Shadow in the House

“WE ALL SHOOT”

On
one side at least, the dinner party had been marked by a sort of ebullient reticence. Landis and Elsa had returned two days since from their honeymoon and were still feeling a little dignified and unique.

Erect and formidable in her stiff chair, Mrs. Paul Bernard appraised the radiance of her niece and found it genuine. Her direct regard swung over upon her recently acquired nephew-in-law. His expression diffused the subdued glow of a vast inner content, whereat she smiled.

Something drew her eyes down the table to her own husband. Her smile faded slowly.

“And now,” Bernard was saying to Landis, “you’re coming back on the job at Headquarters to show up the old rough-and-ready methods of my day. Well, times change!”

“I am, sir! But sarcasm eludes me tonight!”

To their words Mrs. Bernard paid no heed, though she noted the veiled affection in her husband’s voice. His eyes twinkled with amusement. He seemed more animated than usual, yet his change of mood threw into relief something of which she had been only subconsciously aware—a slightly patient droop to his shoulders and to his mouth. Perhaps her effort had been not to see it.

Abruptly, with a novel pang of doubt, she recalled the concluding scene of the case
[1]
which had brought them all together, a scene wherein she had practically bullied him into an autumnal marriage. Believing her guilty, he had
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led the hunt away from her and upon himself. She had tried to repay him by giving him her heart and then taking most capable charge of him and his bachelor ineptitudes. She had found him a worthy idol for the deeper, more tranquil devotion of her later years. Intuition had said that he loved her. If he were not content, then intuition had lied and she had taken rather than given.

[1]
“The Last Trap,” Dodd, Mead & Co., New York City, N. Y.

Recalling his latest words, she banished her doubts. Of course, he loved her! It was the game that he missed! Paul Bernard, a name familiar and respected in official circles on two continents, had retired. Was ever a famous man content with love alone?

Nor did she blame him—much.

The reunion with Elsa and Landis had been a success. But she smothered a sigh as she gave the signal to rise.

“Come along, Elsa! These two head-hunters want to talk shop. We’ll leave them to steep themselves in crime!”

With a backward glance at her husband she slipped her arm about the girl and led her out of the room.

Bernard and Landis entered the drawing-room and settled themselves in the midst of that surprising conglomeration of savage weapons and hunting trophies with which their hostess had decorated the place. To them appeared Mrs. Bernard’s soft-footed houseboy, Tsu. He set tiny cups of coffee and tall, icy glasses at their elbows and as silently withdrew.

“Pretty decent of you to come back and hobnob with a murderer,” observed Bernard at length.

Landis cocked an ironic eye at him, then shook his head slowly. “Don’t rub it in, sir!”

“Why, you pinned the thing on me and I admitted it! If Charles Carson hadn’t murdered Foot, where would I be today?”

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“Where you are, d—n it!”

Landis had flushed a little. “When I offered not to denounce you that day I felt very skilful and very magnanimous. Since then I’ve felt less so, on each count. There wasn’t a link missing in the chain that led to you. You confessed readily—too blamed readily. A man of your character and achievements simply couldn’t commit a cold-blooded murder and try to hide it. I don’t know your motive. But if you know who
did
murder Carson, for the love of Mike, tell me!”

“What steps will you take?” smiled Bernard. “You’re in harness yet, remember, while I’m out to graze.”

“If
you
haven’t taken any, I won’t!”

Thereupon, preceded by a brief, slightly apologetic explanation of his own reason for confessing, Bernard named the real murderer of Henry Carson.

Landis was too surprised to offer any immediate comment. Moreover, he was busy with a swift readjustment of the evidence in the light of what he had heard.

At length he laughed. “So simple we never thought of it! Well, I’m glad you didn’t guess either, until you were told. It was a pretty white thing you did.”

Bernard frowned and fumbled with his pipe.

“That heart attack you had on the stairs!” cried Landis suddenly. “It was fake after all!”

“If there’s anything wrong with me,” growled Bernard, “it isn’t my heart!”

