NO CLUE! (Murder Mystery). Hay James
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enough."
A mental picture of Sloane consoled him once more.
"Silk socks and gingham gumption!" he thought. "But he's honest in his talk about being interested in crime. The man loves crime!—Good thing he's got plenty of money."
He fell asleep, in a kind of ruminative growl:
“Made a fool of myself—babbling about what I remembered—what I thought! I’ll go back to Washington—in the morning.”
Judge Wilton's unsteady voice, supplemented by a rattling of the doorknob, roused him. He had thrust one foot out of bed when Wilton came into the room.
"Quick! Come on, man!" the judge instructed, and hurried into the hall.
"What's wrong?" Hastings demanded, reaching for his spectacles.
Wilton, on his way down the stairs, flung back:
"A woman hurt—outside."
From the hall below came Mr. Sloane's high-pitched, complaining tones:
"Unfathomable angels! What do you say?—Who?"
Drawing on shoes and trousers, the detective overtook his host on the front verandah and followed him down the steps and around the northeast corner of the house. He noticed that Sloane carried in one hand an electric torch and in the other a bottle of smelling salts. It was no longer raining.
Rounding the corner, they saw, scarcely fifteen yards from the bay-window of the ballroom, the upturned face of a woman who lay prostrate on the lawn. Lights had been turned on in the house, making a glow which cut through the starless night.
The woman did not move. Judge Wilton was in the act of kneeling beside her.
"Hold on!" Hastings called out. "Don't disturb her—if she's dead."
"She is dead!" said Wilton.
"Who is she?" The detective, trying to find signs of life, put his hand over her heart.
"I don't know," Wilton answered the question. "Do you, Sloane?"
"Of course, I don't!"
Hastings said afterwards that Sloane's reply expressed astonished resentment that he should be suspected of knowing anybody vulgar enough to be murdered on his lawn.
The detective drew back his hand. His fingers were dark with blood.
At that moment Berne Webster, Lucille Sloane's fiancé, came from the rear of the house, announcing breathlessly:
"No 'phone connection—this time of night, judge.—It's past midnight.—I sent chauffeur—Lally—for the sheriff."
Hastings stood up, his first, cursory examination concluded.
"No doubt about it," he said. "She's dead.—Bring a blanket, somebody!"
Mr. Sloane's nerves had the best of him by this time. He trembled like a man with a chill, rattling the bottle of smelling salts against the metal end of his electric torch. He had on slippers and a light dressing gown over his pajamas.
Wilton was fully dressed, young Webster collarless but wearing a black, light-weight lounging jacket. Hastings was struck with the different degrees of their dress, or undress.
"Who found her?" he asked, looking at Webster.
"Judge Wilton—and I," said Webster, so short of breath that his chest heaved.
"How long ago?"
Wilton answered that:
"A few minutes, hardly five minutes. I ran in to call you and Sloane."
"And Mr.—you, Mr. Webster?"
"The judge told me to—to get the sheriff—by telephone."
Hastings knelt again over the woman's body.
"Here, Mr. Sloane," he ordered, "hold that torch closer, will you?"
Mr. Sloane found compliance impossible. He could not steady his hand sufficiently.
"Hold that torch, judge," Hastings prompted.
"It's knocked me out—completely," Sloane said, surrendering the torch to Wilton.
Webster, the pallor still on his face, a look of horror in his eyes, stood on the side of the body opposite the detective. At brief intervals he raised first one foot, then the other, clear of the ground and set it down again. He was unconscious of making any movement at all.
Hastings, thoroughly absorbed in the work before him, went about it swiftly, with now and then brief, murmured comment on what he did and saw. Although his ample night-shirt, stuffed into his equally baggy trousers, contributed nothing but comicality to his appearance, the others submitted without question to his domination. There was about him suddenly an atmosphere of power that impressed even the little group of awe-struck servants who stood a few feet away.
"Stabbed," he said, after he had run his hands over the woman's figure; "died instantly—must have. Got her heart.—Young—not over twenty-five, would you say?—Not dead long.—Anybody call a doctor?"
"I told Lally to stop by Dr. Garnet's house and send him—at once," Webster said, his voice low, and broken. "He's the coroner, too."
Hastings continued his examination. The brief pause that ensued was broken by a woman's voice:
"Pauline! Pauline!"
The call came from one of the upstairs windows. Hearing it, a woman in the servant group hurried into the house.
Webster groaned: "My God!"
"Frantic fiends! It gets worse and worse!" Sloane objected shrilly. "My nerves! And Lucille's annoyed—shocked!"
He held the smelling bottle to his nose, breathing deeply.
"Here! Take this!" Hastings directed, and put up his hand abruptly.
Sloane had so gone to pieces that the movement frightened him. He stepped back in such obvious terror that a hoarse guffaw of involuntary ridicule escaped one of the servants. The detective, finding that his kneeling posture made it difficult to put his handkerchief back into his trousers pocket, had thrust it toward Sloane. That gentleman having so suddenly removed himself out of reach, Hastings stuck the handkerchief into Judge Wilton's coat-pocket.
Arthur Sloane, the detective said later, never forgave him that unexpected wave of the handkerchief—and the servant's ridiculing laugh.
Hastings looked up to Wilton.
"Did you find any weapon?"
"I didn't look—didn't take time."
"Neither did I," young Webster added.
Hastings, disregarding the wet grass, was on his hands and knees, searching. He accomplished a complete circuit of the body, his round-shouldered, stooping figure making grotesque, elephantine shadows under the light of the torch as he moved about slowly, not trusting his eyes, but feeling with his hands every inch of the smallest, half-lit spaces.
Nobody else took part in the search. Having accepted his leadership from the outset, they seemed to take it for granted that he needed no help. Mentally benumbed by the horror of the tragedy, they stood there in the quiet, summer night, barren of ideas. They were like children, waiting to be instructed.
Hastings stood erect, pulling and hauling at his trousers.
"Can't find a knife or anything," he said. "Glad I can't. Hope he took it with him."
"Why?" asked Sloane, through chattering teeth.
"May help us to find him—may be a clue in the end."
He was silent a moment, squinting under the rims of his spectacles, looking down at the figure of the dead woman. He had already covered the face with the hat she had worn, a black straw