The Red-Haired Girl

Front matter

Date Entered

This book is the property of ‘he Younker Circulating Library

Des Moines

Contents

CHAPTER: 1 LLOYD COMES HOME

Lioyp CONVERSE was a square man. Once a gay young flapper had described him as a big, footbally kind of chap.

And he was. His wide, square shoulders told truly of his athletic prowess at college, and his thick, dark hair had some refractory locks that fell over ‘his brow as often as he tossed them impatiently back.

Chapter II The Print On The Mat

THE police arrived. Medical Examiner Jarvis began at once his examination of the dead body, ‘while Inspector Gray and his Lieutenant, named Young, stood silently taking in every possible detail of the room. .

Lloyd Converse said nothing, as he awaited the words of Doctor Jarvis, who soon spoke, saying:

“Shot from behind. Here’s the weapon.”

He picked up the revolver from the floor, handling it carefully, and laid it on the table.

“How long has he been dead?” asked the Inspector, in calm, even tones.

“ Not long. Maybe an hour, maybe two hours.”

“Tell your story,” Gray said, turning to Lloyd. “Sit down, men. Take it easy, Mr. Converse. No hurry.”

“My story is ite ” Lloyd responded. He - didn’t like the cold-blooded, fishy-eyed Inspector, and he unconsciously assumed an air of hauteur. His square shoulders seemed more square as he flung back his fine head and looked his questioner straight in the eye.

“T have been spending my vacation in the Adirondacks. I did not intend returning home until next week, but continued bad weather made me feel fed up with the place, and I concluded to come along down to New York. I knew this house was closed, but I had a latch-key, and I was willing to rough it here, until I could get the servants back. My brother, I knew, was down on Long Island at a house party, and I came here, expecting to find the house empty. — Instead I discovered my brother’s dead body. I searched the house over, but found no person nor any trace of intruders, except one thing, which may or may not be a clue to the murderer.”

The three men listened attentively to Lloyd’s statement, and without showing doubt, their faces betokened an evident desire to hear more.

“Your brother didn’t expect you here to-night? ”

_asked Gray.

“He had no reason to-do so. I didn’t myself think of coming home until last night. Then I packed up and came down to-day.”

“How did your brother happen to be here? ”

“T’ve no idea, but he evidently planned to come, and advised the servants of his intention, for his bed is made and his rooms are in order. My own rooms are still dismantled, as they always are through the summer.”

“It was then, merely a coincidence, that both you and your brother were in this house to-night? ”

“So far as I know, it is merely coincidence. He had not told me he was coming, nor had I told him I was.”

The medical examiner then spoke.

“What is the clue you referred to?”

“Tt is this.’ Lloyd rose and moved toward the bathroom. ‘“‘ When I came in the house I saw a glimmer of light under George’s bedroom door. I opened it, and found there was a light in the bathroom. And on the bath mat was a wet footprint of a bare foot.”

The men stared at him.

“That doesn’t seem remarkable to me,” Gray said. “ Might not your brother have taken a bath? ”’

* But, Inspector,” Lloyd said, earnestly, ‘ the print was wet still, and it seemed to me it was wetter than it could have been after my brother had had time to dress again. And, too, why should he bathe, and then dress again completely, even to his shoes and tie, at that time of night?”

“ And so you deduced it was the footprint of the murderer? ”’

“T thought it might be. Though I admit it is even more absurd that the murderer should have taken a bath, and dressed again, which he must have done before he departed.

“Let us see that footprint.’

“Tt is dry now,” Lloyd told them, as they followed him into the bathroom. “But I took the precaution to draw its outline while it was wet, in case it might be of value as evidence.”

“You were extremely foresighted,” remarked Lieutenant Young. “‘ Very foresighted indeed, I should say.”

Something in his tone made Lloyd turn quickly to look at him. But his face was inscrutable.

Not so the Inspector. He definitely suspected Lloyd Converse had killed his brother, and he was almost ready to say so.