There the Carson case reached a final summation.

Now Landis, who had grown very fond of his gruff colleague, had been watching him during dinner. He had found the old detective just a little subdued. Maybe domesticated was the word. Nor had he altogether missed a softening doubt—a trace of worry—in Mrs. Bernard.

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With an eye on the face of his host he probed a little, after a fashion of his own.

“Well, marriage is a great institution, sir! And yet, though I’m almost ashamed to admit it, I shan’t be sorry to get back to work!”

Someone with a turn for imagery once compared the look of Bernard to that of a weatherworn and rocky cliff with the sun on it. At this moment a shadow darkened that roughhewn profile as though a cloud were passing overhead. “We’re both lucky—” Bernard declared with slow precision, “luckier and happier than we deserve, young fellow!”

“We certainly are, sir! But then, a man needs his work to round out the picture!”

Bernard frowned and stirred restlessly. He turned his head and caught his guest’s eyes on him. Landis was smiling a little. Bernard thumped back into his chair until it creaked beneath his weight.

“Why, you—you d—d, young billygoat!” he snorted. “Pumping me, were you! That’s what a man gets for crawling on the shelf—rusty wits!”

“I’ll probably need you!” Landis explained blandly. “To me, sir, you’re like a fine, staunch craft in harbor, with the winds of the open sea whispering through the rigging. Says I to myself: if I can just whistle loud enough through that rigging, why maybe he’ll put to sea again! Only don’t tell Mrs. Tall—Mrs. Bernard. Fact is, the real top-notchers are badly needed these days!”

“And you’re the boy to supply the wind,” Bernard growled. “Now it’s flattery, eh?”

With a laugh of acknowledgment entirely unabashed, Landis went off at a tangent. “You see, sir, I’m waiting for one of those cases where a man’s pretty sure but not
5
quite—and where there’s not enough evidence to satisfy the grand jury. Then you’re stuck—”

“Third degree,” growled Bernard.

“Given a clever criminal with no previous record, who won’t scare, where are you? You’re not certain! And remember, sir, there’s no third degree practiced any more!” He cocked a whimsical eye at his host. “So you can’t go too far in that direction!”

Bernard puffed at his pipe. “Bluff!” he suggested. “Traps! Surprises! There’s always a way, or almost always. No matter how hard they try, guilty people can’t
always
act
exactly
as they would act if they were innocent!”

“I think I see,” nodded Landis gratefully. “When the case crops up we can dope out a way together, sir.”

This time Bernard laughed. “Is tha-at so? My lad, you’ll have to whistle pretty loud to get this hulk out of harbor. Marion and I are quite contented, thank you!”

“Wouldn’t disturb you for the world!” Landis turned. Tsu, the houseboy, stood in the doorway.

“Mistee Landis,” he intoned, “Headqualtees ling on telephone. Say you please come, chop chop!”

Landis sprang from his chair and disappeared into the hall as the Chinese stepped back. Tsu followed him.

Puffing away at his pipe, Bernard began to smile. Landis had long since won his rather difficult approval. He admired the boy for sacrificing an excellent social position in order to serve society—a society more and more closely beleaguered by the criminal element—in a practical way. He was clever and not too conceited; just lacked experience. When he had that, he would make a name for himself!

Reverting to their conversation just past, Bernard started a trifle and uttered a faint snort.

After a while he heard Landis in the hall calling Elsa.
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Then the young man appeared in the doorway, an expression of awe on his misleadingly frank countenance.

“Headquarters it was, sir! I’ve got to go. Wow, what a case!”

“All wasted!” snapped Bernard. “You knew the call was coming! Think you can fox me?”

Landis burst out laughing. “Not this call, sir! Mason Rees Harrison—Harrison, the sugar king—was murdered tonight in his own library! It happened at seven-thirty, about the time we sat down to dinner. Somebody out there telephoned Headquarters. The Chief gave me the good word and I’m deputized. My papers are waiting—commission to the case from the local prosecutor!”

