J. Thorne - The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 1, No. 5 - August 1920)

He left them for a moment, then the glass enclosure became illuminated.

An exclamation of horror burst from the group. Mrs. Willoughby clung to Lannen's arm in a feverish manner.

Huddled up, chest and chin meeting, lay the body of a man, unquestionably dead. He was roughly dressed, his shoes in tatters, his bare feet showing through the gaping soles; while several days' growth of beard added to the gruesomeness of his appearance. Long yellow teeth were bared in a distortion of agony; bleary eyes stared upward. There was no sign of a wound, no indications of foul play; but the man had unquestionably died suddenly and in great torture. Evidently it had been his death cry they had heard.

Willoughby knelt beside him; then after a second's examination rose abruptly. "Dead. Heart failure, I think, but it will be best to notify the police."

"Know him?" Lannen asked.

"No. He looks like a hobo."

"Are you going to leave him?" cried his wife hysterically. "It seems so awful to leave a dead man out here on the ground alone! It's so heartless!"

"He can't be moved until the police arrive," Lannen answered. "Willoughby, take your wife inside. I'll stay here until they come and see that nothing happens."

Louise Willoughby suddenly gave a cry of terror. "The police! Must you call the police? He's a tramp — he died of heart failure! Don't call the police! It will create a scandal! I couldn't stand that — please — please do something else!"

"My dear, my dear!" remonstrated her husband quietly, "this is very unfortunate. I'm sorry the poor devil chose to die here. But it may not be heart failure you know; he may have been murdered!"

"Murdered," she sobbed the word, as though it burst from her against her will.

Willoughby ignored her exclamation.

He continued suavely as though he enjoyed her hysterical anguish:

"If the man has been murdered and we placed an obstacle in the way of his murderer being apprehended, we would be putting ourselves liable for more than a scandal."

She suddenly swayed. Willoughby placed his hand on her shoulder; but she turned on him in almost insane fury.

"Don't touch me!" she cried. "Don't you dare to touch me!"

The doctor shrugged his shoulders, turning quietly to his friend. "You take her inside, Lannen, she's wrought up, no wonder, poor child. I'll remain here. Call headquarters please."

When they reached the house, the woman dropped wearily into a great chair. The intense pain in her face, the tremulous quiver of her mouth, caused a wave of pity to sweep over Lannen.

"Are — are you going to call the police?" she whispered.

"I must."

Her white hands gripped tighter. In spite of the things he had seen. Lannen again had a doubt as to her perfidy. Strangely enough, he now felt no sympathy for her husband.

He lifted the receiver from the hook. As he did so, she touched him.

"Mr. Lannen?"

"Yes."

"Are you my friend?"

"Yes — why — yes, of course, Mrs. Willoughby."

"I mean really, truly — my friend — or his ?"

"Andrew's?"

"Yes."

"I trust I am a friend to you both," he evaded.

She shook her head impatiently.

"You can't be that. Can't you see he hates me, and I–I loathe him — I despise him — oh my God! How I hate him — and yet—!"

"Mrs. Willoughby!"

"Oh, I know I horrify you!" She laughed and began to pace the length of the room — "if only I had someone I could turn too, someone to aid me! Someone in all the world I could trust! You seem to be a good man — if only I dared! — " she paused abruptly, then in a sudden change — "Do you think I'm a bad woman — do you think I am what he thinks ?"

"Why, my dear lady, I—"

"I see. He has lied to you too-poisoned you against me — as he has others — and—" she covered her face with her hands.

"I — really I—" for once he could not find words. "Mrs. Willoughby — I saw you tonight."

"You saw me — and—" her eyes opened wide.

"And him !"

As she said nothing, he turned from her and called up the police headquarters, making his request for their presence in a quiet, professional manner.

When he hung up the receiver he turned to her.

"Mrs. Willoughby, you found the body. Who was with you at the time?"

She did not reply; after waiting a moment for her to speak, he continued:

"You realize that the police will ask questions of you, when they arrive. As a lawyer and your friend, I am advising you to tell me everything before they come. I may make things easier for you."

"Easier for me?" she repeated dully. "I've done nothing. Nothing wrong."

"I think it is murder," Lannen said slowly.

She wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue.

"Yes, it is murder. I know that," she whispered.

"How do you know?" he said sharply.

She shivered.

"I–I—" She gave a little hysterical laugh. "Just as a woman intuitively knows many things. Something here — tells me it is."

"Did you know the man?"

"No! No! Of course not. I never saw him before. Didn't you hear what Andrew said, he is a tramp — a hobo — probably — probably—" her voice trailed off, and her dark eyes widened.

"Probably what—?" Lannen leaned forward, and laid his hand on hers. Her skin was damp and ice cold.

"Probably he — he stopped in the grounds to sleep or for a drink of water and — Mr. Lannen, I can't talk, I'm — I'm — you'll excuse me — I must go upstairs, I—" she rose unsteadily, and for a moment seemed about to faint. "You can call me when the — they arrive, perhaps I'll feel better then."

He assisted her to the stairs, watched her slowly mount them; then turned back into the room more puzzled than before.

As he sank into a deep cushioned chair, before the window, heavy satin draperies behind him were pushed aside. A young man wearing mud stained overalls and a dark blue shirt stepped into the room. He held one finger up to caution Lannen to silence, then motioned him to draw the blinds so that their figures could not be seen by the men outside who waited by the greenhouses.

"Well?" said Lannen.

The other slumped into a chair opposite to him. He suddenly seemed overcome and unable to speak. Lannen noted the way his hands trembled, his nostrils quivered. After a moment's silence, the lawyer asked:

"You're Allering, the gardener, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir." He leaned forward, almost touching Lannen. His eyes glowed in his eagerness. "You've sent for the police?"

"Yes." Lannen reached for a cigar and lighted it before he answered the boy. In that brief moment's survey of the gardener, he felt an instinctive liking for him.

"It might be murder, you know," he added.

"It was murder, Mr. Lannen. That poor fellow out there died the death that was intended for me !"

"What do you mean by that?" Lannen dropped his cigar and quickly rescued it from the carpet.

"I'm not going to hide anything sir, only — only I–I can't face the police — not yet — I've — I can't tell you! But can't you tell them what I say and keep me out of their way? Isn't it possible?" his white face worked convulsively.

He spoke as though compelled to do so against his will.

"I don't understand you," said the other man coldly, "You say someone desired your death, yet you don't want to inform the police yourself. Don't you realize that you will have to testify? You were with Mrs. Willoughby when she stumbled over the body."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm a lawyer, Allering, perhaps you didn't know that."

"Yes — yes I knew it; that's why I'm asking you to help me. To help Louise — I—" Lannen winced as he used the Christian name of his friend's wife, but the gardener did not see the movement.