The Luminous Face

“No,” Barry agreed. “This detective work is queer, isn’t it? – Now in story-books, the obliging criminals leave all sorts of interesting bits of evidence or indications of their presence.”

“Yes, but real criminals are too canny for that. Not even a fingerprint on the telephone or revolver, except Gleason’s own. And that, though meant to indicate a suicide, proved only a diabolically clever criminal!”

“How do you explain the telephone call after the man was fatally shot?”

Prescott grunted. “An impossibility like that can be explained only by the discovery of facts not yet known. Maybe the doctors diagnosed wrong – ”

“No, not Ely Davenport!” Barry declared.

“Well, then, maybe the man telephoned before he was shot, but was positive the shot was coming.”

“Telephoned in the presence of the murderer?”

“Oh, I don’t know! Didn’t I tell you nothing could explain that but to discover some new facts? I haven’t got ’em yet!”

“Do you expect to?”

“Honest, Mr Barry, I don’t know. A case like this – so full of queer and unexplainable conditions may suddenly become clear – or, it may never do so!”

“Isn’t that true of every case?”

“Well, I mean some unexpected clew may drop from the skies and clear it all up at once, or it may never be solved at all. Most cases can be worked out piece by piece, and require only patience and perseverance; but when you strike the work of a super-criminal, as this certainly is, then you have to wait for chance to help you. And that’s mighty uncertain!”

“Well, I’ll help you, Prescott, to this extent. I won’t leave town and I’ll always be where you can find me. If you believe me, you can call off your shadowers – if you don’t, let them keep on my trail. But as to any startling clew or evidence I can’t promise to give you any.”

“Even if you get it yourself?” said the detective, quickly.

“You have uncanny intuition!” exclaimed Barry. “I didn’t say that.”

“Be careful about compounding a felony, sir.”

“Be careful about suspecting an innocent man,” returned Barry, and went away.

The artist went to the Lindsay home, but not finding Louis there, followed his trail to the Club.

Getting him into a secluded corner, Barry asked him abruptly: “Were you at Gleason’s the afternoon of the murder?”

“No; why?” was the reply, but the nervous agitation the boy showed seemed not to corroborate his statement.

“Because I’ve been told you were. Come across, Louis. Take my advice – there’s nothing to be gained from falsification. Own up, now. You were there.”

“Yes, Phil, I was. But don’t let it be known – for I didn’t do for old Gleason – truly I didn’t! Any more than you did!”

“Of course, Louis – neither of us killed that man. But I tell you it’s better to tell the truth.”

“But I won’t be believed – ” Louis whimpered like a child. “Don’t tell on me, Phil. Who said I was there?”

“You were seen to go in.”

“By whom?”

“A tenant on another floor. Better come clean, boy. What were you there for?”

“The old reason. I wanted money.” Louis spoke sullenly, and his dark eyes showed a smoldering fire. “I was in bad – ”

“Oh, Louis, gambling again?”

“Quit that tone, Barry. You’re not my father confessor!”

“You’d better have one. Don’t you see you’re ruining your life – and breaking your sister’s heart – not that you’d care! You are a selfish little beast, Louis! I’ve no use for you! But, listen, unless you tell the truth when you’re questioned, I warn you, it’ll go hard with you. Promise me this; if you’re asked, admit you were there. If you’re not asked, do as you like about withholding the information.”

“I’ll do as I like, anyway,” and young Lindsay’s eyes showed an ugly light, though his glance at Barry was furtive rather than belligerent.

“Of course you will, pighead!” Barry was thoroughly angry. “Now, tell me this; were you at Gleason’s at the time Ivy Hayes was there?”

“No! What do you mean?” the astonishment was real. “When was she there?”

“Oh, she didn’t kill Gleason. Don’t worry about that. But it does seem as if a great many people chose that day to call on the Western millionaire.”

“And all for the same purpose!” Louis shot out, with a sudden incisive perception.

“Of course,” Barry said, contemptuously; “I dare say I’m the only suspect who can’t be accused of killing the old man for lucre.”

“He wasn’t so awful old – and, I say, Barry, who else is suspected but you?”

“You!” Barry flashed back. “Or you will be! I meant to warn you in kindness, Louis, but you’re so ungrateful, I’ll let you alone. Better be careful, though.”

Louis sulked, so Barry left him, and went away. He went to Fred Lane’s office, and demanded an interview alone with the lawyer.

“What’s up?” Lane asked him.

“Oh, nothing. That’s the worst of it. I don’t believe, Lane, that they’ll ever get at the truth of the Gleason murder.”

“Then they’ll railroad you to the chair,” said Lane, cheerfully.

“What about the letter, Lane? Can you see through it?”

“No, I can’t. You wrote that signature, Phil; now think back and see how or when you could have done it?”

“Don’t be absurd! I couldn’t have done it, except as a signature to that very letter, and I didn’t do that.”

“But – ”

“But, look here, Lane – just supposing somebody wanted to blacken my name – in this connection. What a roundabout way to take! Imagine some one writing that screed on the Club typewriter, and managing somehow to get my signature on it – could it be done with a transfer paper, or something of that sort?”

“Don’t think so – it would be backward, then, wouldn’t it?”

“Why, yes – ”