“Suppose you can deputize anybody you like?” asked Bernard suspiciously.

“That’s the usual courtesy, I believe.” Landis contrived a tone of silken preoccupation. “On the other hand,” he added suddenly, “no doubt the Chief gave me the job because he knew you’d help. He knows I’m here, you see.”

“Young fox!” Bernard growled.

“My hat! Why the harsh words?”

Both men turned and Bernard heaved himself to his feet. In the doorway stood Elsa and Mrs. Bernard, the one, who had just spoken, radiating force and a blunt sort of charm; the other a little flushed and prettier than ever.

“Harrison the millionaire,” said Landis quickly. “He was shot tonight and I’ve got the case. Of course, I’d like Mr. Bernard to help me, just as he—er—helped with the Carson case.” He smiled engagingly at Mrs. Bernard.

She looked with swift surprise at her husband. After an instant her expression changed and grew subtly questioning. Bernard shook his head.

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“He’s trying to drag an old hulk out of harbor, Marion! Nice I’d look, leaving you!”

There was a little pause.

“Do you want to go, Paul?”

He turned away to knock the dottle out of his pipe. “Certainly not, my dear! The boy’s crazy—”

His wife strode forward and put her hands on his shoulders. She was very tall for a woman but he was nearly a head taller and half again as broad in his massive old shoulders. She turned him about and looked up at him.

“If you want to go, go! Hunting man is in your blood just as hunting animals is in mine. Think I care if it’s dangerous? Think I’m the kind of woman to keep a man tied to her apron strings—a
man
, Paul?” she demanded.

“Humph!” Bernard fumbled with his pipe, dropped it, started to pick it up, changed his mind and kissed her. “Well,” he grumbled, “I might just look the ground over, my dear.”

“You’ll go and do as you please,” said his wife.

Bernard grunted something and stooped for his pipe. Only Landis caught the momentary quiver of Mrs. Bernard’s lips as she turned away. A little remorseful, he looked down at Elsa who had tucked her arm through his. Luckily her youth and optimism, her confidence in him, spared her what he had seen in the older woman’s face. She was pouting a little.

“Back to work so very soon?” she protested.

“’Fraid so, Honey! Worst of it is, I can’t very well take you into town again. This place is an hour’s run from here in the other direction and I’ve got to get out there at once. It isn’t likely we’ll get back tonight.”

“She’ll stay here, of course,” interrupted Mrs. Bernard, and turned to Elsa. “We’ll go pack a bag for the two of
8
them!” She hustled her niece out of the room with her.

The detectives made their journey to the scene of the murder in the car Landis had bought for his honeymoon.

An hour later, they turned into a long upward drive toward a mansion which seemed ready to burst with the light streaming from its many windows. In view of the wealth of the victim, the case might prove delicate to handle. If the local authorities had been willing to send for outside help, it was almost certainly a difficult one.

Landis drew up in front of a deep, brightly lighted veranda, and they mounted three broad steps, passed between two groups of vacant hammocks and wicker chairs and rang the bell. From the veranda the main building ran back, unbroken on the left where the windows looked out upon lawns and trees, broken on the right by a large wing at right angles to it. So much they had seen as they drove up.

The butler admitted them to a tiled vestibule from which doors opened into cloakrooms on either hand. The vestibule was gilded and frescoed to an ornate chilliness, while high, expensive looking vases flanked the entrance to the hall beyond.

At this second doorway they faced a long hall two stories high, surrounded by a second-floor balcony. Straight ahead of them a wide, pseudo-Venetian staircase led up to a landing where it branched left and right to the balcony.

Through open doorways on their left they could see a bit of the over-furnished drawing-room and of the dining-room beyond. On either side of the staircase narrow passages ran back to green baize doors. Midway in the right-hand wall a wide doorway opened into a big room lined with books. On their immediate right a smaller door was closed.

