# More Lives Than One/Chapter 5
### CHAPTER V
#### HUTCHINS INVESTIGATES

“Now,” Hutchins said, “we can get to work on a real investigation. Of conditions, I mean. Had to do up the possible witnesses first. But they were all impossible witnesses! I never saw a lot of people who knew less—or pretended to.”
“First,” Inspector Dickson remarked, calmly, “we’ll eat. There’s a fine layout in the pantry, and we may as well put some of it to use. Call in Briggs and any others of our men.”
So, instead of funeral baked meats coldly furnishing forth a marriage table, the pleasant little supper ordered for Tommy Locke’s guests regaled the hearty members of the Police Force.
Afterward the two principals made a tour of the place.
In the main, they found little of interest. The usual furniture of a bachelor’s studio quarters; of a man, apparently neither rich nor poverty-stricken. The appointments were plain and far from being over-abundant, yet the place was comfortable.
Small gilded chairs from the caterer’s had, of course, been hired for the occasion, as had a long hatrack in the hall and a similar one in the ladies’ dressing room.
This room interested Hutchins, being, as it was, Locke’s bedroom.
“It ought to give us a line on the man’s personality,” the detective said, hopefully.
But it was not very indicative. The clothing in the wardrobe and the simple toilet articles only gave evidence ​of a decently tidy man of moderate tastes in every way.
“Colorless chap,” Hutchins said, disgustedly; “hardest kind in the world to trace. Now, if he had frisky pictures on his walls, or Bolshevik books hidden in his dresser, we might look for something decided. But these every-dayish, plain American citizen fellows—where are you?”
“If he’s an artist, he ought to have some personality,” Dickson suggested.
“Probably has, as to temperament and all that. But I don’t believe he’s much of an artist—I’ve never heard the name—have you?”
“No; but there are hundreds of artists within two blocks of this place whose names haven’t been heard around the world—as yet. Let’s look in the bathroom—may surprise his secrets there.”
“Nixy!” and Hutchins looked his discouragement. “I deduce that he is a man who uses soap and water, who shaves himself with a safety razor, and uses pumice stone on his teeth.”
The last after a peep into a small jar on the glass shelf.
“Well, then to the scene of the crime next.”
“You see,” Hutchins explained, as he drew away the protecting chairs, “I fenced this place off because I thought those hoodlums would trample it, like cattle on a picnic field. But it seems to be intact. Yet I daresay it will show up just about nothing.”
“Mostly spangles,” Dickson observed, looking at the glittering specks on the rug.
“Are they from that rig of Mrs. Barham’s?”
“No”; Dickson knew more about these things than Hutchins. “No, hers were iridescent—these are silver-colored—tin, probably.”
He picked up a few. ​
“Save them, anyway—put them in an envelope—gather all you can. Probably they are off of more than one gown. Now, here’s a long white glove—but that might belong to anybody.”
“Save it—it’s a possible clue. Well, here are two cigarette stubs—women never care where they throw them! and here are three hair-pins—all different. Here’s a man’s glove, a dagger——”
“A dagger!”
“Oh, just a tinsel one—out of some Spanish girl’s hair—it will bend if you look at it.”
“Keep it. It shows the presence of your Spanish girl on the scene.”
“Probably before the crime. You see, Dickson, this place, near the divan and table, was a favorite lounging spot, and they all drifted in here between dances. Then it was doubtless during a dance that the crime occurred, when this room was practically deserted, and also when that Jazz racket would drown any sounds.”
“That’s right so far, Hutchins. But get all the scraps here you can—for among them must be the clues left by the murderer—if any.”
“Yes, if any! Well, here’s a fan and a mask——”
“A mask!”
“Yes, why’s that strange?”
“Because no one had as yet unmasked! It isn’t Mrs. Barham’s—she had hers on when they found her.”
“Oh, it’s an extra then. It’s just a tiny black domino, with a lace frill——”
“A woman’s, then?”
“Not necessarily. The men who wore fancy-fiddly costumes, like cavaliers or troubadours, wore this sort of mask.”
“Maybe it’s young Jarvis’s. He was a troubadour.” ​
“All right, we’ll keep all the flotsam and jetsam—there’s nothing else, but a few beads and a small, trumpery vanity case—not a gold one.
“Mostly women’s stuff.”
“Yes, but men don’t have many loose trifles to shed. Now, what about this white streak on the rug? About six inches long——”
“Looks like face powder—probably from that vanity case.”
“Maybe. Now, here’s one spot of blood—poor lady. There was little of that—it was contusion rather than abrasion, though the skin was broken.”
“Reconstruct, Hutchins. Can you see the murderer standing here—or here?”
Dickson seriously moved from spot to spot.
