The Luminous Face

“Yes, and he minimized the chances.”

“But, good Lord, Barry, you’re not hinting – ”

“I’m hinting nothing,” said Barry, speaking decidedly now, “I’m reminding you what Davenport said; I’m reminding you of his whole attitude toward the matter of murder; I’m reminding you of his psychological mind, and that it might have been swayed in the direction of crime; I’m reminding you that Pollard’s fool remark about killing Gleason might have started a train of thought in the doctor’s mind – ”

“Making me accessory before the fact!” suggested Pollard.

“Unconsciously, yes, maybe. Well, there it is. You asked me for my guess. You have it. It isn’t a suspicion, it isn’t even a theory – it’s merely a guess – but it’s at least a possible one.”

“Barry, you’re batty!” Dean Monroe declared. “Us artists get that way sometimes.” He beamed round upon the group. “Don’t mind Phil. He’ll come out all right. And for heaven’s sake, fellows, forget what he has said.”

Monroe was always looking out for his fellow artist and friend.

Barry’s impulsiveness had often been checked or steadied by Monroe’s better judgment and clearer thought. And now, Monroe was truly distressed at Barry’s speech.

“But where’s the motive?” Lane was asking, interested in this new suggestion, and determined to look into it.

“That I don’t know,” said Barry. “I’ve no idea what his motive could have been. But, for my part, I don’t believe in hunting the motive first. A motive for murder is far more likely to be a secret than to be something that anybody can deduce or guess.”

“Guessing is foolishness,” Pollard remarked, “but don’t you all remember that Davenport mentioned fear as a common motive. I recollect he did, and while I don’t for one minute incline to Barry’s suggestion, yet I can admit the possibility of fear.”

“You mean Doc was afraid of Gleason? Why?” Lane spoke sharply.

“I don’t know why. I don’t know that he was afraid – of Gleason or anybody else. But I do say that he might have been – there are a hundred reasons why a man may be secretly afraid of another man. Who knows the secrets of his neighbor’s heart? I’m making no claim, educing no theory, but it’s at least a fact that Davenport did speak of fear as a motive. Now, I merely say, if you’re going to suspect him, you may as well use that tip. That’s all.”

Pollard smoked on in silence, and each of the four thought over this new idea.

“It’s shocking, that’s what it is, shocking!” exclaimed Dean Monroe, at last. “I’m ashamed of you all, ashamed of myself, for harboring this thought for a minute. Forget it, everybody.”

“Not so fast, Dean,” Barry rebuked him. “Any thought has a right to expression – at the right time and place. I’ve given you this suggestion for what it’s worth. I’ve nothing to base a suspicion on – except that the first man to hear of a crime or to go to the spot is a fair topic to think about.”

“But a doctor – called there!” Monroe went on, “You might as well suspect the police themselves!”

“Yes, if they gave us a surprising story of a man killed by a shot and afterward telephoning for help.”

“That story is fishy,” admitted Lane.

“You bet it is,” assented Barry. “I can’t see that telephoning business at all!”

CHAPTER VIII – Miss Adams’ Story

In the offices of the District Attorney, Lane discussed the case with Belknap. Without giving names or making any definite accusations, the lawyer asked the Assistant District Attorney what he thought of Dr Davenport’s story.

“True on the face of it,” replied Belknap, promptly.

“Yes,” Lane reminded him, “because it has not occurred to you to think otherwise about it. But, how can you explain that telephoning?”

“It can’t be explained, so far as we know about it now. But, look here, if Doctor Davenport killed Gleason – which, by the way, is the most absurd idea I ever heard of – the last thing he would do would be to make up such an unbelievable yarn as that of the man telephoning after he had been fatally shot.”

“Doctor didn’t quite say that.”

“Circumstances say that. Gleason called up the doctor’s office and said he was shot. The fatal shot was fired first. Elucidate.”

“I can’t. That’s the reason I’m here. We’ve got to find out about it. I’m the Lindsays’ lawyer, and Mrs Lindsay is having hysterics and all that. She’s of a revengeful temperament and wants the murderer of her brother punished. This is not an unnatural feeling, and I want to do all I can to push matters along. I don’t want the case to drift on and on, until it’s laid on the shelf with lots of other unsolved mysteries.”

“I don’t either, Lane,” Belknap said, earnestly, “and we’re working on it night and day. Any news, Prescott?”

The query was addressed to the detective, who entered at the moment.

“No, Mr Belknap. But what you folks talking about? Doctor Davenport?”

Guardedly, Lane spoke of the strange story the doctor had told and Prescott caught the drift at once.

“Where’d you get that dope?” he asked, his shrewd eyes scanning Lane’s face.

“It isn’t dope – if you mean evidence; it’s merely scouting for possible clews.”

“Yes, and it may be a boomerang clew! It may rebound against the man that started it. Who did?”

“Nobody in particular,” and Lane looked stubborn.

“Yes, they did, now,” persisted Prescott. “Somebody started that lead, and did it on purpose. Who made the suggestion? Manning Pollard?”

“No,” said Lane. “I’m not sure I know who spoke about it first.”

“Well, I’m sure you know, and you’d better tell. Unless you’re shielding somebody yourself. Better speak up, Mr Lane.”

“All right, then, it was Philip Barry. I believe it’s wiser to say so than to conceal it. You can’t suspect him.”

“Why can’t I? I can suspect anybody that can’t prove his innocence. And I’ve been thinking about Mr Barry myself. Isn’t he in love with the heiress?”

“What heiress?”

“Miss Lindsay – half heiress of Mr Gleason’s big fortune.”

“What if he is? I could name a dozen young men in love with Miss Lindsay. She’s a belle and has numberless admirers.”

“Yes, but Philip Barry’s a favored one, I’ve heard. Now, didn’t he know Miss Lindsay would inherit?”

“I don’t know whether he did or not.”

“You knew it – you drew up the will.”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell anybody?”

Lane stared at him. “I’m not in the habit of babbling about my clients’ affairs!” he said, coldly.