“It was nearly supper time, so I went downtown to my favorite restaurant. On the way home I stopped, as is my custom, at the Public Library. It was late when I returned to bed. As I opened my window I noticed that the bay window was dark, and presumed, of course, that the man and woman had retired.
“Now I am an early riser, sir. I very often do two or three hours’ work before breakfast.”
Here he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his head.
“Mr. Meroe,” he said strangely, and evidently quite carried away with a vivid memory, “this morning I commenced to write, as usual. Soon came the first light of dawn. I kept on writing. Then it grew lighter and I turned off the desk lamp... And, dear God! man,” he said hoarsely, “I looked out of the window — I looked out of the window, and... there she was — that woman — still staring at me! And the head of the man was above the back of the settee in exactly the same position.”
I leaned forward with a glance at Meroe.
“And what did you do, Mr. Grover?” he was asking.
“I went directly over to the Claridge, sir, but the janitor said that I was — er — crazy, and would not listen to me. What’s more, he would not let me in to wake up the manager. So I returned to my room to make sure that I had not been dreaming. Being perfectly satisfied that this was not the case, I decided to appeal to you. If you will come directly to my room, I am confident that you will find things just as I have stated.”
“And it is your opinion, Mr. Grover, that a crime has been committed?”
“Why, yes — er — well, that, of course, is one possibility.”
“Come,” said Meroe, putting the screen in front of the fireplace, “we will go immediately.”
Once in the room, Grover advanced quickly to the window and uttered an exclamation of astonishment, for the room behind the third bay window opposite was the scene of a commotion.
Meroe bolted for the door with the two of us at his heels.
The office of the Claridge was empty. Not waiting to ring for the elevator, Meroe rushed up six flights of stairs.
I followed him, leaving Grover blustering and far behind.
We made our way toward the sound of voices down the hall, and stood in the doorway of a room facing a dozen or more people. Meroe showed them his badge of authority. Mr. Barhart, manager of the hotel, stood forth as main spokesman. I was surprised to find that all in the room were alive and on their feet, and noticed that Meroe was also somewhat disturbed at this.
“Where are the bodies?” he asked, addressing Mr. Barhart, who seemed rather astounded that Meroe had arrived upon the scene, and could not quite understand how he had known that there were bodies in the case when he, himself, had just discovered them.
“Why, we carried them to the bed in the other room,” he replied, “and sent for the house doctor.”
“Has he been here?”
“He has examined them, sir. In fact, he is still in the room with them.”
“Were they dead?”
“Apparently quite lifeless.”
“Then you should not have removed them until the arrival of the proper authorities, Mr. Barhart. Have you notified the police?”
“The police!” Mr. Barhart was quite taken aback. “It had not occurred to me that there was need to notify the police. I was about to notify the friends of these people and arrange with the undertaker...”
“Then it had not occurred to you, Mr. Barhart, that a crime had been committed?”
There was a murmuring of voices among the assembly at the end of the room, among which were guests of the hotel, two or three maids, the elevator boy, and the telephone girl.
“A crime!” exclaimed the manager. “These unfortunate people have been ill. Fifteen minutes ago a telegram came for Mr. Brentore, and, as they did not answer the phone, I, myself, came up to see what was the matter. I found them dead, Mrs. Brentore in the chair here, and Mr. Brentore on the settee by the window.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw that Grover had caught up with us and was standing in the doorway.
“What was the doctor’s verdict?” asked Meroe of Barhart at this point.
“That they both had died of heart trouble, perhaps after having eaten a very heavy meal,” he replied.
“Oh, but they were not present in the dining-room at dinner time,” interrupted one of the guests.
Meroe beckoned to Grover.
“Mr. Barhart, this man occupies a room on the sixth floor of the Buckminster, very nearly opposite these windows. Yesterday afternoon he saw Mr. and Mrs. Brentore in the positions in which you have informed me they were found this morning. Early this morning he saw them in the same position. He rushed here to notify you. Your janitor laughed at him, called him crazy, and refused to let him wake you. I am. sorry, Mr. Barhart, but I will have to ask all of you to remain in this room until I have investigated the situation a little more closely...”
The telephone girl stepped forward and held up her hand.
“Lee Harmon, the janitor, has disappeared,” she said. “He was seen by Miss Lougee, the night operator, at about six. Shortly after that there was a call for him about a water fixture, but he was not to be found.”
Just then the doctor stepped forth from the bedroom.
“These gentlemen are here under the impression that a crime has been committed,” said Barhart, with a sweep of the hand toward the three of us.
“And perhaps — perhaps we are wrong,” said Grover, with his rasping voice. “I was the one who suggested the idea. I was very suspicious and consulted Mr. Meroe immediately, knowing that he, if anyone, could throw light on the subject. But — but perhaps I was over-hasty — yes, perhaps I was over-hasty...”
“There is every evidence of a natural death,” said the doctor.
“You are sure there were no marks of violence?” asked Meroe.
“Absolutely, Mr. Meroe. I have examined the bodies very carefully. Besides, they were found in a peaceful position, one in the chair and one on the settee. This would hardly indicate a death by violence. No, the deaths were undoubtedly caused by heart failure although I am at a loss to know the exact nature of this heart failure. There is a total lack of other indications.”
“Does it not strike you as odd, doctor,” said Meroe, “that the two deaths should have occurred simultaneously?”
“At first, yes. But on second thought, no,” he replied. “They were both in a weak condition, and, in sitting conversing with each other, as was evidently the case, if one were to die suddenly, it would not be unnatural that the shock of the discovery should cause heart failure in the other.”
Meroe shook his head doubtfully.
“And you are absolutely certain that they were not poisoned?” he asked.
“No. I am not absolutely certain that they were not poisoned,” was the reply. “But I will assist in performing an autopsy this morning, if you wish.”
“Please make arrangements to do that,” said Meroe. “And I will notify the coroner at once. And, by the way, doctor, Mr. Barhart informs me that Mr. and Mrs. Brentore had been ill. May I ask what was the nature of that illness?”
“That I do not know, Mr. Meroe. Although I am the house doctor, Mr. and Mrs. Brentore were in the habit of consulting a doctor by the name of Kramer. I know nothing about him other than his name and his distinctly odd personal appearance.”
Meroe turned to the gathering at the end of the room.
“Is there testimony to be volunteered illustrative of the case as it stands,” he asked. “Does anyone know where Dr. Kramer may be found?”
“I have heard Mrs. Brentore call Dr. Kramer on the phone,” said the telephone girl. “He lives at the Braymore.”