At One-Thirty by Isabel Ostrander (best book series to read .txt) 📖

detective was admitted by a haughty English valet, and conducted to the living-room. After a few moments’ delay, he heard a brisk, buoyant step, and the voice that had replied to him over the telephone sounded in his ears.”

“Sorry, to have kept you waiting, Mr. Gaunt; but I was dressing. Terrible thing that about poor Garret. Yates must be completely knocked out.”

Gaunt turned in the direction of the voice, and his foot inadvertently touched the projecting claw foot of the table.

“I don’t see why Parker didn’t turn the rest of the lights on,” his host exclaimed irritably, as he pressed the button in the wall.

“The lights make no difference—to me, Mr. Livingston. I am blind.”

“You—oh, I see! I beg your pardon. Why, I have heard of you, of course. You were the man who worked out those famous Delamater murders. By Jove! Sit down, Mr. Gaunt, and tell me what I can do for you. Will you have a cigar? These are of Porto Rican tobacco, made for me.”

“Thank you. But, Mr. Livingston, your cigarmaker must have been mistaken in his blend. These are the shape and size of Porto Ricos, but the tobacco is Havana.”

“Is it? By Jove! I ordered Porto Ricos.”

“Can’t you tell the difference?” asked the detective, with a smile.

“Not unless they are lighted, and not always then. I thought I was something of a connoisseur of tobacco; but you have me beaten. They’re identical in color.”

“Some growths are; but the odor is unmistakable, if your nose is trained to distinguish the difference. Then, too, feel the shape of the leaf, even as tightly rolled as these are. They are undoubtedly Havana. But I did not come to take up your time by an idle discussion concerning tobacco. I came for some information which only you can give me.”

“You wanted to ask me something about Yates Appleton, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I wanted to know what time he got to your rooms, last night. About one o’clock?”

“Just about—I could not say exactly. I had been to the theater and supper, and was just thinking of turning in when he appeared.”

“Nice state he must have been in, too,” the detective remarked, with studied carelessness; “with one cuflF flying open.”

“Yes!” laughed Mr. Livingston, with the hearty stomach laugh of a fat man. “I had to lend him a pair of cuflF-buttons. He seemed awfully worked up and excited; but then he was a bit—well, you know.”

“Yes,” Gaunt smiled, “I know…. You have known Mr. Yates Appleton long, Mr. Livingston?”

“Known him and his brother all my life,” the other returned. “This shock may pull Yates up and steady him. It’s a frightful affair. Garret Appleton was shot by a burglar during the night, wasn’t he?”

“That is the case as it stands now,” replied the detective. “You cannot give me any more definite information as to the time Mr. Yates Appleton called on you last night, can you?”

“Sorry, I can’t. My man had gone to bed, and I was—well, to tell you the truth, Mr. Gaunt, I was a little foggy myself.”

Gaunt laughed.

“All right, Mr. Livingston; I quite understand. I won’t detain you any longer. Thank you for allowing me to intrude upon you in this way.”

“Oh, it was no intrusion at all, I assure you. ril be only too glad to help in any way I can. Call on me any time you like.”

On the way back to his rooms, in the taxi, Gaunt mused over the information he had just received. Yates Appleton’s friend had, indeed, corroborated the statement, although in so vague a fashion, as to the time of the call upon him; but, on the other hand, he had all unwittingly corroborated the damming evidence of the little link of gold— the link in the disconnected chain of events which proved that some time during the evening Yates had returned to his home, had been in the room where a few hours later his brother was found done to death. If the testimony of the attendants at the club should show that Yates Appleton really left there at about midnight, as he had said, it would leave a rather close margin of time for him to have gone home, held an interview of whatever nature with his brother, and arrived at the rooms of Maurice Livingston by one. A great deal depended now upon Saunders’ success in obtaining information from the Appleton chauflFeur as to where he had driven the car from the time of leaving the club to the arrival at Bryant Chambers.

His simple dinner over, the detective sat in his library, waiting the promised visit of Inspector Hanrahan with ill-concealed impatience. One problem of the morning kept recurring to his mind: Mrs. Finlay Appleton must have thought her younger son guilty of the murder, else she would not have turned from the body of Garret with the cry of, “Cain!” upon her lips. Yet, why, in that case, had she proceeded immediately to obtain the services of a detective of wide repute, to investigate the murder and discover the culprit?

But stay! Had he been retained to discover the truth, or, as Yates had informed him, to prevent as much of the police interference as possible? Would Mrs. Finlay Appleton or her son later approach him in an attempt to influence him by a bribe, or otherwise to cloak the true facts of the case in their interest?

The inspector arrived about nine.

“Mr. Yates Appleton left the club about ten minutes of twelve, Mr. Gaunt. The carriagestarter says so, and the coat-room boy confirms him, because Mr. Appleton particularly asked him the time…. Got anything new, sir? There is nothing in that Louis Lantelme theory. The man’s alibi proved to be complete.”

“Did you get any more out of Dakers, the butler?” the detective asked, after a pause.

“No, sir.”

Something in the detective’s face made the burly Inspector lean forward suddenly, his hands on his knees.

“What do you mean, sir? What do you think?”

“Watch him!”