The Moving Finger Read online

  Millicent read on and on in her ledger; accounts of parties gave place to comments about her brother, Craig, then he absorbed the entire space allotted to each day, and the progress of his trip home was duly recorded, and the items:

  October 5th—Thank God, Craig is home again, but, oh, what a wreck! It’s agony to see him lying in bed unable to move hand or foot, unable to speak, unable to recognize us. But he’s home, not lying in an unknown grave somewhere in Europe. I’ve just met Dr. Alan Noyes, who accompanied Craig to this country, and to whose skill Craig owes his slender hold on life. The doctor is painfully shy.

  October 7th—Saw more of Dr. Noyes today; he improves on acquaintance. Mother says he is not shy, only reticent.

  Millicent did not linger over the next few entries, but paused and scanned the words:

  October 15th—Vera Deane has replaced the night nurse for Craig. She reminds me so of Dorothy, yet they are not a bit alike. Persuaded Dr. Noyes to talk about his experiences in the field hospitals abroad. Must write Bruce tonight without fail.

  Millicent skipped several pages, then came the entry:

  December 15th—I had no idea Alan Noyes had such a temper; we quarreled most awfully. He announced his creed is never to forget a friend and never to forgive an enemy. Well, I can be stubborn, too.

  Millicent sighed drearily and jumped to the date:

  December 24th—Alan Noyes has been exceptionally nice today. Our quarrel has blown over. I wish I had told him about Bruce when we first met.

  A tear rolled down Millicent’s white cheek and splashed upon the paper, then suddenly she bowed her head and gave way to the grief consuming her. The minutes lengthened, and at last she sat up and dried her ever. The outburst had brought physical relief, during the past twenty-four hours she had fought off every inclination to allow her feelings sway, had suppressed all sign of emotion and had refused to discuss Bruce Brainard mysterious death, even with her mother.

  Mrs. Porter had hoped that Millicent’s unnatural calm would give way when unburdening herself to her old chum, Dorothy Deane, and she had made opportunities to leave the girls together. But she was not aware that Dorothy had shown an equal desire to avoid the topic of the tragedy, and Millicent found to her secret relief that she was not urged to confidences which she might later bitterly regret. But that afternoon she had felt the need of being by herself, and had fled upstairs, hoping her mother would not think of looking for her in the attic.

  Millicent pulled a chair close to her side and was on the point of rising from her cramped position before the trunk when she heard someone coming up the uncarpeted stairs. She slammed the ledger shut and thrust it among the silks and laces in the trunk, and, pulling out a vanity box, commenced powdering her nose and removing all traces of recent tears.

  “Who’s there?” she called, as heavy steps approached.

  “Me, Miss Millicent.”

  “Oh, Murray!” Her tone spoke her relief. “Have you brought the coffee and sandwiches I told Selby to order for me?”

  “Yes, miss.” And the footman emerged from behind the highboy which, with a Japanese screen, partly blocked the view of the cozy corner from the rest of the attic.

  “Just put the tray on my desk,” directed Millicent. “Has mother gone out?”

  “Yes, miss; she took Miss Dorothy in to Washington.” Murray moved several of the desk ornaments to make room for the tray. “These ladies called just now, Miss Millicent, but I said you were out.” And he handed her a number of visiting-cards.

  She barely glanced at the names before tossing the cards aside. “I am thankful you did, Murray; make my excuses to callers for the next week. I can see no one.”

  “Very good, miss.” But Murray lingered, a troubled look in his eyes. “The ’tec, Mitchell, left word that he’d be back this evening, miss, and that he’s got to see you.”

  “Oh, he has?” Millicent’s eyes sparkled with anger. “Inform Mr. Mitchell that I decline to see him.”

  “Yes, miss,” and Murray smiled broadly. “Shall I throw him out, miss?”

  “Heavens, no!” exclaimed Millicent. “You might get in serious trouble with the law. He has, I suppose,” bitterly, “the right to hang about the scene of a crime—detectives are sanctioned human vultures.”

