The Maxwell Mystery

The situation was indeed changed. My latent detective instinct was now fully roused, and I determined to do all I could toward solving the mystery.

I said as much to Mr. Maxwell, and he thanked me for my sympathy and interest.

He also asked whether I thought Mr. Hunt a skilled detective, or whether I advised sending to New York for a more expert man. This annoyed me, for it proved that he considered my services as well-meant, but not especially valuable. However, I showed no irritation, and answered simply that I thought Mr. Hunt quite capable of discovering all that could be discovered.

“You see,” I went on, “we are at a disadvantage in having lost so many hours already. Had we known last night there was an intruder from outside, we could perhaps have caught him. As it is, he has probably made good his escape.”

“That is true,” said Mr. Maxwell with a sigh. “But we must do our best, and leave no stone unturned in our endeavor to find Philip’s assailant.”

Miss Maxwell also agreed to this. “Peter,” she said, and her look at me was pathetic, “you will help us, won’t you? You loved Philip, I know; and you are clever and intelligent. Can’t you help Mr. Hunt, and between you find the villain who murdered our boy?”

The usually timid and gentle lady was stirred, as I had never seen her, by her righteous indignation. I was touched by her confidence in me, and I assured her that such capability as I possessed should be devoted toward the tracking of the criminal.

I determined to go at once to the library, the scene of the crime, and make a thorough search for clues before Mr. Hunt should arrive. All the detective literature I had ever read, had taught me that it is next to impossible for a human being to enter a room and go out again, without leaving a trace of some sort, though visible only to a trained detective.

So to the library I went, and subjected the room and all its contents to a minute and systematic scrutiny. Contrary to all precedent, literary and reportorial, I found nothing.

Again I went over the room, even more diligently, remembering Sherlock Holmes’ wise advice to discriminate carefully between vital and incidental clues.

But, alas, I could find neither, except the very doubtful one of a small and shiny black spangle, a tiny disk, which might have fallen from the trimmings of some lady’s gown.

I remembered no one who had worn such a decoration the night before, but then, I take little note of ladies’ dress.

In lieu of anything more interesting, I put the spangle carefully away in my note-book, and proceeded with my examinations. All to no purpose. The room had been put in order by the servants that morning—dusted, and possibly swept—so it was absurd to look for anything on the floor or furniture.

Sighing to think of the opportunities we had lost, I turned my attention to the window by which the intruder must have entered. It was a long French window reaching from floor to ceiling. It was in three divisions, each of which was really a door, and opened out on the balcony, which as I have said, ran around both sides and the front of the house without barrier.

The panes were of ground glass, in a diamond pattern; and I knew that at night, with lights inside the room, an outsider might look in through the glass unseen by those within.

I opened the middle door, stepped out on the balcony, and endeavored to scrutinize in a scientific way.

Signs of a scuffle there certainly were. Just outside the library window, in the dust of the balcony, I observed many long, sweeping marks, that had every appearance of being the tracks of men who scraped their feet around in a wrestle, or struggle of some sort. From the shape of these streaks in the dust, I could not gather the size of the shoes that made them, nor the style of their toes; but as even the paint of the balcony floor was scratched by the marks, I felt sure that a tussle of some sort had taken place there.

I looked for a continuation of these tracks, but found none, save the scratches that were to be seen everywhere over the balcony floor. As many people had walked there the night before, this was of no importance, but unless some one had danced a clog dance outside the library window, I saw no reason for changing my first conclusion.

I found nothing else of note, save two more of those little black spangles—one in the outside library blind, and another farther front on the balcony. These I put away with my first one, determined to find out who wore such trimmings the evening before.

By this time Mr. Hunt had arrived. The coroner had come, too, bringing his jury, for it had been decided to begin the inquest that very afternoon.

How strange it seemed, to hold an inquest in Miss Miranda’s stately drawing-room! But that was not more strange than realizing that Philip’s dead body lay up-stairs, and that we had not the faintest idea whose hand wrought this evil.

I paused in the library to talk to Mr. Hunt He was not mysterious and uncommunicative like the regulation detective, but was frankly at his wits’ end.

When I saw this, and knew that I was similarly unenlightened, I wondered if I had done wisely in advising Mr. Maxwell against getting a man from the city.

“Very little to work on, eh, Hunt?” I said.

“Just about nothing at all,” he said, moodily staring at the carpet. “Look here, Mr. King, who is that foreigner staying here?”

“The Earl of Clarendon? Oh, he’s a noble Britisher, all right. Don’t try to stir up anything against him!”

“I’m not; don’t be absurd. But, have they known him long?”

“When Mr. Alexander Maxwell and Miss Miranda traveled abroad a few years ago, I believe he entertained them in London, or at his country house. He’s the real thing, Hunt, don’t get any notions about that.”

“I can’t get any notions anywhere; there’s nothing to work on.”

“But the inquest may bring out some important facts.”

“I doubt it. If any one knew anything, he would have told it at once. Why shouldn’t he? We are all of one interest. The deed was doubtless done by a burglar who was trying to effect an entrance, and who was frightened away by his own shots.”

“Well,” I responded, “I’m willing to suspend judgment until I have something more definite to base my opinions on. Come, let us go down-stairs.”

A crowd had assembled in the lower rooms, for the inquest was, in a way, a public function.

I was sure the Maxwells were terribly annoyed at this invasion of their beautiful home, but I was also sure that such thoughts were swallowed up in their eagerness to discover and punish the murderer of Philip.

Mr. Billings was calm and business-like.

He had impaneled his jury, and was already examining the first witness.

