Chapter X: The Chief’s Best Reason

At the house Nick Carter found things unchanged.

Save for the presence of the policemen who were guarding it, and the local coroner who was awaiting the arrival of “the great man” of the neighborhood, there was no change.

They were a respectful, quiet lot, truly sorrowful for what had happened, and genuinely in sympathy with the man whose dearest possession had so ruthlessly been taken from him.

And he passed among them with bowed head, with his hands behind his back, not speaking to a single one of his many old acquaintances of the neighborhood who had been permitted inside the grounds to offer their sympathy.

And this, one man was heard to say, was not at all like Mr. Lynne, although he couldn’t be blamed under the circumstances.

But Lynne looked neither to the right nor the left as he advanced into the house, and, followed closely by the detective, led the way straight to the room where the dead girl waited.

At the door of it, when others would have followed him inside, he turned and spoke to one of the officers at the door in a low tone, and the officer announced:

“Mr. Lynne would like to be alone for a time. Please wait.”

But Nick, who was close behind him, stepped forward and gripped him by the arm.

“I think I had best go inside with you, Mr. Lynne,” he said, in a low tone. “It may be important, you know.”

Lynne nodded, and Nick followed him inside the room and closed the door.

While Nick paused near the door by which they had entered, Lynne crossed quickly to the divan couch, and Nick could see that he looked eagerly everywhere about the room as he did so, and that he half paused near the table where the fan and the gloves and the vanity box were still lying as Nick had left them.

But he kept on his way until he stood beside the couch, looking down upon the dead; and Nick could see that the man was shuddering, shuddering, shuddering, through his frame and shoulders, as if with something more than grief.

“I will go over to the opposite side of the room to one of the windows, until you call me,” said the detective, speaking in a kindly tone; and he did cross the room to the window, which was, however, tightly closed and one could not see out, although some one had had the forethought to have the electric lights connected. There had been no time nor reason to take down the guards at the windows.

But Nick stood there with his back toward Lynne--and he took a small mirror from his pocket, and held it, by folding his arms, so that it reflected enough of the room that was behind him for him to be able to see perfectly well all that might happen there.

And after a moment he saw Lynne turn calmly about as if to speak to him, and then, discovering that his back was turned, he saw the man leave the side of the couch and cross quickly and silently to the table, the top of which he searched with his eyes.

And Nick, even in that small mirror, could see a pained expression come into those eyes when that search was not rewarded; and he saw those eyes dart swift glances from place to place around the room, as if searching for something.

Without stooping or searching with his hands, he sought under the table as well as upon it, and an expression of amazement, and then suddenly one of relief, appeared on his features.

“Mr. Carter!” he called, after a moment, and Nick turned about.

“Yes? What is it?” he asked.

“I am ready for you to do what you please here, now.”

“Very well.”

“There is only one thing that I would like to suggest, in case you wish me to leave the room.”

“I have no wish for you to leave the room. That is for you to decide for yourself. But what is the suggestion?”

“It seems to me that my daughter could not have done this terrible thing without leaving some word for me somewhere. It seems incredible that she should take her own life in the manner she has done it, and leave no message behind her. I want to ask you to search diligently for such a message. For a letter or a written line. There must be something, somewhere.”

“Why are you so certain that she took her own life, Mr. Lynne?” Nick asked quietly.

“Why, everything points to that.”

“Do you think so? Have you considered everything, since you speak of everything?”

“Yes, yes, yes, of course I have.”

“But, nevertheless, Mr. Lynne, there is one thing that you have overlooked.”

“That I have overlooked? What is it?”

“This: Whether she took her own life or not, she was not alone in this room when she died.”

“Not--alone--in--this--room--when--she--died!”

“No, sir, she was not. There was another person here with her.”

“But, what in the world do you mean? How could you possibly know that?”

“Mr. Lynne, people who die suddenly, as she died, have their eyes wide open when they are found. Edythe’s eyes were closed--are closed, rather, and, therefore, there was some person here to close them.”

“Great Heaven, Carter, what do you mean?”

“Just what I say, Mr. Lynne. Edythe was not in this room alone when she died. There was another person here with her, who closed her eyes after death.”

“My God, Carter, is it possible that you can surmise that?”

“I do not surmise it; I know it.”

“Know it? No, no, that is impossible.”

“It is not impossible. It is a fact.”