9

A slow glance registered these details in both their memories. Then they eyed the butler, Landis studying the man’s face while Bernard looked at his hands. These last hung quite naturally and did not tremble. The face, narrow and aquiline, with slightly sunken dark eyes, was unusually handsome. At the moment it was smoothly pale and rigid with aloof dignity.

Bernard looked up.

“You the butler?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“My name is Stimson, sir.” The tone was entirely unruffled and distinctly chilly. “Er—Mr. Landis?”

Now Landis had already introduced himself. So the butler was snubbing Bernard! It was a situation not without humor, if Stimson had known. Landis proceeded to tell him.

“I’m Landis, as I believe I mentioned already,” he said. “This is Mr. Bernard—Mr. Paul Bernard—of whom you may have heard, Stimson!”

The man stepped back a pace and bent slightly.

“I have, of course, sir. You’ll pardon me. Your manner was a trifle abrupt and I did not know.”

A most astonishing butler, thought Landis.

If Bernard had any retort to make, it was checked by the sudden opening of the door on their right and the appearance of a youngish man in evening clothes. He closed the door behind him and came forward unsmiling.

“Mr. Landis?” he inquired.

Landis bowed. The young man directed a glance of dismissal at the butler who turned without haste and moved away toward the dining-room.

“This is Mr. ——?” inquired Landis politely.

10

“My name’s Graham. I’m junior member of the law firm employed by Mr. Harrison. My wife and I have been guests here for a week and I was here tonight when Mr. Harrison was murdered. So I took charge until the police came.” He glanced quickly at Bernard.

Landis introduced them and Graham’s face brightened a little.

“Glad to meet you, sir! If you’re here officially, we’re lucky. Of course, I know your name—”

“And never heard of mine,” Landis smiled. “Well, Mr. Bernard is going to help us!”

Graham’s features relaxed in a smile that betrayed signs of strain. He was of the clear-cut, capable, rather highly strung type of young business man whose good breeding and rigid code of ethics often lead to the law.

“The coroner has been here and gone again,” he explained. “He’s coming back in the morning for the body.”

Landis studied the direct, dark blue eyes.

“Who sent for me?” he inquired.

“I did. The coroner agreed that expert help was advisable and arranged your papers with the local authorities.”

“Why?” asked Bernard suddenly.

“Because the murder looks like an inside job, Mr. Bernard!” Graham smoothed his short brown hair nervously. “But you can judge for yourself, of course.”

“Where’s the body?”

Graham turned and led them through the doorway from which he had emerged. They found themselves in a small, brilliantly lighted reception-room furnished with polished console tables and stiff gold chairs.

Toward the far side of the room, the pale gray carpet bore a large, irregular stain of moisture from which bits of
11
broken glass caught the light. Immediately in front of them a big man lay sprawled on his back, his arms outflung, his feet pointing toward the open door which led into the library. A local policeman stood guard over the body.

Drawing nearer, the detectives saw that the dead face still bore the imprint of emotion. On the gross, slightly sunken features rested the shadow of a furious amazement. The evening clothes had been disarranged and approximately replaced.

“How was he killed?” rumbled Bernard.

“He was shot in the back—with an arrow.”

“An arrow!” Bernard frowned his incredulity.

“Yes. The broken shaft of it is still under him.”

“Has the body been moved then?” asked Landis.

“The doctor examined it and so did the coroner. But they replaced him exactly as they found him. The doctor is still here, waiting for you in the library.”

“He gives this arrow as the cause of death?”

“Yes. There doesn’t seem to be any question about that, Mr. Landis.”

“Do you mean to say that Harrison was shot here in his own house with an arrow, and nobody knows who did it?”

“That’s the strange part of it! There were two women here in this room who saw him fall. But they can’t help us. That’s why I telephoned Headquarters.”

“There must be somebody in the household, or somebody who was here tonight, who knows how to shoot with a bow and arrow!” snapped Bernard. “Nine people out of ten don’t know how—couldn’t shoot straight.”

“We—we all shoot!” said Graham.

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