  “He is, miss; a regular troublesome, meddlesome busybody, getting innocent people into trouble,” responded Murray feelingly. “He thinks he’s so bright with his ideas—I’ll idea him.” And the footman, forgetting his customary respectful attitude in his indignation, doubled up his fists suggestively. “How is Miss Deane feeling, miss?”

  “Who, Miss Vera? She is at last getting some rest; be sure, Murray, and tell mother and Miss Dorothy not to disturb her when they return.”

  “Certainly, miss.” The footman turned to leave. “Anything else I can get you, miss?”

  “Not a thing, thank you.” But as Murray stepped around the highboy she asked: “Any telegrams or telephones?”

  “No telegrams, miss; but the telephone is going every instant, ‘most all of them are reporters.”

  “Don’t give out any information, Murray,” she cautioned.

  “Certainly not, miss.” And he hurried away.

  Millicent waited until she heard the door at the foot of the attic stairs close, then bent over the trunk and again took out the ledger and carefully tore out a handful of pages. Before replacing the ledger in its hiding-place she felt about under the false bottom until convinced that the article she sought was still there, after which she put back the ledger and the false bottom, rearranged the silks and laces, put in the tray, and locked the trunk.

  “If you are not going to drink your coffee, I will,” announced a voice to her left, and a man stepped out from behind the Japanese screen. A low cry escaped Millicent, and her hands closed spasmodically over the pages torn from her ledger.

  “Hugh!” she gasped. “Where—where have you been?”

  “In town.” Wyndham stopped by the tray and, picking up the plate of sandwiches, handed it to Millicent. She shook her head. “No?” he queried; “then I’ll eat your share.” He poured out a cup of coffee and drank it clear, almost at a gulp. “That’s delicious,” he declared. “I had no idea I was so cold and hungry. Can’t I help you get up?”

  But Millicent declined his proffered assistance, and rose somewhat clumsily, both hands engaged in pressing the torn sheets into the smallest possible compass.

  “Where have you been, Hugh?” she asked again.

  “Sitting on a trunk behind that screen waiting for Murray to go downstairs,” he responded, refilling his cup.

  “Then you came up to the attic just after he did?”

  “In his wake, so to speak.” He shot a questioning look at her. “Everyone appears to be out this afternoon.”

  “Yes.” Millicent carefully turned her back to the dormer window and sat down on the arm of her easy-chair. “You haven’t answered my question, Hugh—where have you been ever since the inquest?”

  “At the club.” Wyndham helped himself to another sandwich. “Awfully sorry I couldn’t get in touch with Dorothy Deane and deliver your message. I was sorry to disappoint you.”

  “But I wasn’t disappointed. She received the message in time and came last night.”

  Wyndham seemed to have some difficulty swallowing his coffee.

  “Is she still here?” he inquired as soon as he could speak.

  “Yes. Mother insisted that she could run her social column from here as well as from her boarding-house. Most of the social news is gathered over the telephone,” explained Millicent vaguely. “And mother promised to motor in to the office every afternoon and bring her out again in the evening.”

  Wyndham set his coffee-cup back on its saucer with small regard for its perishable qualities.

  “I might have known that she would come,” he said, half to himself; then louder: “Intimate friends don’t have to be told when they are needed.”

  “Dorothy has so much
tact—”

  “Discussing me?” And Dorothy Deane appeared at Wyndham’s elbow. There was a distinct pause as she recognized Millicent’s companion, and her cheeks, rosy from her long motor ride in the wind, paled. “Oh!” she ejaculated, with an attempt at lightness which deceived but one of her hearers. “The wanderer has returned.”

  “Yes—returned to you,” was Wyndham’s quiet rejoinder, and his eyes never left her. “It was very careless of you, Dorothy, not to leave word at the office that you were coming out here last night.”

  “If I had mentioned it the managing editor would have insisted that I cover”—she stopped and colored painfully—“new developments for the paper.”

  Wyndham transferred his attention to his cousin. “New developments,” he repeated. “Have there been any since I left last night?”