He looked at Lloyd frowningly, and said:

“What did you draw that outline with? Charcoal? How did you happen to have it handy? ”

“I used burnt matches,” Lloyd told him, keeping his poise, and looking calm, but with the calm that hides turbulent passion.

“‘ Clever—very clever,” said Young, with unconcealed sarcasm. ‘‘ And that wet footprint was there when you came into the house? ”’

“twas.

“How long does such a print stay wet, Inspector?” Young said. 3

“ Never tested one, but I should say half an hour orso. At what time did you arrive, Mr. Converse?”

“T don’t know, exactly. But it must have been about one o’clock. My train was due in the Grand Central at midnight. But it was late, and also, I stopped in the restaurant for some supper, knowing there would be no food in this house. So, I think I reached here just about one.”

“And you telephoned for the police at two. What were you doing in the meantime? ”’

Lloyd stared. The question showed direct suspicion, and it was the first time that it really came home to Lloyd that he could be suspected. Of the death of his own brother! Of George’s death— George’s murder!

But Lloyd Converse was not one who weakened inemergency. He squared his shoulders, he squared his jaw, and replied tersely:

_“T was searching the house for traces of the murderer.”

“For a whole hour? ”

“Part of that time I sat stunned at the tragedy I had discovered. Part of the time I spent tracing the outline of the wet footprint, as it seemed to be of importance. And the rest of the time I spent in going over the whole house to find an intruder or some evidence of one.”’

“Very good.” The Inspector herded them back to the sitting-room. “ And now, we'll ask for your finger-prints, if you please.”

The Lieutenant produced his paraphernalia, and Lloyd’s finger-prints were secured.

“This revolver, now,’ Gray went on, while v4

Young worked with the finger-print outfit. “ Whose iste

“Tt is my brother’s,” Lloyd replied.

“Where was it usually kept?”

“In that table drawer.”

“Then must we not assume that the murderer — was some person well enough known to his victim, to enter the room where he sat, secure the weapon from the table drawer, and put it to a deadly purpose, without calling forth any resistance and struggle, on the part of the man who was shot?”

“Tt would seem so,”’ Lloyd returned, with utter absence of resentment or any sign of fear.

““Mr. Converse, have you any suspicion of the identity of your brother’s slayer?”

“Not the slightest.” He spoke emphatically, but after an instant’s hesitation. “I have told you the exact truth, and I want you to discover the murderer.” ;

“ T think we shan’t have to look far,” said Young, who had developed his finger-prints sufficiently for his purpose. “ We don’t need enlargements, Inspector. I find on the revolver, no finger-prints except some of Mr. Lloyd Converse’s. Also, I find on this glass,” he lifted the glass from which Lloyd had taken his high-balls, ‘‘ only the same finger-prints. On the other glass, I find other prints which I suspect to be those of Mr. George Converse, and this can be easily verified or disproved.”

With his quick, efficient motions, Young set about printing the dead man’s fingers, and soon announced his assumption correct.

Lloyd’s finger-prints were on the revolver and on one glass. George’s were on the other glass.

The suspect sat unmoved.

“It may seem like circumstantial evidence against me,” he said quietly. ‘‘ But it is misleading. When I came in and saw that revolver on the floor, I picked it up and put it back in its drawer.”

“Why?” the Inspector flung the question at him, with a stern frown. :

“T don’t know why. Partly because I was dazed with the shock of my discovery, and I put it away instinctively. Then, when I telephoned, and your man said to, touch nothing, I restored the pistol to the place on the floor where I had first seen it. That is the explanation of my own finger-prints on it.”

“ Ingenious!” exclaimed Young with patent disbelief. “ And the whisky glass? ”

-“ Ves, I used that. I found the bottle and the siphon there, with one used glass, doubtless my brother’s. I took up the other glass and mixed a high-ball for myself. Twice I did this, feeling the need of the stimulant.”

