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Mystery of the Hidden Room

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<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> <h3>THE EXHIBITS</h3> We entered the building and at McKelvie's request Detective Jones was sent for. We awaited his arrival in silence, merely because McKelvie refused to talk, but he found his golden tongue readily enough when Jones came forward and blandly inquired what he could do for us. The police detective was a shorter man than McKelvie, but heavier of build, with a pleasant enough face and fairly agreeable manners. He seemed to consider himself well enough acquainted with McKelvie magnanimously to overlook his eccentricities, and asked in a bantering way what he expected to get out of a case which had already been satisfactorily solved by the police. McKelvie laughed good-humoredly, and answered in kind. "I was asked to investigate," he said, "and my aim, you know, is always to oblige." "Whom? Yourself or your client?" inquired Jones shrewdly. "My client, of course," McKelvie returned sententiously. "But, seriously, Jones, I did not come here to exchange witticisms, pleasant though it is to me to do so with such an opponent as yourself." "What did you come for then, you blarneyer?" demanded Jones. "I want a look at the exhibits. Come now, be a sport and show them to me." "They will be of no use to you," answered Jones a trifle suspiciously. "They are all evidence against the accused." "What's the objection then to showing them to me?" McKelvie responded. "I just want to satisfy my client that I have done everything possible to solve the case. I don't expect to learn anything from them." Jones shrugged. "We have deduced all there is to learn and you are welcome to that," he said quietly. "But not welcome to look at the articles themselves, is that it?" returned McKelvie, with a curl of the lip. Then he laughed outright. "Say it. Go ahead. Don't spare me," remarked Jones with a grimace. "I was wondering how soon it would be before you would be coming to me for advice, as you did in that last case of yours," McKelvie answered reflectively. Jones flushed, then grinned. "You win," he said, and ushered us into his private office. From a cupboard in a corner of the room he produced the articles in question, and placed them on the flat-topped desk before us. McKelvie picked up the pistol and examined it carefully. "Mrs. Darwin's finger-prints, I understand?" "Yes." "Anyone else's?" "No." "Dear, dear, that's too bad." McKelvie laid down the pistol and poked the bullet with his forefinger. "Another theory gone up in smoke?" asked Jones, with a laugh. "More or less. Sure the bullet fits the pistol?" "As sure as human beings can be of anything in this world. We had the fellow from whom both pistol and bullets were purchased examine the weapon." "So. You're sharper than I'd have given you credit for being." "The police are not overlooking anything in this case," retorted Jones with some pomposity. "Exhibit three—two handkerchiefs," muttered McKelvie. "Where did they come from?" "The blood-stained one was in Mr. Darwin's hand. The other belongs to Mrs. Darwin. As you see, they are identical," explained Jones. McKelvie sniffed at each one critically in turn, and then without any warning of his intention, passed the blood-stained handkerchief suddenly beneath my nose. Instinctively I drew back, inhaling involuntarily as I did so, and then I blinked and looked at McKelvie. But he was engrossed in reading the sheaf of bills and taking this as a sign that he did not wish his action remarked upon, I busied my brain in trying to recall the name of that delicate fragrance that for one fleeting second had assailed my nostrils when McKelvie brushed my face with the handkerchief. But try as I would I could not remember, and I decided to ask McKelvie the name of the perfume when we were once more alone. In the interest aroused by more pressing matters, however, I completely forgot the trifling episode. By this time McKelvie had opened the cash box and was engaged in peering at the stoneless ring through his lens. "Thank you, Jones," he said, replacing the ring beside the other objects. "But, hello, what's in this envelope?" "Burnt scraps of the torn will. And look here, you have overlooked the will he was making," returned Jones, pushing forward a heavy sheet of paper. "I noticed that," responded McKelvie indifferently. "May I look inside this envelope?" "Surely. You will find that the most interesting scraps are the one with the name Darwin and the one with the partially burned letter R," explained Jones. As in the case of the ring, McKelvie used his lens on the scraps, then he replaced them in the envelope. "Thank you, Jones. Some day I hope to return the favor." Jones, who had been highly amused by McKelvie's actions, waived aside the other's acknowledgment with a lordly air. "You are welcome to whatever you learned. Not much, was it?" he said. "No, not much," replied McKelvie with a twinkle, adding as we passed out of earshot, "not much but quite enough, thank you, Mr. Jones." "Then you did learn something of importance after all," I remarked as, seated once more in my car, we drove swiftly toward Broadway and headed uptown on our way to the Darwin home. "Two things, one of which would have told me if I had not been positive before that Mrs. Darwin is innocent." "Yes?" I prompted as he paused. "There's entirely too much evidence against her. Why, man, it's overwhelming! One quarter of it would be sufficient to establish her guilt! Just go over it calmly. The quarrel, the change of will, the letter—any one of which would be ample motive. Her presence in the room when the shot was fired, your testimony that she held the weapon in her hand, the finger-prints on the pistol, the handkerchief, the closed room—It's much too much and thereby proclaims her innocence." "And the second thing?" I asked. He did not answer for he was employed in making what looked like a series of hieroglyphics on a page of his notebook. As I shifted closer to watch his occupation, between the traffic signals, he tore out the page and turning it over made four letters on it and handed it to me. Keeping one hand on the wheel, I accepted the page with the other, and stole a quick glance at it. The letters he had made were capitals and were arranged in two sets. In the first group the L and the R were written with a flourish, so that the first stroke of the R resembled that of the L. In the second set the first stroke of the L was looped while that of the R was straight. "Well?" I questioned, decidedly puzzled. "I wish I knew whether Darwin made his capitals with a flourish," returned McKelvie. "The initial letter of the name on the scrap Jones so obligingly showed me had been burned away, leaving only the first stroke of the letter visible. If Darwin made his capitals like the first set on this sheet," tapping the paper I still held, "then the will might have been in favor of either the wife or the nephew and there is no way of proving which, except by taking Cunningham's statement as truth. If, on the other hand, Darwin made his capitals like the second set, then the will he destroyed was in favor of Lee Darwin, and Lawyer Cunningham was guilty of prevarication at the inquest. It makes a nice little problem to think about. I must find an answer to it as speedily as possible." "Ruth would know Darwin's hand," I said eagerly. "But the prison authorities aren't going to let us run in and out of the Tombs every time we happen to think of something we should like to know about," he replied dryly. Piqued by the irony in his voice I remained silent, for I was not yet sufficiently accustomed to his manner to let his sarcasms pass unnoticed, and the remainder of the drive was accomplished in unbroken silence on both our parts. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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