Luminous Face

Carolyn Wells

Description

An idle conversation among friends turns to the topic of murder, with each person discussing how and against whom they would commit the ultimate crime if given the opportunity. When one of the hypothetical victims is found dead, the identity of the perpetrator seems to be clear -- until crack detective Pennington Wise shows up.

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 octobre 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776592517
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE LUMINOUS FACE
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CAROLYN WELLS
 
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The Luminous Face First published in 1921 Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-251-7 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-252-4 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - Doctor Fell Chapter II - The Telephone Call Chapter III - The Lindsays Chapter IV - Pollard's Threat Chapter V - Mrs Mansfield's Story Chapter VI - The Fur Collar Chapter VII - Barry's Suspect Chapter VIII - Miss Adams' Story Chapter IX - Ivy Hayes Chapter X - The Signed Letter Chapter XI - Miss Adams Again Chapter XII - Louis' Confession Chapter XIII - Philip and Phyllis Chapter XIV - Hester's Statement Chapter XV - Phyllis and Ivy Chapter XVI - Buddy Chapter XVII - Zizi Chapter XVIII - The Luminous Face
Chapter I - Doctor Fell
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"A bit thick, I call it," Pollard looked round the group; "here'sMellen been dead six weeks now, and the mystery of his taking-offstill unsolved."
"And always will be," Doctor Davenport nodded. "Mighty few murders arebrought home to the villains who commit them."
"Oh, I don't know," drawled Phil Barry, an artist, whose dress anddemeanor coincided with the popular idea of his class. "I've no headfor statistics," he went on, idly drawing caricatures on the margin ofhis evening paper as he talked, "but I think they say that onlyone-tenth of one per cent, of the murderers in this great and gloriouscountry of ours are ever discovered."
"Your head for statistics is defective, as you admit," DoctorDavenport said, his tone scornful; "but percentages mean little inthese matters. The greater part of the murders committed are notbrought prominently before public notice. It's only when the victim isrich or influential, or the circumstances of some especial interestthat a murder occupies the front pages of the newspapers."
"Old Mellen's been on those same front pages for several weeks—offand on, that is," Pollard insisted; "of course, he was a well-knownman and his exit was dramatic. But all the same, they ought to havecaught his murderer—or slayer, as the papers call him."
"Him?" asked Barry, remembering the details of the case.
"Impersonal pronoun," Pollard returned, "and probably a man anyway.'Cherchez la femme,' is the trite advice, and always sounds well, butreally, a woman seldom has nerve enough for the fatal deed."
"That's right," Davenport agreed. "I know lots of women who have allthe intent of murder in their hearts, but who never could pull itoff."
"A good thing, too," Barry observed. "I'd hate to think any woman Iknow capable of murder! Ugh!" His long, delicate white hand waved awaythe distasteful idea with a gesture that seemed to dismiss itentirely.
There were not many in the Club lounge, the group of men had it mostlyto themselves, and as the afternoon dusk grew deeper and the lightswere turned on, several more went away, and finally Fred Lane rose togo.
"Frightfully interesting, you fellows," he said, "but it's after five,and I've a date. Anybody I can drop anywhere?"
"Me, please," accepted Dean Monroe. "That is, if you're going my way.I want to go downtown."
"Was going up," returned Lane, "but delighted to change my route. Comealong, Monroe."
But Monroe had heard a chance word from Doctor Davenport that arrestedhis attention, and he sat still.
"Guess I won't go quite yet—thanks all the same," he nodded at Lane,and lighted a fresh cigarette.
Dean Monroe was a younger man than the others, an artist, but not yetin the class with Barry. His square, firm-set jaw, and his Wedgwoodblue eyes gave his face a look of power and determination quite incontrast with Philip Barry's pale, sensitive countenance. Yet the twowere friends—chums, almost, and though differing in their views onart, each respected the other's opinions.
"Have it your own way," Lane returned, indifferently, and went off.
"Crime detection is not the simple process many suppose," Davenportwas saying, and Monroe gave his whole attention. "So much depends onchance."
"Now, Doctor," Monroe objected, "I hold it's one of the most exactsciences, and—"
Davenport looked at him, as an old dog might look at an impertinentkitten.
"Being an exact science doesn't interfere with dependence on chance,"he growled; "also, young man, are you sure you know what an exactscience is?"
"Yeppy," Monroe defended himself, as the others smiled a little."It's—why, it's a science that's exact—isn't it?"