Mr. Maxwell’s own lawyer was present, also the district attorney and several other gentlemen of legal aspect who were strangers to me.

The first witness was Gilbert Crane.

To my surprise he appeared agitated and ill at ease. In one way, this was not astonishing, for, as the first one to discover the tragedy, his testimony would be of great importance. But he had been so cool and self-possessed all day that I couldn’t understand his present demeanor.

“Will you tell us,” said the coroner, not unkindly, “the circumstances which led to your going to the library last evening?”

“I was alone in the billiard-room,” said Gilbert. “I had been there alone for some time, as I was troubled and did not care to join the merry crowd in the drawing-room. I heard Mr. King come down-stairs, go into Mr. Maxwell’s study and talk to him for a few moments. After this I heard Mr. King tell Mr. Maxwell that Philip Maxwell and Miss Leslie were in the library.

“After this, Mr. King walked through the room I was in, but we said nothing to each other, and he went on to the drawing-room. I stayed exactly where I was for some time longer, and then I concluded I would go home.

“Not wishing to make my adieux to the guests, I thought I would merely say good night to Mr. Maxwell. I lifted the portière and looked into his study, but as he was asleep, I thought I wouldn’t disturb him, but would just run up-stairs for my banjo, and then slip away unnoticed.

“I went up-stairs and I admit it was curiosity concerning the two people inside that led me to pause and look toward the library door. I heard no sound of voices, so I took another step or two in that direction, and, looking, saw Philip’s figure stretched on the floor.

“Then, of course, I went into the room. It has no door, and the portières were but partly drawn. Seeing what was evidently a serious accident of some sort, I immediately ran down-stairs and called Dr. Sheldon to the scene.”

“You saw no one else in the room?”

“N—no,” said Gilbert, but he seemed to hesitate.

“You are quite sure?” asked the coroner.

“I am positive I saw no one else in the room,” said Gilbert, decidedly this time.

“Can you fix the time of your going up-stairs?”

“I can. When I looked into Mr. Maxwell’s study, I noticed by his large clock that it was twenty minutes after ten. In less than a minute after that I was up-stairs.”

“That will do,” said Mr. Billings, and Gilbert was dismissed.

Dr. Sheldon was called next, and testified that he had responded immediately to Mr. Crane’s call, and on reaching the library found Philip Maxwell’s dead body on the floor, and Miss Leslie, wounded and unconscious, a few feet away.

“She was shot?” asked the coroner.

“Yes, shot in the shoulder. She had fallen, and in so doing had hit her temple. This rendered her unconscious. I extracted the ball, and found it to be a thirty-eight caliber. The revolver found in Miss Leslie’s hand is also thirty-eight caliber.”

“And has the ball been extracted from Mr. Philip Maxwell’s body?”

“Yes; that is also a thirty-eight caliber. He was shot through the heart, and must have died instantly.”

“In your opinion, how long had he been dead, when you examined the body?”

“Not long, as the body was still warm. Not more than half an hour at the most.”

“The pistol found in Miss Leslie’s hand, and which is now in my possession,” said Mr. Billings, “has two empty chambers. In view of Miss Leslie’s statement that the shooting was done by a person who came in by the window, it would seem that the intruder might have placed the weapon in Miss Leslie’s hand after she was wounded. In your opinion, Dr. Sheldon, would this be possible?”

“Possible, yes, but highly improbable, as I myself took the pistol from her hand, and she was holding it in a tight grasp. This would scarcely have been the case, had it been thrust into her hand while she lay unconscious.”

“We will not pursue this line of investigation further, until we can hear Miss Leslie’s story,” said Mr. Billings. “Dr. Sheldon, you are excused.”

Mr. Maxwell’s testimony was merely to the effect that he had spent the evening in the drawing-room until about half past nine, at which time he went to his study, and remained there, reading and occasionally dozing, until he had been told the dreadful news.

He corroborated my statement about my looking in on him at ten o’clock, though he didn’t notice the time, and he said that he neither saw nor heard Gilbert Crane look in later.

Asked if he heard any shots, he said he did not, owing, doubtless, to his deafness, and the fact that he was asleep part of the time.

He was excused, and Mr. Billings then inquired if any one had heard any shots.

We who were in the drawing-room during the half-hour between ten and ten-thirty (when the murder was judged to have taken place) declared we heard no shots; and this was but natural, as the library was up-stairs and some distance away, and the music was, at that time, of a noisy variety.

Gilbert Crane said he heard no shots, but said that he was so deeply immersed in his own thoughts, that he doubted if he would have heard a cannon fired.

Then Miss Maxwell’s gentle voice was heard, saying:

“I heard two shots, and they were fired at exactly ten o’clock.”

“This is most important, madam,” said the coroner. “Will you kindly take the witness-chair?”

Then Miss Miranda testified that she was in her own room preparing for bed. Her doors were closed, and the water was running for her bath, so that she could not hear distinctly, but at ten o’clock she heard two sounds that seemed to her like pistol shots.

At the time, however, she hardly thought they were shots, but she opened her hall door and looked out. Seeing nothing unusual, and hearing the gay music down-stairs, she assumed it was the slamming of doors or some other unimportant noise, and so thought no more of it, until informed of what had happened.

“This, then,” said Mr. Billings, “fixes the firing of the two shots at ten o’clock. That coincides with your diagnosis, Dr. Sheldon?”

“Yes, sir,” said the doctor. “I went up-stairs at about half past ten, and found the body still warm.”

“It is fortunate that we are able thus to fix the time so accurately,” said the coroner, “as it may be helpful in discovering the criminal.”