VI
From downstairs a man's voice boomed out a bawling question that was answered by someone else's quieter tones. Mary Jane listened closely still clutching the jade earring in her hand. She glanced down at it, turning it over; the catch was broken, bent out of shape. It was Miriam's probably; it looked like something that might appeal to a Parker. She dropped it in her pocket intending to return it to its owner and went on down the curving stairs. The policeman who had been stationed in the reception hall before was still there, hunting through several papers that had been stuffed into the shallow drawer of a little gold table, mate to the one on the floor above. He looked up sheepishly almost guiltily as she came down and then turned back on his work. She descended the last few steps and stood with her hand on the mahogany newel post watching the searching process going on in the drawing room supervised by a tall soft spoken young man with a strong quiet face.
He turned after a moment and seeing her crossed the room into the hall. He extended his hand, smiling, "This is Miss Lansing, isn't it? I'm Sheriff Tim Harmon."
Mary Jane accepted his outstretched hand gratefully; he said, "Everyone else is in the library; we searched there first." He spoke of the search frankly treating it as the everyday occurrence it evidently was to him.
And then again she was engulfed in the tide of her own emotion overwhelmed by a sense of dread. "Did you-did you find anything yet?"
He shook his head, "Nary a thing. We'll let you know when-and if-we do."
When and if. The words echoed in Mary Jane's ears long after Tim Harmon had gone back to his work. He had sounded skeptical. What, then, if the gun wasn't found, now, in the house? It had to be, but what if it wasn't? She pushed the thought from her, finding and going into the library, a small, charming room, its cheerful, bold colors-greens and yellows and reds-reflecting Miriam's taste and personality.
Miriam herself was sitting on the small sofa of pals rose tapestry before the mahogany fireplace; she had changed into lounging pajamas, black satin topped with a long silver colored tunic. Richard and Arthur Kelly stood near her, the former looking worried, the chief looking calm, while a heavy set, ill-tempered looking man had planted himself solidly in the middle of the room, chewing on a long cigar, introduced to her as District Attorney Winstead.
Chief Kelly who had done the honors said quietly, "If you'll be seated, Miss Lansing, I'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Of course," Mary Jane murmured; she suddenly felt very tired and her brain was throbbing, she sat down wearily beside Miriam waiting for him to begin, clasping her hands nervously in her lap.
Kelly moved over to stand before her, his back to the fire, and strangely his smile was vaguely comforting, calming her.
"Now, first of all tell me just what you know about Amy Stanton."
Mary Jane shrugged, staring past him into the fire, "Almost nothing, really. I didn't care to know once I found out the will was legal."
"And you never once heard your father mention Amy Stanton?"
Mary Jane shook her head, "Never."
"Was Amy Stanton at the reading of your father's will?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"No, she had her lawyer with her, John Carr. And she came in with another man, but he left almost at once. Barney, I think she called him. I'd never seen him before."
At her last words the District Attorney and Chief of Police bristled to attention exchanged a meaningful look.
Winstead said cautiously in his deep booming voice, "What did this Barney look like, Miss Lansing?"
Mary Jane puckered her forehead, "I didn't pay too much attention to him but I think-if I'm remembering correctly-he was tall and very heavy; he looked like a prizefighter or a wrestler more than anything else. He was dark skinned, and had bushy white hair by contrast, the kind that looks like it will never lie down."
"We'll check on it," Kelly said quietly, writing down something in his notebook.
Richard asked, "Chief Kelly, is there any possibility that the woman might have been killed somewhere else and her body brought here afterwards?"