His gay smile disarmed his opponent, and Davenport, mounted on hishobby, went on: "You may have skill, intuition, deductive powers andall that, but to discover a criminal, the prime element is chance.Now, in the Mellen case, the chances were all against the detectivesfrom the first. They didn't get there till the evidences were, ormight have been destroyed. They couldn't find Mrs Gresham, the mostimportant witness until after she had had time to prepare her stringof falsehoods. Oh, well, you know how the case was messed up, and now,there's not a chance in a hundred of the truth ever being known."
"Does chance play any part in your profession, Doctor?" asked Monroe,with the expectation of flooring him.
"You bet it does!" was the reply. "Why, be I never so careful in mydiagnosis or treatment, a chance deviation from my orders on the partof patient or attendant, a chance draught of wind, or upsetnerves—oh, Lord, yes! as the Good Book says, 'Time and Chancehappeneth to us all.' And no line of work is more precarious thanestablishing a theory or running down a clew in a murder case. For thecriminal, ever on the alert, has all the odds on his side, and canblock or divert the detective's course at will."
Doctor Ely Davenport was, without being pompous, a man who was at alltimes conscious of his own personality and sure of his own importance.He was important, too, being one of the most highly thought of doctorsin New York City, and his self-esteem, if a trifle annoying, wasfounded on his real worth.
He often said that his profession brought him in contact with thesouls of men and women quite as much as with their bodies, and he wasfond of theorizing what human nature might do or not do in crucialmoments.
The detection of crime he held to be a matter requiring the highestintelligence and rarest skill.
"Detection!" he exclaimed, in the course of the present conversation,"why detection is as hard to work out as the Fourth Dimension! Asdifficult to understand as the Einstein theory."
"Oh, come now, Doctor," Pollard said, smiling, "that's going a bit toofar. I admit, though, it requires a superior brain. But any real workdoes. However, I say, first catch your motive."
"That's it," broke in Monroe, eagerly. "It all depends on the motive!"
"The crime does," Davenport assented, drily, "but not the detection.You youngsters don't know what you're talking about—you'd better shutup."
"We know a lot," returned Monroe, unabashed. "Youth is no barrier toknowledge these days. And I hold that the clever detective seeks firstthe motive. You can't have a murder without a motive, any more than anomelette without eggs."
"True, oh, Solomon," granted the doctor. "But the motive may be knownonly to the murderer, and not to be discovered by any effort of theinvestigator."
"Then the murder mystery remains unsolved," returned Monroe, promptly.
"Your saying so doesn't make it so, you know," drawled Phil Barry, inhis impertinent way. "Now, to me it would seem that a nice lot ofcircumstantial evidence, and a few good clews would expedite mattersjust as well as a knowledge of the villain's motive."
"Circumstantial evidence!" scoffed Monroe.
"Sure," rejoined Barry; "Give me a smoking revolver with initials onit, a dropped handkerchief, monogrammed, of course, half a brokencuff-link, and a few fingerprints, and I care not who knows themotive. And if you can add a piece—no, a fragment of tweed, clutchedin the victim's rigid hand—why—I'll not ask for wine!"
"What rubbish you all talk," said Pollard, smiling superciliously;"don't you see these things all count? If you have motive you don'tneed evidence, and vice versa . That is, if both motive andevidence are the real thing."
"There are only three motives," Monroe informed. "Love, hate andmoney."
"You've got all the jargon by heart, little one," and Pollard grinnedat him. "Been reading some new Detective Fiction?"
"I'm always doing that," Monroe stated, "but I hold that a detectivewho can't tell which of those three is the motive, isn't worth hissalt."
"Salt is one commodity that has remained fairly inexpensive," saidBarry, speaking slowly, and with his eyes on his cigarette, from whichhe was carefully amputating the ash, "and a detective who could trulydiagnose motive is not to be sneezed at. Besides, revenge is often areason."
"That comes under the head of hate," promptly responded Monroe. "Thethree motives include all the gamut of human emotion, and some oftheir ramifications will include every murder motive that everexisted."
"Fear?" quietly suggested Doctor Davenport.
"Part of hate," said Monroe, but he was challenged by Pollard.
"Not necessarily. A man may fear a person whom he does not hate atall. But there's another motive, that doesn't quite fit yourclassification, Monroe."
Before the inevitable question could be put another man joined thegroup.
"Hello, folks," said Robert Gleason, as he sat down; "hope I don'tintrude—and all that. What you talking about?"
"Murder," said Barry. "Murder as a Fine Art, you know."
"Don't