“You'd better keep quiet, Mr. Converse,” the Inspector admonished him. “ Every word you say seems to incriminate you deeper. You'd better have counsel.”

“ Counsel ? ”

“Yes. Man, can’t you see where you stand? You come in here late at night, you stay an hour alone with your brother. Your brother is dead, and only your fingerprints are on the weapon that killed him, as well as on the glass that stands beside the one he used himself. It requires but little imagination to reconstruct the crime. You two drank together, then for some reason you quarreled, and in the heat of passion, you snatched the revolver from its place and shot your brother—from behind. s ;

“Stop!” Lloyd’s anger blazed forth. “I didn’t shoot my brother, but if I had, I should not have shot him from behind! I am incapable of such a thing as that!”

His looks and his tone carried conviction, but the Inspector shook his head. The evidence was too strong, too direct for doubt.

“What about that wet footprint?” said Jarvis, who had spoken little, but had thought deeply.

“ That’s all a fake,’’ said Young, contemptuously. ““ As we have seen, Mr. Converse here, has a brilliant imagination. He conceived that footprint idea as a bizarre and interesting clue. Only a warped and criminal mind could have invented that.”

“You mean I made it myself!” Lloyd exclaimed.

“Made the tracing, yes, of course. But there never was any wet footprint there. I have carefully examined the feet of the victim, and I am convinced that his shoes have not been removed from his feet _ since he came into this house. As you can see, the dust that is in the creases of the leather, and even in the points where the laces cross one another, is undisturbed. Had those shoes been taken off and put on again, that dust must have been displaced a trifle at least. It is plain to be seen that no fingers have touched those laces since the wearer of the shoes was out of doors.”

This was palpably true. There was but a slight dust, but it indubitably lay on the leather and the laces undisturbed, which would have been impossible had even careful hands unlaced and relaced the shoes.

“ Therefore,” summed up Young, “if there was a wet footprint, as Mr. Converse states, it was not made by Mr. George Converse. And no rational hypothesis can argue its being made by a murderer who was an intruder from outside. Such a one would be in too great haste to get away from the scene of his crime, and, too, who can imagine a murderer taking a tub after his grim deed had been accomplished ? ”

“He may have been bespattered with blood,” said Doctor Jarvis, thoughtfully, “ and took a bath to clean himself. The wound scattered much blood, the murderer stood rather close is

“Nonsense, man!” Young cried. “Even so, . the man would not undress and take a tub bath! That would not cleanse his clothing, which, of course carried most of the incriminating spots. But a resident of the house might have cared to bathe, in order to remove the unpleasant feeling of a brother’s blood upon him. Though I incline to the opinion that the footprint is entirely a flight of fancy, and as the chil- ~ dren say, ‘ put in to make it harder,’ it is too careful a clue to be real. Too good to be true. And as an indicative footprint, it means nothing. As it is outlined there on the mat, it would practically fit the foot of any man here present.”

They nodded their heads, for the black marks on the mat were wavering and uncertain, by reason of the yielding cotton surface, and as Young said, it might fit almost any man.

“And as to your man who took a bath,” Young went on, “where are his towels? I see no used ones about.”

“There were two on the floor,’ Lloyd said, slowly. “I folded them and hung them on the towel rack.”

“Why? ”

“ Again, I can only say, that I did it unconsciously — instinctively. I was stunned, dazed, and I scarcely knew what I did. But I acted to the best of my intelligence as soon as I collected my wits. I searched the house lest someone be in hiding, and then I telephoned Headquarters.”

“Having waited an hour before you called up.”

“Perhaps so.” Lloyd spoke with the utmost calmness and his voice was quiet and cold, but at heart he was terrified. What was before him? Suspected of murdering his brother—and all the evidence in the case apparently against him! What must he do? What could he do? It passed through his mind that he had been advised to have counsel. Well, he would get counsel, then. Who should it be? Whitney was the only lawyer he knew. He was George’s lawyer, for Lloyd had only rare occasion for legal services, but Whitney was clever and capable, and surely, surely, he would believe Lloyd’s story. He had known the brothers for years, and he knew the affection and congeniality that existed - between them.

