitude of bravado.
I had thought he resented his father’s second marriage, but now I believed that he himself had succumbed to Anne’s irresistible fascination.
I, too, felt it would be desirable to spare Anne the horrors of publicity, if possible, so I said:
“Can the matter be hushed up, and made to appear an accident or a natural death?”
“No,” said Dr. Mason bluntly. “I could not give my professional sanction to any such course. And I think Mrs. Van Wyck should be told of this matter at once.”
Just then Anne came into the study. She had seen Doctor Mason arrive, and considered it her right to know what had happened to her husband. She wore a simple morning-gown, and her maid Jeannette hovered behind her with a vinaigrette of smelling-salts.
“What has happened?” said Anne, advancing steadily into the room. And then, as she saw the still figure of David Van Wyck, she looked at each of us in turn. Seeming to make a choice, she went to Doctor Mason, and, putting her hands on his arm, said simply, “Tell me.”
“Mrs. Van Wyck,” said the old doctor, straightforwardly, “your husband is dead. We do not know exactly the means of his death, and I’m afraid it will be necessary to put the matter into the hands of the coroner.”
Anne’s slender figure swayed a little, but she did not faint,