  His question did not receive an immediate reply, for Millicent had not paid strict attention to their conversation, being absorbed in secreting the sheets torn from her diary inside her gown.

  “Nothing new,” she responded dully. “The detectives are still looking for clues, and under that pretense poking their noses into everyone’s concerns.”

  “Let them. Who cares?” But Wyndham did not look so care-free as his words implied. “Brainard’s death is a seven days’ wonder in Washington, Millicent; so be prepared for all sorts of sensational stories. Our friends will talk themselves to a standstill after a time.”

  “I suppose sensational stories are to be expected,” admitted Millicent, and she moved restlessly away from her chair. “But what are Bruce’s friends doing?”

  Wyndham looked at her quickly. “I don’t understand you—”

  “I mean what steps are Bruce’s friends taking to trace the—the murderer?”

  Wyndham took a newspaper from his pocket and unfolded it.

  “Brainard’s brother has offered a reward of five thousand dollars for the arrest of the criminal,” he stated, pointing to an article in the paper.

  Dorothy broke the silence with an impatient stamp of her foot. “The fool!” she exclaimed. “He’d better have waited until it’s proven beyond doubt that it was a murder and not a suicide.”

  The newspaper crinkled in Millicent’s hand as she took it, and Wyndham, his eyes roving about the cozy corner, stated quietly:

  “The police have found that Brainard never shaved himself, but went every morning to a barber shop just below his apartment house. Apparently he never owned a razor, and the police seem to think that evidence precludes all possibility of suicide.”

  “I don’t see why,” protested Millicent, looking up from the paper. “If Bruce contemplated suicide he could have purchased a razor.”

  “True, but investigation proves that he did not buy a razor at any of the dealers handling them in Washington, or at a pawnshop. I must admit the police have been very thorough in their search,” acknowledged Wyndham. “It’s all in the evening papers.” He stopped for a moment, then added steadily, “I think, no matter how terrible we find the idea, that we must accept the theory that Brainard was murdered.”

  Millicent caught her breath. “I don’t agree with you,” she retorted obstinately. “Are we meekly to consider ourselves murderers just because Bruce never, apparently, owned a razor?”

  “You are right,” declared Dorothy, but her manner, to Wyndham’s watchful eyes, indicated that she was clutching at a straw rather than announcing her convictions. “Some friend might have loaned him a razor—Heavens! what’s that?”

  A loud hail sounded up the staircase. “Millicent! Millicent!” and they recognized Mrs. Porter’s angry accents. “Why in the world are you staying in that cold attic? Come down at once.”

  “Yes, mother.” Millicent started for the staircase, casting an appealing look at Dorothy as she passed her, and in mute response the latter turned to follow, but at the top of the stairs Wyndham laid a detaining hand on her shoulder.

  “Wait,” he entreated, and as he met her wistful, frightened glance he repressed with difficulty the emotion that threatened to master him. “Dorothy, never forget I have your interests at heart to the exclusion of all else.”

  “Hush!” She raised a trembling hand to his lips, and seizing it he pressed it against his cheeks.

  “Dear, how cold you are!” he murmured fondly, caressing her hand.

  “Hush!” she reiterated. “Hugh, you must not—this is not the time—”

  “It is,” with obstinate fervor. “You cannot have forgotten—”

  “Forgotten?” Dorothy started as if stung. “Would to heaven I could!”

  “Then you understand?” She looked at him dumbly. “You are sure you understand?”

  Through a mist of tears Dorothy studied him, and as she met his imploring gaze a wave of tenderness sent her other hand to meet his eager clasp; then horror of herself, of her thoughts, checked her wild longing to throw herself into his arms, and she drew back.

  “It is because I understand,” she said, steadying her voice with an effort, “that I shall never cease to reproach myself—”

  “Stop!” Wyndham held up an imperative hand. “You must not reproach yourself. Bruce Brainard deserved what he got. I tell you he did—” noting her expression. “It was justifiable homicide.”

  Chapter X

  The Black-Edged Card

  The hall clock was just striking three on Thursday afternoon when Murray stopped before the room occupied jointly by Mrs. Hall and Vera and rapped smartly on the closed door. It was opened by Vera.