“But----”

“Edythe died from the effects of a dose of prussic acid. People who die from prussic acid die so suddenly there is no time for a thought even. Her eyes would have been wide open now, if some person had not closed them--the murderer!”

“The murderer? Ah, no, not that.”

“Yes. I mean that.”

“But--I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it. It is impossible! It is preposterous! It is not to be thought of. Search, search, Carter; you will find somewhere a note that she has left behind her to tell of this deed. It must be so.”

“Even if I should find such a note or letter, Mr. Lynne, I would not believe it. I would deem it a forgery, made by a clever scoundrel, to deceive others. Edythe Lynne did not kill herself; she was killed!”

“But--who? Who? Who could have done such a thing?”

“Ah, who, indeed? That is yet to be determined.”

“What makes you so positive, Carter? Tell me that.” The man was making a great effort to control himself, but all of that effort might easily have been attributable to the excitement and emotion of the moment, under the harrowing circumstances, and Nick Carter was perfectly well aware of that fact.

“There are many things that make me positive, Mr. Lynne.”

“The condition of the eyes alone?”

“No. Not that alone. There are other things.”

“What other things?”

“I will not go into them now, sir. You are too greatly excited by all that has taken place since last night.”

“But tell me. Tell me.”

“I will tell you after a little, Mr. Lynne. I think, just now, we had best call the coroner inside. He has been very patient.”

And, although Lynne tried to protest, Nick stepped past him to the door, opened it, and called to Doctor Kuhn to join them.

“I think,” the detective said, when the doctor entered the room, “that you had best give your first attention to Mr. Lynne; and if I may make a suggestion, it would be that he is ordered into another room to lie down while the chief of your police and you and I make what investigation we can in this room. Don’t you agree with me?”

“I do, certainly,” replied the doctor, taking Lynne’s wrist and feeling his pulse. “You really must rest, if only for a few moments, sir,” he said, in a kindly tone to the millionaire. “You are greatly excited. Your pulse is beating like a triphammer.”

Lynne opened his mouth as if to protest, just as the big figure of the local chief of police loomed in the doorway; and somehow the sight of it seemed to change his mind, for he bowed to the policeman and spoke in a low tone to him, and passed out of the room.

Nick Carter stepped forward quickly and closed the door after him, thus shutting himself in alone with the coroner and the chief.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I suppose you notice the great change in Mr. Lynne, since you last saw him, don’t you?”

“I certainly do,” replied the chief, with emphasis on the I. “He was always most cordial to me, and to-day he has scarcely spoken to me at all; but I suppose that is due to this affair. Poor little girl. Why, Mr. Carter, I’ve watched that girl grow up, and she seems almost like one of my own. A sweeter, purer, gentler, more lovable soul never dwelt in a human body. If I could get my hands on the fiend that did that act--I expect I’d have to go to prison myself.”

“You are convinced, then, that it was murder, chief?”

“Just as sure as can be. There isn’t the slightest doubt of it in my mind.”

“So am I convinced of it, chief. And we will get at that, presently. By the way, doctor, have you, too, noticed any especial change in Mr. Lynne?”

“Why, yes, but more in his manner than in anything else, although he is certainly much stouter and in much better general health than when I last saw him. Oh, no, I don’t know as there is so much change, after all. He has grown considerably grayer, I think.”

“I wonder--he is feeling badly, you know--if a cigar would do him any good? A cigar is a great thing for me when I am----”

“No use, Mr. Carter,” said the chief. “He don’t smoke.”

“Doesn’t smoke? Are you sure?”

“Never smoked in his life. He has often told me that. He said he used to want to smoke because he liked to see others doing it, and they seemed to get so much pleasure out of it, and he often tried it. He has told me that often.”

“And couldn’t he even learn to smoke?”

“No. At least, he said not. He has told it to me often. He couldn’t stay in a room where there was much tobacco smoke, and it used to make him mad because he could not. But there is something about tobacco that he can’t stand. He could never learn to smoke; and I call that hard luck. But come, hadn’t we better get down to business?”

“Yes, I think so. Coroner, have you discovered one of the best proofs that this is a case of murder and not one of suicide?”

“I don’t know that I have. What do you mean?”

“Have you ever seen a case of prussic acid suicide where the eyes were found closed?”

“By Jove! Mr. Carter, you’re right. No, I have not; nor anybody else.”

“Well, what did I tell you?” demanded the chief. “I knew it was murder, just because I know the little girl wouldn’t have killed herself.”