In the light of the study, this man was a being with a human mask. Through that inscrutable countenance gleamed a pair of sharp, brilliant eyes, that faced the inspector unflinchingly. The eyes made Golshark ill at ease.
“Who are you?” demanded the inspector. “A friend of Winston Collister?”
“Yes,” returned the visitor, in a quiet, even tone. “My name is Henry Arnaud. I have just driven from New York. I intended to call upon Mr. Collister this evening. I stopped by, even though the hour was late. I have just learned — from the officer at the front door — that tragedy has fallen here.”
“Winston Collister has been murdered,” declared the inspector. “Two servants and a patrolman killed, also.”
Henry Arnaud nodded thoughtfully. “Are there any clews to the murderer?” he questioned, in his quiet tone.
INSPECTOR GOLSHARK started. Who was this man? Openly declaring himself a friend of the slain millionaire, there was no reason why Henry Arnaud should be denied admittance to Winston Collister’s home. But there was something in Arnaud’s speech that perplexed the inspector. He sensed that he was dealing with a man of keen intellect — one who seemed coldly capable of conducting his own investigation.
Arnaud’s explanation of how he happened to stop here was quite plausible. Inspector Golshark accepted it, but with momentary reservations. The inspector would have been surprised had he known that less than twenty minutes before this man had been at police headquarters.
For Henry Arnaud had learned of Winston Collister’s death by the simple procedure of stopping at headquarters to check up on recent local crime.
In the hubbub that had followed the report of the killings at the Collister home, Arnaud had gained the information he wanted without asking a single question. It was that visit that had caused Arnaud to come here — not any acquaintanceship that existed between himself and the murdered millionaire.
“What were the details of Winston Collister’s death?” quizzed Arnaud, in a placid tone.
Despite a momentary antagonism, Inspector Golshark found himself describing what had happened — so far as the police had been able to ascertain the facts.
“There was a man in this room,” he announced. “Who he was — we don’t know as yet. We figure he slipped in here somehow, and Winston Collister found him. People upstairs heard Collister shouting for the servants — Ducroe and Ogden. They came running in.
“The murderer killed the lot — Collister and both the others. Then he hit for the front door. Collister’s boys were coming in. He shot down one — young Harry Collister. The other, Jerry, got clubbed with the gun.
“Patrolman Luchner heard the shots out on the avenue. He was running up the walk. The killer got him, too — and then made a getaway across the street. That’s the last that was seen of him.” Henry Arnaud nodded.
“Was there any motive for the murders?” he asked.
“None we know of,” responded Golshark promptly. “We opened the wall safe — Mrs. Collister gave us the combination — but there’s nothing taken from it. Some articles of value there — all untouched. She knew the contents of the safe. We figure that the guy came in here to steal; when he was discovered, he shot his way out. That’s all.”
Again, Arnaud nodded. He looked at the floor, and gazed about the room. He asked another question.
“Where are the bodies?”
“Removed,” said the inspector. “Collister was here — Ogden here — Ducroe here. We’ve got that part of it straight. He shot down the old man first, and bumped off the servants when they came in; then ran for it.”
“Very unfortunate,” mused Arnaud, in a solemn tone. “It is quite a shock to me. I hardly know whether I should go on to Massachusetts or go back to New York. Do you object to my staying here a short while?”
“Stick around,” replied the inspector. “Maybe” — he paused to smile — “you may find something we’ve missed.”
“Perhaps,” observed Arnaud dryly.
THE visitor strolled from the study. Inspector Golshark nudged a detective as a sign for the man to follow. As Arnaud crossed the hall and walked slowly into the library, the sleuth was close beside him. Henry Arnaud sat in a chair; the detective walked across the room and stared through a window.
It was while the man’s eyes were away from him that Henry Arnaud spotted a small white object lying on the floor. He dropped his hand and picked up the object. It was a calling card, and Arnaud noted the name it bore as he pocketed the card.
Ten minutes later, Inspector Golshark entered the library to see Henry Arnaud resting with half-closed eyes. The visitor awoke from his doze with a start and smiled wanly.
“I feel better,” he remarked. “The long drive — the shock of Collister’s death — both were a bit too much for me. I think I shall go back to New York.”
“Sorry you won’t be able to help us,” declared the inspector, with a touch of irony.
“In what way?” asked Arnaud.
“By doing a bit of crime reconstruction,” said the inspector. “You seemed so anxious to know the details that I thought maybe you might have spotted a few clews.”
A sharp glint came to Henry Arnaud’s eyes. His lips compressed. He arose from his chair, and faced the inspector with a challenging gaze. His own voice, though even, carried a stronger touch of sarcasm than had the inspector’s.
“I have formed a few assumptions,” said Arnaud, “and I presume you might be interested in hearing them. Crime, inspector, is often a matter of detail. I have a peculiar knack for reconstructing scenes, partly through deduction, and partly through intuition. Tonight’s events, as I visualize them, began in this room.”
A puzzled frown came over the inspector’s brow. Golshark sensed the challenge in Arnaud’s voice. Was the man baiting him, or had this chance visit been made with a purpose?
“Winston Collister,” resumed Arnaud, “was reading in this room. He was evidently awaiting a visitor. Otherwise, he might not have been alone here at midnight, with the servants on duty; and he might have been satisfied with reading one book steadily, instead of choosing different ones and laying them aside.”
Golshark followed the direction of Arnaud’s gaze. The inspector saw three books lying on the table beside the chair where Arnaud had been sitting.
Arnaud’s eyes turned toward the bookcases. Golshark followed again and saw the vacancies from which the books had been removed. Close by were other books, jutting from the rows — but that peculiarity did not exist except at the one spot.
“A trifle impatient,” explained Arnaud, “Winston Collister started to take down books, and chose others in their place. The arrival of his guest — announced by one of his servants — caused him to go into the study.”
Inspector Golshark was frowning. He saw Arnaud’s forefinger point to an ash stand, to the remains of a cigar.
“Collister had been smoking,” observed Arnaud. “That is an important point, inspector. Come with me — perhaps we will find what happened after Winston Collister left this room.”
WITH a gesture to the detective, Golshark followed Arnaud into the study. The other members of the police force had gone. With only the inspector and the detective present, Henry Arnaud resumed his discourse.
“A box of cigars,” he commented, pointing to the desk. “Winston Collister offered one to his guest. The man evidently preferred a cigarette — of a distinctive brand, inspector. So Collister lighted a cigar for himself. He smoked it but a short while. Here it is — in the ash stand.”