  “You are wanted at the telephone, miss,” the footman announced, and she stepped into the hall.

  “Who wants me, Murray?”

  “The party wouldn’t give his name.”

  “Oh!” Vera’s footsteps lagged. “Did you recognize the voice?”

  “No, miss. Shouldn’t wonder if it’s another ’tec,” he added gloomily. Two whole days had passed and Mrs. Porter had not inquired for his state of health, and even Vera had failed him as a confidante for his latest symptoms; truly his world was out of joint. “I asked him for his message and he said he had to speak to you personally.”

  A second “Oh!” slipped from Vera, then she went downstairs in thoughtful silence and was proceeding toward the library when Murray, of whose presence she had grown oblivious, addressed her.

  “I hopes, miss, you don’t hold yesterday’s doings in Mr. Brainard’s room against me,” he said earnestly. “I feel very badly about it—very.”

  “I realize that you were not to blame,” answered Vera. “But the others—” Her small hand clenched. “I’d rather forget the scene, Murray; some day, perhaps, I’ll get square with those men for the fright they gave me.”

  “I hope you will, miss.” Murray threw open the library door. “I’m wishing Mrs. Porter would give orders not to admit them. Me and Selby are waiting our chance.” And he smiled significantly.

  “Perhaps she will.” And Vera glanced earnestly at the footman. “You are not looking very well today, Murray; have you tried that tonic Dr. Noyes advised?”

  The footman brightened. “I have, miss, but it don’t agree with me, and the neuralgia’s getting worse.”

  “That’s too bad. Come upstairs later and I will give you a tube of Baume Analgesique Bengue” As the French name tripped off her tongue Murray regarded her with respectful admiration.

  “It sounds great, miss; I’d like to use it, thank you.” And he departed for his pantry, his manner almost cheerful.

  Left to herself Vera closed the library door and approached the telephone with some hesitancy; she could think of no friend who would have a reason for not giving his name to the footman and concluded Murray was right in imagining the “party” to be a detective. Her interview with Mitchell the day before was still fresh in her mind and she resented the idea of further impertinence. It occurred to her, as she toyed with the receiver, that it was a simple matter to ring off if she found it was Mitchell at the other end of the wire; then a thought stayed her—s
uppose it was Dr. Beverly Thorne waiting to speak to her? Her expression hardened, and her voice sounded clear and cold as she called into the mouthpiece:

  “Well?”

  An unknown voice replied: “Is this Nurse Vera Deane?”

  Vera’s expression altered. “Yes, what is it?”

  “This is Police Headquarters,” went on the voice crisply, and Vera started. “Inspector North speaking. Have you lost anything, Miss Deane?”

  “I? No.”

  “Are you sure you have not lost your handbag?”

  “My handbag!” Vera’s raised accents testified to her astonishment. “No, certainly not.”

  “Quite sure, Miss Deane?” insisted the inspector.

  “Yes; but as a matter of form I’ll run upstairs and look. Hold the telephone, please.” And Vera dashed up to her room and unlocked her trunk; there lay her handbag, and pulling it open she found its contents intact.

  She was out of breath when she again reached the telephone, and had to pause a second before speaking to the inspector.

  “My handbag is upstairs, safe and sound,” she called.

  “Thank you.” The inspector cleared his voice. “I called you up, Miss Deane, because we found a handbag in a Mt. Pleasant car yesterday afternoon containing your visiting-card, and we located you through the Central Directory for Graduate Nurses.”

  “My visiting-card?” echoed Vera, astonished. “Are you sure it was mine?”

  “Oh, yes, Miss Deane, your name is engraved in full on a black-edged card. Good afternoon.” And he rang off.

  A black-edged visiting-card? Vera sat clinging to the telephone receiver in bewilderment—it had been fully five years since she had had a black-edged visiting-card! Suddenly her ear detected the click of a receiver being hung up, and the faintness of the sound aroused her. Who had been listening in on the branch telephone in Mrs. Porter’s boudoir?