is Charley?”
“A Chinese boy—Locke’s servant.”
“Do you think it might be, then, that my wife came to the wrong house? I have heard of such mistakes.”
“That might be. But this is the address she gave her own chauffeur.”
“May I see Louis?”
The chauffeur was brought in and told his tale with the same immovable calm he always displayed.
He addressed himself to Barham.
“Madame ordered her car for nine-thirty,” he said.
“She bade me drive her here. I did so. When she alighted, she told me to be here for her, a little before eleven, as she was then going to Madame Gardner’s. I was here shortly before eleven and waited a little distance away. While I was waiting, there seemed to be some commotion—several people left this house hurriedly, and some policemen came.”
“You sat still and waited?” put in Hutchins, hastily.
“Why not? It was the order. And I knew not but it was apartments and the police had naught to do with the home Madame visited. Yes, I waited, until maybe half after eleven, then the commotion grew more—and I began to feel fear. I came to the door and asked for Madame. The rest is known.”
Louis was the perfect French chauffeur. His manner and mien showed just the right shade of grief, without being unduly or presumptuously personal.
Hutchins watched him out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t always trust French chauffeurs.
Barham, who seemed to read the detective’s mind, said, “You may depend on Louis’s story. He is absolutely reliable.”
There was a silence. Andrew Barham was thinking deeply.
At last he said, “What must be the procedure? I am at a loss to know what I am to do.”
For the first time Rodman Jarvis spoke.
“It is a most unusual case—we all see that. But, speaking as a lawyer, I want to ask you. Doctor Babcock, as Medical Examiner, if you can’t waive certain technical considerations and let Mr. Barham remove his wife’s body to-night—if he wishes to do so.”
Barham gave the young man a grateful look.
“That is just what I do want,” he said, “but not unless it is a proper and legal proceeding. I am shocked and horrified enough as it is, without leaving her here any longer than is absolutely necessary. If she could be taken to the Funeral Director’s—or to my home—yet, stay, Mr. Dickson, nothing—no consideration of my feelings or anything else, shall be done that will put a straw in the way of finding the murderer. That must and shall be done!”
His voice almost rang out in this decision, and Hutchins reassured him quickly.
“No, Mr. Barham, that won’t matter, that way. It’s only that it’s a bit hasty to turn over the body to the relatives before a step has been taken to solve the mystery. Yet, it can be of no help to retain the body. The doctor’s reports are full and complete, and there is little or no evidence to be learned from the body itself. If necessary to see it again that can be done at the undertaker’s—better there than at your home. And if an autopsy is held——”
Hutchins checked himself. He was expert in trying to carry on his detective work and yet spare the feelings of the bereaved ones, but he frequently fell into error.
However, Andrew Barham took it rationally.
“Yes, Mr. Hutchins, if an autopsy is indicated, it can be performed. May I then send for the funeral people? May my man Prall telephone for them? I have ahead of me the difficult task of breaking this news to my wife’s mother. And, as you can understand, it has shaken me terribly.”
One and all they admired him. As man to man, Barham had a fine, a sensible attitude. It was plain to be seen how shocked and grieved he was, it was clearly evident that he was holding on to his composure by mere will power, and every one present wanted to favor him in every possible way.
“You know where to find me,” he went on. “Here is my business card—I am a consulting engineer, and though I have several business engagements out of the city, for the immediate future, I shall, of course, cancel them all. Prall, call the funeral company, and ask them to come here as soon as may be.”
“There’s no use asking you any more about Mrs. Barham’s movements this evening,” Dickson said, “for you know even less than we do. You frequently spent your evenings in different places?”
“Yes,” and Barham showed no embarrassment at this query. “We had not altogether the same tastes, and Mrs. Barham had her own car and latchkey, as I have. So we came and went as we chose.”
“When did you see her last, Mr. Barham?”
“At dinner this evening. We dined alone—with only my mother-in-law. After dinner, Mrs. Barham went to her rooms to dress for some party, and I went to my Club.”
“What Club was that, sir?”
“The Players’. Don’t hesitate to ask all the direct questions you wish. I know how necessary they are.”
But this willingness seemed to take away Dickson’s desire to make inquiries, and he only said, “There’s plenty of time ahead for all that.”
“There will be an inquest?” Barham asked.
“Yes; but don’t feel obliged to attend, Mr. Barham, unless you like. I can arrange so that you needn’t.”
“Oh, yes—I propose to help with this search for the criminal. And I can do it better if I follow the course of the inquiries. But I can do it better yet, if I can sometimes follow them unobserved. I will, therefore, if I see fit, sit in the back of the room, or some obscure corner. You see—” he set his fine white teeth together in a determined way—“you see, somebody did this thing—you are sure—” he broke off suddenly to say to Doctor Babcock, “you are positive it could not have been an accident?”
“Positive.”
“I ask again, because I didn’t see the body when it was on the floor. And—I confess I would rather it had been an accident. Who could have wanted to put an end to the life of my young and beautiful Madeleine?”
It was the first time he had spoken thus—as if he were alone—but he quickly resumed his outer manner of composure.
“Then if you are sure, there was a murderer—find him!”
His tone was that of an ultimatum, his air one of finality, and rising, he began to pace the room.
Nor did he speak again until he was informed that the undertaker’s men had arrived.
Then he superintended the removal of the body himself, he went downstairs without so much as a glance at the few curious ones who were rude enough to peer out from the studio door at him, and after the box that held the wife he had loved was put in place, he went home in Madeleine’s car, leaving Prall to go with the undertaker in Barham’s own car.
“Don’t arrange for the funeral, of course, Prall,” he said, as a final order. “Just see that everything is done right, and when you can, go home and go to bed. I’ll look after myself.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Prall.
The police officers looked at each other.
“There’s a man for you!” Dickson said, and Hutchins heartily agreed.
“He’s a real man,” Jarvis put in. “He thanked me for what I had done, with tears in his eyes, and I haven’t done anything.”
“Yes, you did, Mr. Jarvis,” Babcock said; “I should have kept that woman here all night, if you hadn’t turned up. But it’s a relief to