“No,” Hutchins declared positively, “he stood about here. The other side of the table from his victim. I see them quarreling—perhaps she was repelling his advances—and he, in a sudden, uncontrollable fit of anger at some thing she said, fired the thing—almost involuntarily.”
“Yes, it must have been something like that. Now, do you suppose it was Locke?”
“Who else?”
“Why not Charley? Orientals have strong passions.”
“But why would a Chinese servant have anything at all to do with a grand society lady?”
“I don’t know, of course, but he might have. Suppose he had been her butler—and she had unjustly accused him or discharged him—anyway, on the other hand, what could the grand lady have to do with an uncelebrated young artist?”
“Idle speculation, all of it. Let’s take a look at our facts. We have the wife of Andrew Barham murdered at ​a party in the studio apartment of Thomas Locke. Deduction, they were acquainted.”
“No; many guests brought uninvited friends.”
“Then where is Locke? Unless he knew this woman, whether he killed her or not, why would he disappear a few moments after the crime?”
“I think he went away for some innocent reason——”
“Such as?”
“I can’t think of any, I admit.”
“No; he didn’t run out to get more sugar for the lemonade. Now, I can’t figure it out exactly, but as near as I can gather, the lady was killed at about ten or a little after. Maybe quarter after. But, at what must have been nearly half past ten, Briggs, the policeman on beat, saw a man who he thinks was Locke, come out of this house, walk down the front steps, calmly but quickly, and then walk rapidly over toward the Avenue.
“Briggs thought nothing of it at the time—didn’t even think of its being Locke, for he knew of the party, but he’s been ruminating since and now he’s almost sure it was Locke.”
“Look here, Dickson, these surenesses, after the incident becomes important, are to taken with a grain of salt.”
“I know it. If Briggs had been sure from the first—it would be different. But when he learns that Locke is missing, it is easy to imagine that the man he saw leave this house looked like him. Of course, Locke wouldn’t leave the house during the party, unless it was because he is the criminal. But I can’t suspect him on that tale of Briggs’, coming late, as it does. Still, it’s a thing to remember. What did Locke wear as a fancy garb?”
“A Monk’s robe, I’m told, with a deep hood or cowl.”
“He couldn’t go out in the street with that on. If ​he ran away he must have left the rig in the house. Let’s rake for it.”
“Oh, set one of those chaps downstairs at the job. I’m tired—physically—and anyway, we’ll get farther by thrashing this thing out verbally between us. Go on, you were collecting your facts.”
Hutchins called an assistant, and bade him search the house for Locke’s monkish garb, and then he resumed:
“Well, I think that constitutes my entire exhibition. Mrs. Barham is murdered and Locke is missing. Have you anything further to add?”
“Chinese Charley is missing also.”
“Yes. Now we have nothing that can be rightly called evidence, and very few, if any clues. I can’t care much for these ripped off spangles, and dropped gloves. The studio is full of such things. At a masquerade, the costumes fairly rain tinsel and fringes. But I do think, Hutchins, that this is a big case. I do think there’s a lot behind the present aspect, and it is not going to be easy to ferret it out.”
“Do you suppose for a minute I thought it would be?” the detective growled. “Well, how shall we set about it?”
“First—and I don’t mean to do it first—but of first importance, is to locate Locke. Second, learn the details of Mrs. Barham’s past. On those two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”
“And after those two trifling errands are attended to, what next?”
“Don’t be pettish, Hutchins. You’ve never had a bigger chance for good work. Go to it. Keep your sweepings and doodads, but also put in a lot of headwork and energetic search. As soon as possible interview the little Dutch girl—though I don’t think she had a hand in the crime.” ​
“She had her sleeve in it then—I saw a smear on it that looked like blood.”
“Oh, I don’t believe it was. More likely red rouge or lipstick.”
“Maybe. Anyway, I may get something about Locke from her and the Vallon girl. They are thick with him—and Henry Post is too.”
“That’s the dope. Then as soon as it’s late enough for society people, I suppose you’ll go up to the Barhams’ house.”
“Yes; I suppose so. Yet what can he tell me? That man was flabbergasted. There was no make-believe about his utter astonishment at finding his wife in this house.”
“I agree to that. Now go home and get some sleep—unless you’d rather bunk here?”
“I believe I will. I’ll appropriate Mr. Locke’s bedroom and bath and then if his nibs returns stealthily in the small hours, I’ll be here to receive him.”
“Very well, I’ll go home. Get around to the Vallon place as early as they’ll let you, and then make for the Barhams’.”
Snugly ensconced in Tommy Locke’s bed, Hutchins found that he could rest but he couldn’t sleep.
