“She went back downstairs, I believe, sir.”
Burke nodded and went to the group of Mexicans who remained close together, silent and watchful. Pausing in front of them, Burke said:
“You, Senor Rodriguez, are the only one who doesn’t need to account for himself. You and you,” the stem of his pipe stabbed at Michaela and Pasqual in turn, “stayed upstairs after bringing Miss Dwight to her room. That puts you on the list of suspects. I’ll see you in the study first, Miss O’Toole.”
He went on down the stairs and Jelcoe followed with Hardiman, while the rest of them came stringing along slowly.
Passing the library with Burke, I glanced in through the open doors and saw Myra Young sitting alone on the divan staring vacantly at an empty cocktail glass in her hand. Her heavy features were relaxed and flaccid, as though she had been wound up too tight and her main-spring had parted under the strain of too much emotional stress.
Dwight’s private study adjoined the library. It was a small comfortable room, fitted with a round center table, a desk in one corner, deep chairs and smoking stands.
Jelcoe hesitated in the doorway with Hardiman, while Burke and I went in. I could almost see Jelcoe’s mouth watering at the hope of being in on the questioning, but he waited stiffly for orders in that subservient way of his that carried a sneer with it.
“Suppose you go into the library and wait there,” Burke said to the diplomat. “And you can bring Miss O’Toole in, Chief.”
Jelcoe hurried to get her while Jerry sank down into a deep chair and began loading his pipe. He looked worried and uncertain, and shook his head when I asked:
“Isn’t it pretty nearly cut and dried, Jerry? Hardiman had a perfect motive and a swell opportunity.”
“I can’t forget his seeming surprise when he looked down on Dwight’s body and saw the bullet-hole.”
“But he admitted that was simulated,” I argued. “After he found out we had heard the shot and he couldn’t make his first story stick.”
Burke sucked the flame of a match into his pipe and nodded, still with that look of frowning uncertainty on his face. “I know,” he muttered, “but...”
Chief Jelcoe came in with Michaela O’Toole and shut the door behind him. She stood poised and unafraid before us, but there was a light of vengeful gladness in her blue eyes.
Burke said, “Sit down,” and she sat in a straight chair, primly erect with slender hands clasped in her lap.
“What did you do after taking Miss Dwight to her room?”
“Pasqual and I went to the end of the hall to a little balcony for fresh air.”
“And were there when Dwight was shot?”
Michaela shook her head. “I do not know when he was shot. We stayed until everybody came upstairs and there was much noise and excitement. They told us Mr. Dwight was dead when we came inside to ask the cause.”
“Do you mean to tell me you didn’t hear the shot fired?” Burke demanded.
“We heard nothing.” Michaela’s voice was soft and liquidly vibrant.
“It isn’t a very good thing to tell even one lie during a murder investigation,” Burke shot at her. “It throws a shadow on all your testimony.”
“But I have not lied.” She didn’t sound wholly convincing to me but I couldn’t tell whether Burke believed her or not.
“Where have you seen this before?” Jerry suddenly produced the silver cross and held it up before her eyes.
A tremor passed over her mobile features, then they became wholly composed. But I looked at her hands and saw the fingers clasped together tightly.
She asked in a sudden throaty tone: “Where did you get it?”
“Dwight’s murderer left it on his body for us to find,” Burke said bluntly.
She shook her head slowly and I would have sworn there was puzzlement in her eyes. “I have not seen that before.”
“What is it?”
“But, it is a cross.” Her fingers came unwound and she spread out her hands.
“A peculiar sort of cross. What is the meaning of the extra bar?”
“Why do you ask me this question?” Her eyes were wide and childlike.
“Don’t evade the issue!” Jerry Burke’s heavy fist pounded on the table in front of him. “There was a picture of this same cross on the note you wrote to Leslie Young. Why?”
Michaela said: “I know nothing,” in a tone that plainly said she had no intention of telling us anything.
“You don’t deny tracing this identical symbol on the note you sent Young?”
“But no,” Michaela said serenely. “I would be foolish to deny what you know.”
“Then you must have seen this cross before... or one exactly like it!” Burke exploded.
“But yes.” She used the patient tone of one who was dealing with a child or a fool. “How else could I put it on my letter?”
“What message did it convey to Leslie Young?”
“Did it give some message to him?”
Jerry wiped sweat from his forehead and got rid of a disgusted, “Oh, hell.” He glared at his cold pipe, then laid it down and said to the girclass="underline"
“I’ll put my cards on the table. Mr. Hardiman has admitted Dwight was holding something over his head, forcing him to use his official position to negotiate for a private settlement from your country on Dwight’s oil claims. I’m not interested in any of that except as it pertains to two murders. You can help a lot by explaining how Leslie Young entered into the situation.”
“I have not said I wanted to help,” she reminded him.
I thought Burke was going to explode, but he didn’t. He used up a couple of minutes getting hold of himself, then said resignedly to Jelcoe:
“Take her out and bring in Pasqual, the young Mexican.”
As Jelcoe opened the door, we heard the tramp of feet, and voices arguing with the butler in the hall. Jelcoe paused to report: “It’s the homicide squad, sir. I’ll get them started to work, and bring the Mexican in.”
Burke sat staring across the room, rubbing his stubby gray hair from front to back. I caught myself thinking about Laura Yates as we sat there silently. The whole thing was too hopelessly mixed up for me to do more than a spot of fitful thinking. Jerry hadn’t asked Hardiman about the telegram... nor about the telephone message which the butler had thought came from Laura. Had Laura met Hardiman on the side lawn by prearrangement to warn him about the telegram, forcing him to take the desperate step of obtaining certain papers from Dwight’s safe?
I came out of my brown study as the door opened and Jelcoe roughly pushed Pasqual inside. The young Mexican appeared sullen, but defiantly unafraid. He answered Burke’s questions in curt monosyllables, corroborating Michaela’s story of their presence on the outside balcony when the murder took place, and emphatically denying that they had heard a pistol shot.
He had perfect emotional control or had been forewarned about the cross, for his dark face showed no emotion whatsoever when Burke produced the silver symbol of death and questioned him about it. He denied knowing anything, denied ever having seen or heard of such a cross before. And he insisted that he knew nothing about Michaela’s mission to El Paso, and refused to throw any light on the connection between Michaela, Senor Rodriguez, Dwight, and Hardiman.
Burke gave up after a time, and had the servants brought in one by one. They proved to be singularly devoid of helpful information. Indeed, I received the distinct impression that they had hated their employer and wouldn’t have given any evidence pointing to his murderer if such evidence had been in their possession... though that feeling on my part may have been merely a subconscious reaction to my own dislike of Raymond Dwight.
Myra Young was next. She answered Burke’s probing questions in a tone of disinterested finality. All she knew was that she had stepped into the dark outside room of Dwight’s suite and called to him. He had answered her from the bedroom which was also dark. He had said only that Mr. Hardiman had left his room a short time before. When pressed by Burke as to the tone of Dwight’s voice and the manner of his speaking, she hesitantly admitted that he had sounded peculiar, perhaps as a result of the first effect of the drug Hardiman had administered before leaving the room.