There was a pause, and then Lloyd said:

“Look here, men. I admit that circumstances do look black against me. But I did not kill my brother, and I’ve no idea who did. My story of the wet footprint is absolutely true. I traced it, hoping it might be a valuable clue in the hands of a detective. But I see it is not, and so that’s that. My whole story is true, I did just what I have told you I did, and nothing that I haven’t told. Now, as has been suggested, I want counsel, for though I am honest and sincere, I am no match for a suspicious detective, who is ready to twist the truth into a seeming lie, and who calls my statements figments of a criminal brain.”

Lloyd’s tones were scathing, but they made not the least impression on the phlegmatic Young.

“ All right, young feller,” he said, impertinently, “‘you want to get your lawyer to-night?”

‘Oh, no,” and Lloyd realized that it was after three o’clock. “I shall call in Mr. Whitney—Harrison Whitney, and I’d rather not disturb him at this hour. Can’t it wait till morning? ”’

“Yes, I suppose so,” the Inspector told him. “ There’s more to be done here. We must examine the body further, eh, Doctor Jarvis?”

“Yes, of course. Whitney’s a good man, Mr. Converse, you couldn’t do better. He’s had a lot of criminal cases.”

“Don’t go too fast, Mr. Young,” said Lloyd, in icy tones. “ You have no right, as yet, to call mine a criminal case. Just because you are prejudiced in my disfavor, and have misread the existing evidence, that does not justify you assuming my guilt. I shall call in Mr. Whitney to-morrow morning—this morning, rather—as early as I consider proper. Until then you can keep me under such surveillance as you choose. If allowed, I should like to go to bed, as I can tell you no more than I have told, and I am exceedingly weary and worn out.”

“Well, go ahead, Mr. Converse,” the Inspector told him, not unkindly. “ I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t. No use your attempting to bolt— you can’t put it over. But go on upstairs and get what rest you can. We'll take charge here, and if you're wanted, you’ll be sent for.”

With one last sorrowful glance at his brother’s body, Lloyd went up to his own rooms to rest. He had no intention of going to bed, but he wanted to get off by himself to think things over.

He was in a pretty bad hole, no doubt of that. He wondered whether Whitney could get him out or not.

There was plenty of money—if it was to be a question of money.

For, he knew, George’s will left all the large fortune to himself.

And then it struck him for the first time, this fact was one more bit of damaging evidence against him! It supplied motive. So now his accusers could prove motive, opportunity and means! The lonely house, the handy revolver and the need of money. For it was no secret that Lloyd wanted money and wanted George to give it to him. More than once he had asked the lawyer to use his influence with George to make over to him a portion of the paternal fortune. And Whitney had agreed to try, and had tried, but George was obdurate.

Lloyd felt no shame or embarrassment at wanting this money, his sense of justice had always rebelled at the way his father’s will had been made. And Whitney had agreed with him, saying that when he drew up the will of the elder Converse, he had urged a more nearly equal division between the brothers. But Mr. Converse had argued that Lloyd was extravagant, and would squander a fortune, while George was thrifty, and would save and increase the capital, and also, he would give his younger brother all he ought to have.

But as years went by, George had become more and more given to hoarding, and less and less inclined to be generous to Lloyd.

So, now, with a contemplated marriage ahead of

him, Lloyd had planned to ask George frankly, as man to man, if he did not think that he, Lloyd, was entitled to a fairer share.

Lloyd had not expected to see his brother until some days later, and had planned to talk the matter over with the lawyer first, and be guided by him as to the best manner of approaching George. But he was hopeful as to the outcome, for the brothers were really the best of friends, and Lloyd’s conduct of late had been most exemplary in the way of proper economy and freedom from foolish extravagance.

