“What noise?” I asked.
“Sounded as though that precious cuff-link of yours had dropped into the water.” He started for me, and as he did so, I bent down quickly and plunged my arm into the water. My fingers closed on the revolver just as he came bounding toward me. With a quick shove I pushed it far into the soft clay of the bank, and, grabbing a rock off the bottom of the creek, withdrew my arm from the water and slipped the rock into my pocket. The red-faced little detective was peering over my shoulder as I turned. Rarely have I seen a man so angry.
“Give me what you pulled out of that creek!” he almost screamed.
“What for, Inspector?” I asked quietly.
“Never mind what for. You give me what you found in that creek, or I'll—” he grabbed me by the shoulder.
“All right,” I said; “all right, Inspector, don't get so excited over nothing. It's yours.” I pulled the muddy rock from my coat pocket and gravely handed it to him. “It was only an ordinary, every-day rock. I didn't know you were a geologist.”
He pounced on me and ran his fingers over my person. Red-faced, he surveyed me.
“I ain't a geologist, but I am a criminologist, and just one more of your monkey tricks like that and I'll put you where you'll have time to study a lot of rocks and do a lot of thinkin' before bein' funny again. Now, you get out! Get into that car as quick as you can, if you know what's good for you!”
Hoping I could retrieve the revolver later, and realizing that nothing could be gained by staying there longer, I started toward the car. I had hardly taken five steps when I heard a joyful yell and turned to see Robinson struggling to his feet, the muddy revolver in his hand.
“Here's your cuff-link,” he cried. “Before I'm through you'll find that this ain't a cuff-link, but a necklace for the neck of that pretty sister of yours. You, with your Socialists and your cuff-buttons, tryin' to keep me from gettin' what I go after. Well, it didn't work! It don't usually, when I go after somethin'. It didn't work, did it?”
“No. It didn't work,” I admitted.
“Oh, I don't blame you,” Robinson went on, mollified by his success and the soft tone of my reply; “I'd of done the same thing in your place, if my sister was a murderer.”
The word “murderer” acted like an electric shock on me.
“She didn't do it, I tell you; she couldn't have done it!”
“Now, Mr. Thompson,” Robinson began in a soothing voice. “These things happen in even the best families sometimes. You mustn't take it too hard.”
“Will you let me examine that revolver?” I demanded.
“Why, no. I can't let you examine it. But I'll examine it when I get ready.”
“Will you be so good as to do it now?” I asked.
“What for?”
“Because it may not have been fired at all. That would make things look entirely different, you know.”
The inspector took out the gaudy handkerchief again and wiped the mud off the barrel and the grip. I had shoved the pistol barrel foremost into the bank so the muzzle was filled with clay. It was Jim's—a “32” automatic.
“It won't be spoilin' any evidence by my cleanin' this mud off the outside, because you put that there yourself,” the detective said, wiping the pistol carefully. He released the spring and pulled out the clip. I saw a cartridge at the top of the clip and exclaimed:
“There! You see? That gun was never fired!”
The inspector looked at me with a pitying smile.
“Now, that's where you're wrong, Mr. Thompson. You see, you don't know the inner workings of an automatic. When a gun like this is fired, it discharges the old shell and a new cartridge comes to the top of the clip. There are only three cartridges left in this clip.”
“Do you mean to say that my sister fired more than one shot?” I asked sarcastically.
“Not at all, not at all,” the little man responded airily. “There were probably only four cartridges in the gun in the first place. You're gettin' all excited over this thing. Of course, I don't blame you, Mr. Thompson, for tryin' to fight against facts, but it certainly looks bad for sister.”
I got into my car and started home, my heart dead within me. It certainly did look bad for Helen.
CHAPTER NINE. LOOK OUT, JIM
A good general realizes when he is beaten and changes his tactics accordingly. Where I had been certain of Zalnitch's guilt before, and had planned his prosecution, now, with the sickening certainty that it was my sister herself who was guilty, I began to plan her defense. Yes, I'll admit right now, the gun convinced me. I had been certain that Jim had not been killed through careless driving, that is why I had been so insistent that Inspector Robinson should hunt down those responsible for his death. Now that it was too late, I cursed myself for not having let well-enough alone and aided the coroner in giving a verdict of accidental death. My suspicions against Zalnitch had been based on the knowledge that he hated Jim and would have done anything to put him out of the way. Coincidence had brought him over the same road that Jim had traveled a few minutes before his death. This had strengthened my suspicions, but the case would have been hard to prove, while the evidence against Helen was too pronounced to be disregarded. Woods, too, had gained my suspicions, and yet he was miles away from the murder. I realized suddenly that I had been refusing to look at the obvious in order that I might place the guilt where I wanted to believe it lay. Yet it did seem the irony of fate that the two men benefiting by Jim's death should have had nothing to do with it.
Helen did it! As the awful realization of what that meant came over me, I hoped, for a brief second, that death would take her and so spare her the consequences of her act. It would be such an easy way out. I felt sure that if she died I could hush the whole thing up. The Sun could be bought, if enough money was offered.
These gruesome thoughts carried me into the city almost before I knew it. I stopped at the house to change my muddy clothes, before going to the hospital to get Mary, and learned from the maid that mother had been asking for me. I went quickly to her room. She was lying in bed and at first I thought she was asleep, but she turned as I approached her.
“Is that you, Warren?” she asked softly.
“Yes, mother. Stella said you wanted to see me.” I bent down and kissed her lightly. She reached up and put her thin weak arms around my neck.
“Warren, is there anything wrong? If there is you must tell me.”
“No, mother. What made you think that?” I asked.
She slowly withdrew her arms and let them fall at her side.
“I don't know. I seemed to feel that something had happened. Just lying here, I felt afraid for you children—and then there were so many people ringing the bell and the telephone, I was afraid that some accident had happened to you or Helen.”