Death Points A Finger Part 7

Professor Brierly whirled on him bristling. Matthews, coat and vest in hand, slid between them. They were of equal height.

Matthews looked at the other and said softly:

"Doctor, it isn't safe or wise to talk to Professor Brierly that way when I'm around. We don't want any trouble. You were told to give Professor Brierly the fullest opportunity and help in making this post mortem. We don't need your help, but it would be wiser not to interfere."

Dr. Simpson was looking into a pair of dangerously cold blue eyes.

Nothing made Matthews as angry as an affront to the man who was more than father to him. Dr. Simpson saw the rippling muscles, he saw the clean cut jaw; he remembered the names of the men who were behind this investigation. He retreated gracefully.

"Oh, all right, but it disturbs a professional man to have his word questioned so lightly. I have some reputation--just a minute, I'll bring the instruments."

Jimmy asked Matthews:

"How long will this take, Jack?"

"Perhaps an hour, Jimmy, why do you ask?"

"Nothing, I want to go out and use the phone. I'll be back before you're through."

For the past half hour Jimmy had been outwardly calm, but inwardly raging with impatience. Minutes became a matter of supreme importance now. James Hale, the newspaper man, now had a big story, and it was important to catch the Eagle's home edition if possible. This was July Fourth. On this day, while they issued a paper, they kept only a skeleton staff. With nothing big breaking they were likely to put the home edition to bed and call it a day, leaving just a man or two in the office for emergencies, similar to the early morning dogwatch.

He also took a malicious satisfaction in shooting something into the office that would keep them all on the jump for the rest of the day and perhaps late into the night.

Jimmy, accustomed to thinking in headlines, had been formulating a head for the story; he was now murmuring it to himself as he hurried to a public telephone: DEATH POINTS A FINGER, DEATH POINTS A FINGER, over and over again. He saw those words, in letters three inches high, flaming across the top of the front page.

When the pleasant far-away voice of the operator said: "New York Eagle" Jimmy barked: "'Lo Ann, gimme the city desk quick, will you."

"Mr. Hite's wire is busy, will you wait a minute, Mr. Hale?"

"Can't Ann. I got to catch the home, put whoever Hite's talkin' to on another wire and gimme the chief."

Jimmy had made a request that he would have made only in dire emergency; he felt he was justified. He heard a faint clicking, then came Hite's familiar growl:

"Are you drunk, Jimmy? What the h.e.l.l can be so important that you must cut in--mebbe you think I'll stop the presses for a feature story. I--I said I'd pay the expenses of the trip, not for useless, expensive telephone calls. You could have mailed--"

"'Scuse me, chief. I got a wow of a story. When's the home going to bed?"

"Just gone; didn't I tell you--"

Jimmy found an effective way of stopping this flow of talk. He cut in, saying:

"_One, perhaps three of this Tontine group have been murdered during the past twenty-four hours_."

"What!"

The growl that came over the wire was a scream. Jimmy jerked the instrument away from his ear.

The explosion kept ringing in his ear painfully. Hale repeated slowly:

"One, perhaps three of the Tontine group were murdered during the past twenty-four hours."

The growl that now answered him was. .h.i.te's normal voice, with the tense undertone it held when he had a big story. Jimmy heard Hite's voice faintly; the city editor was giving orders to the pressroom that would stop the presses. For the next fifteen minutes there would be feverish but orderly activity.

"All right, Jimmy, just gimme the flash so I'll have enough for a head; the copy desk's all gone. Then I'll put you on Roy's wire and you can give him the story."

Jimmy, with the capacity of the trained newspaper man to tell a big story in a few words, told Hite enough in four sentences to furnish material for a headline. Then, with malicious satisfaction, he said:

"There's a New York end on this, chief."

This he knew would have the effect of keeping in the office everybody who had not yet gone home and might even cause a scurrying about that would call in others, thus spoiling whatever plans they had made for the rest of the day. Newspaper men have no union hours. He added as an afterthought: "I got a swell head for this, chief. DEATH POINTS A FINGER."

The answer to this was a grunt. There was a click and Roy Heath's soft southern drawl came floating over the miles of wire. There was a stream of invective. Jimmy's past, present and future were depicted in pointed billingsgate, all done in good English. Roy had planned a pleasant afternoon and evening with a lady who had just finished a triumphant musical comedy engagement. And now--Jimmy wickedly cut in on this by saying:

"This is a swell obit, Roy." There is nothing the newspaper man hates to do as much as an obituary. The cub's early training is obtained on the obituary column. Roy took a fresh start, but he was cut short, evidently by Hite, whose desk was near the rewrite man's.

"All right, shoot if you got anything to say."

Jimmy, for the next thirty minutes, sketched the vivid story, so fresh in his mind over the miles of wires between them, interrupted from time to time by the growing excited e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns from Roy Heath, as he sensed the "scoop" qualities of the story.

He ended:

"Tontine is spelt--"

"I know how to spell it and I know what it is. I got some education. I ain't a d.a.m.n ignorant Yankee."

"One of the members of this group is Lorenzo Tonti, a direct Descendant of the man who devised this insurance. The fund now amounts to about several million dollars. During all this time, whenever there was an accident, injury or death to a member of this group, each of the survivors received in an envelope a sheet of paper with the number '14' on it.

"This bunch had an annual reunion on the Fourth of July, a gesture to show the real patriotism of Southerners--"

"What do you mean 'gesture'? They are the only real patriots in the country."

"Fourteen survivors were to have met at the camp of Isaac Higginbotham, former justice of the United States Supreme Court.

Eleven came. At eight o'clock this morning a telephone message came telling of the suicide of one of them, August Schurman, retired art dealer, of New York. At nine o'clock there came a telephone message telling of the suicide of another, Morris Miller, of Lentone, Vermont. At ten o'clock there came a message telling of the drowning of Herbert Wrigley, retired manufacturer, at Bradley Beach, New Jersey.

"Just as they received word of the third death there came a batch of telegrams, one for each of the eleven survivors, with the word 'fourteen' on each telegram, just that, nothing else, just 'fourteen.'

"We just saw the body of Morris Miller. The medical examiner p.r.o.nounced it suicide. Professor Brierly, after looking at the bullet wound in the temple, says, that if that wound caused death, it is not suicide. And you betcher life what Professor Brierly says is so. Me and the Prof are now gonna make an exhaustive investigation and give you our findings. Got it all?"

The monosyllabic grunt coming over the wire showed Jimmy that Roy Heath had taken it all. Jimmy knew that there would now come from Heath's clicking typewriter keys an amplified and elaborated story that would take the breath of all who read it. Shortly the halted presses would resume their roar and pour out an edition that would startle the country.

Soon other papers would take up the burden. This was a story of major importance. There was thrill, glamour, romance, drama, everything that goes to make the big newspaper event. And it was.

Chapter V

At the police station, where the investigators and the reporters were sent by Dr. Simpson, they were told that Detective Brasher, who had the case in hand, was still at the home of Morris Miller, finis.h.i.+ng his examination.

They had no difficulty finding the Morris home. He had built, years before, a house which was called by the natives for miles around, "Miller's Folly," to resemble a medieval castle. Miller had gone to the extent of building a draw bridge in front of the house, which was let down and drawn up regularly morning and night.

The rear of the house was on a high point facing the western sh.o.r.e of Lake Memphremagog, with only a narrow strip of land separating it from the waters of the lake. The blankness of the entire rear facade of the structure was broken only by one window, built into a deep embrasure. Above the window was a small circular opening about the size of a porthole.