The Luminous Face. Wells Carolyn
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trying to, and I can’t. If you won’t do it, I’ll have to call up the lady and tell her myself – or go there.”
“That’s it. Go there. And, I say, get her son – her stepson, you know – young Lindsay. He’s not related to Gleason – and so – ”
“That’s it! Fine idea. I’ll see the young man. What’s his name?”
“Louis Lindsay. There’s a girl, too. Miss Phyllis. She’s more of a man than her brother – oh, not a masculine type at all – I don’t mean that, but she’s a whole lot stronger character than the chappie. It might be better to tell her. But do as you like.”
“Thank you for the information, Mr Lane. Good-by.”
“Oh, wait a minute. Do you think Gleason killed himself?”
“Dunno yet. Lots of things to be looked into. I don’t think it will be a difficult case to handle, yet it has its queer points. Did you say you heard something – ”
“Oh, no – no.”
“Out with it, man. Better tell anything you know.”
“Don’t know anything. You going to the Lindsays’ now?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Well, there’s a dinner party on there. A big one – followed by a dance. I mean it was to have been followed by a dance. Your news will change their plans!”
“You’re rather unconcerned yourself! Didn’t you like Gleason?”
“Not overly. Yet he was a big man in many ways. But, come now, wasn’t he bumped off?”
“By whom?”
“I’m not saying. But while you’re at the Lindsays’, look out Dean Monroe – and ask him what he knows about it!”
“Dean Monroe! The artist?”
“Yes. Oh, he isn’t the criminal – if there is a criminal. But maybe he can give you a tip. I’m mighty interested. How can I hear the result of your investigations?”
“Guess it’ll be in the morning papers. Anyway, I may want to see you.”
“All right; call me up or call on me whenever you like. I’m interested – a whole lot!”
“Guess I’d better go right to the Lindsay house,” Prescott said, going back to the Gleason apartment. “There’s a big party on there, and it ought to be stopped. It’s an awkward situation. You see, Mrs Lindsay, Gleason’s sister, has two step-children – they’re having the party, as I make it out. But they’ve got to be told.”
“Yes,” agreed Gale; “go along, Prescott. And you’d better have somebody with you.”
“Not at first. Let me handle it alone, and I can call Briggs if I want him.”
“Go on, then. The sooner we start something the better. I incline more and more to the murder theory, but if the sister thinks there was any reason for suicide – well, run along, Prescott.”
Prescott ran along, and reached the Lindsay home, on upper Park Avenue, shortly after nine o’clock.
He was admitted by a smiling maid, and he asked for Mr Lindsay.
“He’s still at dinner,” she returned, doubtfully, glancing at Prescott’s informal dress. “Can you come some other time?”
“No; the matter is urgent. You must ask him to leave the table and come to me here.”
His manner was imperative, and the maid went on her errand.
In a moment Louis Lindsay came to Prescott, where the detective waited, in the reception hall.
“What is it, my man?” said Lindsay, looking superciliously at his visitor. “I can’t see you now.”
“Just a moment, Mr Lindsay. Listen, please.”
Noting the grave face and serious voice of the speaker, young Lindsay seemed to become panic-stricken.
“What is it?” he said, in a gasping whisper. “Oh, what is it?”
“Why do you look like that?” Prescott said quickly. “What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know – I’m sure! Tell me!”
The boy, for he was little more than a boy, was ghastly white, his hands trembled and his lips quivered. He took hold of a chair back to steady himself, and Prescott, remembering what he had been told of Miss Lindsay, was tempted to ask for her. But he somehow felt he must go on with this scene.
“It’s about your uncle – or rather your step-uncle – Mr Gleason.”
Lindsay slumped into a chair, and raised his wild, staring black eyes to Prescott’s face.
“Go on,” he muttered; “what about him?”
“Didn’t you expect him here to-night?”
“Yes – yes – and he didn’t come – what is it? Has anything happened? What has happened? Who did it?”
“Who did what?” Prescott flung the words at him, in a fierce low tone. “What do you know? Out with it!”
His menacing air quite finished the young man, and he buried his face in his hands, sobbing convulsively.
A slight rustle was heard, and a lovely vision appeared in the doorway.
“What is going on?” said a clear young voice. “Louis, what is the matter?”
Phyllis Lindsay faced the stranger as she put her query.
The sight nearly dazzled Prescott, for Miss Lindsay was at her best that night.
She was a little thing, with soft dark hair, bundled about her ears, soft, dark eyes, that were now challenging Prescott sternly, and a slim, dainty little figure, robed in sequin-dripping gauze, from which her soft neck and shoulders rose like a flower from its sheath.
“Who are you?” she asked, not rudely, but with her eyes wide in dismay. “What are you doing to my brother?”
“Miss Lindsay?” and Prescott bowed politely. “I bring distressing news. Your uncle – that is, Mr Robert Gleason, is – has – well, perhaps frankness is best – he is dead.”
“Robert Gleason!” Phyllis turned as pale as her brother, but preserved her calm. “Tell me – tell me all about it.”
She, too, placed her little hand on a chair, as if the grip of something solid helped, and turned her anxious eyes to Prescott.
“I thought better to tell you young people,” he began, “and let you tell your mother – Mr Gleason’s sister.”
“Yes; I will tell her,” said Phyllis, with dignity. “Go on, Mr – ”
“Prescott,” he supplied. “The facts in brief are these. Mr Gleason called up Doctor Davenport on the telephone, and asked the doctor to come to him, as he was – well, hurt. When the doctor reached there, Mr Gleason was dead.”
“What killed him?” Phyllis spoke very quietly, and looked Prescott straight in the face. Yet the alert eyes of the detective saw her fingers clench more tightly on the chair, and noticed her red lips lose a little color as they set themselves in a firm line.
He thought her even more beautiful thus, than when she had first arrived, smiling.
“The Medical Examiner is not quite sure, Miss Lindsay. It may be that he took his own life – or it may be – ”
“That he was – murdered,” she said, her gaze never wavering from Prescott’s face.
It was a bit disconcerting, and the detective oddly felt himself at a disadvantage. Yet he went on, inexorably.
“Yes; either deduction is possible.”
“How – how was he killed?”
At last her calm