And now, with the motive, which was sure to come out, of wanting much money, and with the exclusive opportunity, Lloyd was forced to realize that there was a strong case against him, and could only hope that Harrison Whitney’s cleverness could find a way out.

At any rate, he thought, nothing could be done until morning, and he decided to call up the lawyer as early as seven o’clock.

He threw himself into a big easy-chair, lighted a pipe, and gave himself up alternately to dreams of the girl he hoped—or had hoped—to win, and the horrible nightmare which had come to him in the last few hours and which refused to be ignored or forgotten.

_ Meanwhile the men downstairs were making further important discoveries. The articles in the dead man’s pockets had been taken out and laid on the table.

They were mostly of no evidential value, being the usual handkerchief, knife, pocket-book, small ° change, lead pencil, and such like.

But among them was a bit of yellow paper, on which Young quickly pounced, exclaiming:

“A telegram!”

It was torn in half, and only the lower part of the form remained. But the message was intact, and read:

“ Dear Brother. I will be at the house late Monday night. Meet methere. Lloyd.”

-“T guess that settles it!” the detective cried, triumphantly. ‘Don’t want much more, do you, Inspector?”

“Tt would seem not. Where was this man?”

“ Down on Long Island somewhere, his precious brother said. It will be easy to check up on that. He must have received this wire down there, and came home in response to it. I don’t believe he had been here long before Lloyd arrived, for he didn’t change his clothes or anything, and there’s not much whisky gone from the bottle.”

“ General deduction, but might be faulty,” Gray smiled. ‘‘ Maybe this is a second bottle.”

“Not likely. The empty would be about somewhere. And, somehow, I don’t see the brothers as drinking men. Do you, Doctor Jarvis? Can’t you tell from the dead man whether he had been drinking alot or nott.<” dibs.

“ Can't tell positively until after the autopsy, but he looks as if he had died sober. And Lloyd Converse was not at all under the influence. If, as he said, he had two drinks, they were small ones.”

“ About three or four small ones have been taken from this bottle,’ Young said, musingly, holding the bottle up to the light. “ Shouldn’t mind one myself— it looks like——”

“Drop it, Young!” said the Inspector, severely. “That’s evidence, and must not be tampered with.”

“T know it,” and the detective set the bottle down with a little sigh. “ Well, what next? Look over the desk for papers, I suppose.”

He set to work investigating the desk that stood against one wall, while Gray. rummaged through the table drawers.

Doctor Jarvis went into the bathroom, and sat down on the white stool here, while he thoughtfully scrutinized the outline of the footprint.

“T think there was a wet print here,” he said ee 3 a at last, and Young came and joined him. “See, the surface of the fabric inside the outline is a little matted and pressed, as if it had been wet.”

“Well, even so,” Young declared, “ Lloyd made it. Either he took off his own shoes and stockings and made the print, or else he drew the outline first and sopped water inside afterward. Clever, I’ll say, but a little too bizarre. He has a diseased mind, no telling what scheme he is. even now trumping up. I’ve a notion to go up and see what he’s doing. I don’t believe he went to bed. A man with an accusation of murder hanging over him isn’t going to lie down and go by-by.”

“Oh, leave him alone,” Gray urged. ‘“ We can work better without him and we've a lot of searching to do. We ought to go over this whole house. No telling what we'll find.”

“Look at George’s bed,” the Inspector said, sud- °

denly. “I thought there were no servants here. Who turned that down so neatly? ”’ » “Maybe George himself,” opined Young, “ and maybe there is a servant about the place. Me for the kitchen quarters. Often servants or servants’ belongings tell tales.”’

He went downstairs to the basement, Gray took it on himself to go through the rooms on the first floor, while Doctor Jarvis stayed by the body of the dead man and endeavored to read from it some hint toward solving the mystery of his death.