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

Willoughby rose leisurely at their appearance and extended his hand to the inspector.

"Mr. Dwyer," he said, "I'm Dr. Willoughby; this is my home — it's unfortunate—"

"Yes, I know Doctor—" Dwyer interrupted. "The man's dead alright. You don't know him, do you?"

Willoughby shook his head. "No; seems to be a hobo, doesn't he? I fancy he died of heart failure, but I'd rather your examiner passed upon the case. I don't think it advisable for you to depend solely upon my decision. It's awkward happening on my grounds, you know."

He spoke easily. All traces of the strain of the evening before seemed to have vanished.

The examiner knelt on the damp ground and took a brief survey of the body.

"No indication of foul play?" he said.

He scowled uncertainly, then looked from Willoughby's face to the inspector's. "He seems to have died suddenly, with acute agony. Rather an unusual attitude for a heart failure to assume, don't you think so, Dr. Willoughby?"

"I do; that is why I hesitated to diagnose it as such."

"And yet," the physician leaned closer, "I–I — I'm not prepared to say it isn't."

"Look him over, Riley," said Dwyer abruptly to a younger man in plain clothes — "see if there's anything to identify him on his clothes."

"Plain hobo," said the other after a moment's survey; there were no cards, letters, nor marks of any kind on the body or clothing to lead to any knowledge of the man.

"Heart failure it is, I take it," said Dwyer grimly. "Must a caught the poor devil suddenly. Probably dropped in here to steal a night's lodging, and having a bum heart keeled over."

Lannen started to speak, hesitated, then turned abruptly to Dr. Willoughby.

There was an enigmatical look on the physician's bearded face. Lannen almost fancied that triumph gleamed through his black eyes.

"You — you — aren't going to have an inquest?" the lawyer queried.

"Not necessary," Dwyer replied. "Thing seems pretty clear to me."

He turned deferentially to Willoughby. "You passed it as heart failure, also, didn't you, Doctor?"

Willoughby bowed his head in assent.

"We'll have the body removed at once," the inspector continued. "Riley, you can stay here until the wagon comes. If there's nothing further, we'll bid you good-morning."

Something seemed to snap in Lannen's brain. The story the young gardener had told him, the scream the dead man had given, had made too deep an impression on the lawyer's mind to be dismissed lightly.

"Doctor—" he exclaimed, touching the medical assistant's arm, "do persons dying suddenly of heart failure give a cry of mortal agony?"

"Hey?"

Lannen repeated the question.

"No — no, I think not. It would be unusual, quite unusual but not impossible for them to cry out. Death comes too suddenly as a rule for them to make any sound — death so painful as this. Why do you ask?"

"This man gave a scream. I heard it. So did Mrs. Willoughby, who found the body."

The inspector dug the blunt toe of his shoe into the grass at his feet. He coughed, then looked at Willoughby, back to Lannen's expressive face, then to his assistant. A slow flush mounted to his forehead.

"This puts another complexion on the matter," he said quietly. "Where is Mrs. Willoughby?"

"In the house," her husband replied. "She was badly upset about the matter and has gone in."

"Stay here, Riley. Come on with me the rest of you." An air of alertness had taken hold of Dwyer, as though he suddenly sensed something of interest. As the servants, huddled together, did not move, he gave a peremptory gesture toward them, and repeated the command for them to return to the house with him.

Once inside the house Willoughby became a genial host, inquiring of the officers if they desired anything to drink, and when Dwyer accepted with alacrity, he ordered the butler to serve all present.

Dwyer wandered about the room for a few moments, touching a bit of furniture here, a drapery there, and puffing viciously on a strong and vile smelling cigar. After he had swallowed a large drink of old whiskey, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he asked that Mrs. Willoughby be called.

"You heard this fellow scream?" he said turning to Lannen, while they waited for her appearance.

"Yes."

"Wake you up?"

"No, I was awake."

"How's that? Insomnia? What time did he scream?"

"About half-past four. I should judge. No, I don't suffer with insomnia. I'm usually a heavy sleeper."

"Something else wakened you then?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"That's hard to say. Possibly being in a strange room and bed. I'm a guest here, you know, possibly the quiet of the country after the city — or — I fancied I heard foot-steps outside my door."

Willoughby leaned forward.

His black eyes lightened, the pupils became mere pin points.

"What kind of foot-steps?" inquired Dwyer.

"That I can't state. I'm not prepared to say that I heard any. I may have fancied I did. If I did hear them, they were very soft — cautious I should say."

"A man's or a woman's?"

"I don't know — but I think a man's."

Willoughby sank back in the chair, gripping the arms of it with long stained fingers.

"How long after you heard these foot-steps was it that you heard this scream?"

"I should judge thirty minutes. I lay in bed some little time, then unable to sleep I got up and sat by the window."

"Does your window face those greenhouses?"

"Yes."

"Did you see this man enter the grounds?"

"No, I had left die window when he screamed."

"And you saw nothing suspicious out there?"

Lannen hesitated. He caught the glance his host directed toward him. and coughed. Something impelled him to say "No."

Louise Willoughby came into the room. She had removed her be-draggled evening gown, and had replaced it with a tea gown of lavender satin and lace. Her face was ghastly pale in the morning light. Her eyes wide and very dark.

Lannen suddenly felt a great pity for her. Her heavy mass of dark red hair she had let down and braided into a great rope which hung over one shoulder. It made her look younger, almost girlish.

At her entrance Willoughby merely raised his head, looked at her a second, then back toward the inspector.

She accepted the chair Lannen offered her.

"You wished to see me?" she said.

"Yes, Mrs. Willoughby. I'm sorry to disturb you, but this unfortunate death on your grounds makes it necessary." Dwyer's voice unconsciously softened as he addressed her.

"I understand. Please pardon my appearance, I had gone to bed."

"You were the first to find the dead man's body, weren't you, Mrs. Willoughby?"

"Yes."

"You were alone?"

"No." Her gaze did not falter, nor did she look at her husband.

"Who was with you?"

"A young man, Mr. Altering."

"Did this young man — Mr. Allering — see—?"

She interrupted him. "We both saw him fall!"

" Fall! The man wasn't dead when you first saw him?"

The woman bit her lip. Then she shook her head. "No, Mr. Allering and I were in the arbor near the greenhouses. We saw a man climb over the fence. He staggered. Then — then—," her eyes shifted and rested on the face of her husband.

Willoughby was yellow. His black eyes like beads stared at her with all the fascination of a snake coiled to spring.

She shivered — "Then — he gave a terrible cry, flung up his arms and fell over writhing. I think he died instantly. I screamed too. It was horrible to see a man die. Then I started to run. He lay in my pathway. It was dark — the moon went" under a cloud right after it happened. I fell — I touched his cold face—"

She paused, staring straight ahead of her as if visualizing what had taken place.