The house of cards
by Hannah Gartland
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Excerpt:
-■- had passed out of the room, "whatever she knows she's not going to give it to the police till it's dragged out of her. Of that I'm certain. But what have we here?"
He had stepped into the hall just in time to see patrolman Dooley open the front door and admit a young man in a chauffeur's uniform. Through the open door he glimpsed a handsome limousine drawn up at the curb.
Dooley looked at the Inspector for instructions. The chauffeur gazed about him in evident astonishment at the unexpected group in the hall.
"Who are you, young man?" the Inspector inquired abruptly.
"My name is Turner. I am Mr. Barwood's chauffeur," he replied, his eyes roving about as if in search of the meaning of this unusual assembly. "He told me to bring the car around at ten o'clock, and I'd like him to know I'm on time."
"When did Mr. Barwood give you orders to bring the car around at this time?" the Inspector asked.
"Last night," replied the chauffeur.
"Where was he when he gave the order!"
"Here at his house," said Turner.
"What time was that?"
The chauffeur's manner stiffened. "I don't care to blab about Mr. Barwood's business while I'm in his service," he answered with some dignity.
"You are no longer in his service," the Inspector grimly remarked. "He is lying dead in there with a bullet in his brain. Perhaps you would like to see for yourself," and he motioned with his hand to the door of the reception room.
The chauffeur hesitated about entering, and the Inspector led the way. He watched Turner with the closest scrutiny while he gazed upon the lifeless body of his late employer. Turner's manner indicated surprise and curiosity, but he did not betray the slightest agitation.
"Now will you answer my question?" asked the Inspector.
"Yes, sir, but not in here. Let's get out of this," he proposed.
The Inspector conducted him to the large room farther down the hall where he had held his interview with Mrs. Cox.
"Now are you ready, Turner?"
"What was your question, Officer?" Turner asked.
"I asked you what time it was last night when Mr. Barwood gave you the order to bring the car here at ten o'clock."
"It was about one o'clock," Turner replied promptly.
"Did you bring him home in his car at that time?"
"I certainly did," he affirmed.
"Do you usually work as late as that and report again at ten o'clock in the morning?"
"I have no regular hours. Mr. Barwood usually engages taxicabs at night unless he—" he hesitated.
"Well, go on. Unless he—what?" urged Kane.
"Well, taxi drivers sometimes talk, and garages can keep tabs on a man," Turner explained.
"You imply that Mr. Barwood didn't want any one to know what he did at night. Is that what you mean?" asked the Inspector.
"Well, you know," Turner went on easily, "Mr. Barwood was very careful not to involve any of the ladies in scandal."
"What occasion was there for scandal?" The Inspector felt himself on the verge of a discovery of a motive for the crime.
Turner shrugged his shoulders and made an expressive gesture with his hands, but did not reply. The Inspector regarded him with growing interest.
"Turner," he said in a changed tone, "how long have you been in Mr. Barwood's service?" "A little over a year," Turner replied. "Were you deeply attached to him?" Turner again shrugged his shoulders. "Not so you could notice it," he replied indifferently. "He paid me well. Always gave big tips for extra night service. Well, I won't say he bribed me to keep my mouth shut, but he made it worth while. He didn't shoot himself, did he? He wasn't that kind." Turner asked as if struck by a sudden thought.