"I don't think so, Mr. Parker," Kelly dug into his pocket, "I have the coroner's report here somewhere-----ah, here it is." He unfolded a crackling white paper and began to read, "Time of death, somewhere between midnight and twelve-thirty, approximately twelve-fifteen. The bullet was fired from a thirty-two caliber revolver; it entered the body through the back, plowed through the ribs and lodged in the heart. Death was instantaneous." He lowered the sheet and looked at Richard over the white edge. "You told me earlier that the fuse burned out at around midnight, and that it took you twenty to twenty-five minutes to fix it. The coroner established the time of death at twelve-fifteen. So you see, Mr. Parker, that would make it almost impossible to move the body in that short space. It also shows that the murderer was hard pressed for time or else he-or she-would have waited to catch the victim in a more inconspicuous spot before committing the crime."
He consulted the white sheet again, then said, "Another curious thing is the fact that there was no pocketbook found on the body, and no labels of any kind on the murdered woman's clothes; it would have been impossible to identify her before we sent her picture out around the country if Miss Lansing had not been here."
His glance rested on Mary Jane lightly, and then he folded the paper carefully and returned it to his pocket.
"Now about the gun. As I understood, years ago, Mr. Parker, your father owned a pretty extensive collection of guns. Do you still have it?"
Richard roused himself from his thoughts. "Why, yes,----yes, we still have the collection. It's in the study if you want to see it. But it's impossible to think that one of our guns killed Amy Stanton. I'm the only one who has the key to the cabinet where they're kept, and besides the collection has very few modern pieces. Most of the guns are muskets some dating back to the Revolutionary War."
"Nevertheless, I should like to examine them," said Kelly.
Richard shrugged, "As you wish, of course."
The three men left the room, going across the hall to the study. At the sound of the closing door, Miriam said, "I wish Paul were here. Rich is getting annoyed."
She rose uncurling her long legs from under her, tossing her cigarette into the fire. She looked tired, Mary Jane thought; the bright lights played unmercifully on the lines of fatigue etched under her eyes. Murder did not suit Miriam nor did it suit this lovely gracious old house that had known the dreams and successes and heartbreaks of Parkers for generations; it did not suit anyone or anything concerned and yet in a few hours it had affected their lives so strongly that they would never-could never-be the same again.
Mary Jane sighed, watching listlessly as Miriam poured a deep red wine from the tall decanter on the mahogany desk into two squat glasses-embossed with bunches of red cherries and a backdrop of green leaves-and brought them over to the sofa, handing one to her.
"Drink this, honey," she said with the ghost of a smile, "Guaranteed to have you under the table with one sip. Personally I could stand something stronger than wine, but I lack the energy to go hunt it up."
Mary Jane accepted the glass and leaned back against the rose cushions of the sofa; for a moment there in the firelight she could almost forget all that had happened and shrug it off as a bad nightmare, and then she would think of the policemen, the blood stains on the beige carpeting in the hall, the search of a missing gun, and it was no nightmare but something real and tangible that seemed to be there in the room with her.
She heard only dimly and without interest the slamming of the heavy front door, but Miriam who was lounging beside her tracing the outline of the cherries on her glass with the pointed red nail of a forefinger, looked up quickly.
There were light footsteps now in the hall coming toward them, and then a man she did not know stood framed in the doorway.
Miriam cried gladly, "Paul!" and going to him flung herself into his arms seeking his comfort and sympathy.
He kissed her lightly, and then said laughing a little, "Here, now, dry your pretty eyes. There'll be no tears from you, m'girl, and do put that glass down before you spill it all over me."
"Oh, Paul," she said happily, "I'm so glad you're here!"
"Well, thank you, m'lady, and I'll thank you even more to invite me to sit down. I grabbed my new shoes by mistake, and they're killing me. Oh, and by the way, I met the Sheriff outside. Damn nice fellow, too, but if I ever saw a guy trying hard not to cuss a blue streak it's him. It seems they wanted to keep things quiet until morning and of all the luck here some big shot New York reporter breezes into police headquarters a few minutes ago and browbeats the whole business out of some jerk of a desk sergeant. So now it looks like you're going to get some more company, namely the press, and when they get this story into print, holy Mother Machree, hell's going to be popping and I don't mean maybe."