So he let his mind play with his problems, building up fantastic air castles, in hope of striking an idea that might be really illuminative.
He was strongly tempted to get up and scrape over the house again, but, he argued, he would probably find nothing, and would only prevent the resting of his tired nerves.
But he vowed a mighty vow, that he would put all his best energies and all his most tireless and indefatigable efforts into this thing, and improve this chance that had come to him to make good. ​
Locke’s very convenient radium clock showed Hutchins four-thirty the last time he looked at it, and after that he fell into a deep and exhausted slumber. The two guards, one in the studio and one in the lower hall, dozed a little, too, though they didn’t really sleep.
But at six o’clock, Hutchins’ eyes flew open wide, and he pulled his wits together in an effort to decide whether he had heard something or had dreamed it.
Another instant, and he sensed a movement of some sort that suggested the near-by presence of a human being.
It was scarcely a sound—more like a stealthy moving thing that was perceptible through feeling rather than the ear.
Silently Hutchins sat up in bed. He was wide awake, every sense alert, and ready to spring when he deemed best.
He hadn’t the slightest doubt that it was Locke, returning on some necessary errand, and hoping to find his room unoccupied.
Then the movement came again, it became almost a sound, and in the faint glimmer of dawn, Hutchins saw a figure coming slowly, silently but steadily toward him as he lay in bed.
He waited, eyes almost closed, until the person was within arm’s reach and then jumped up and grabbed him.
A fearful shriek was the result, and in an instant Hutchins had snapped on the light and discovered that he was holding the squirming, fighting, struggling form of the Chinese boy, Charley.
“You!” he exclaimed in a sudden burst of absurd disappointment that it was not Locke. ​
At that moment the two guards came running, attracted by the noise.
“Here’s the Chink,” Hutchins said; “take care of him, you two, till I can get dressed. Don’t hurt him.”
Mindful of a hard day before him, Hutchins indulged in a refreshing bath and was pleased with the quality of the absent Locke’s soap and towels.
He was half regretful after he had done this, for, he ruminated, “maybe I spoiled some perfectly good evidence by messing up this bathroom. Can’t help it now, though, and anyway, the Charley thing is here to clean up after me. Incidentally, perhaps he can rustle some breakfast for me! It’s an ill wind, etc., or do I mean, God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb?”
He found that the two guards had cannily placated Charley, and had already set him to work in the kitchen, under threat of instant arrest if he disobeyed a single order.
But obeying orders was Charley’s middle name, and he broke eggs and brewed coffee skillfully and not uncheerfully.
“Well, youngest scion of the Ming Dynasty, you arrived on time, didn’t you?”
“Yes, always at six.”
The Chinaman who talked pidgin or not as he chose looked at him calmly. He was intelligent and respectful, but Hutchins had planned his own line of talk.
“What time did you go away last night?” he said, in a matter-of-fact way, as if a true answer were inevitable.
“When the pollismans come.”
His air was as matter of fact as Hutchins’ own, and the detective believed him—so far.
“Why?”
“No like. Aflaid,” ​
“So you ran away.”
“Yes, I go home. Every night I go home.”
“But you usually stay until Mr. Locke is ready to retire—or at least until he dismisses you?”
“Yes—usually.”
“What time did Mr. Locke leave last night?”
“Maybe half-past ten—maybe.”
“You saw him go? Ah, you let him out?”
“I saw him go—I no let him out.”
“Oh, yes, I remember—he let himself out, of course. Was that it?”
But the Chinaman had sensed something wrong, and became secretive.
“I no know—I no see him.”
“Hey there—none o’ that! You said you did see him! You want to be arrested? Shut up in big prison? Bread and water? Hey? You tell the truth, now. What time did you see Mr. Locke go out of this house?”
“Can’t tell”—and Charley looked sullen. “Don’t know.”
“Well, you find out. Cudgel your memory now. Wasn’t it earlier than half past ten?”
“No”; with an ugly glance.
“All right, was it later?”
“No,” angrily now.
“Then, as near as you can fix the time, Mr. Locke left this house at about ten thirty. Alone?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know! Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Did he wear his—his big monk dress?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then you go to prison. Take him,” Hutchins nodded to the guards. ​
“Wait—wait, I tell. No, he wear regla clo’es. Even coat.”
“Ah, his evening clothes. That’s better. What did he do with the monk dress?”
“We found that, Mr. Hutchins,” one of the officers said; “it was in that junk cupboard where the painting things are.”
“Did you put it there, Charley? Did you put it there for Mr. Locke, so he could go away just in his evening clothes? That was nice of you. He told you to, didn’t he?”
But the Chinaman had returned to his overdone cooking, and Hutchins let up on him for the moment.
“That’s it,” he said, exultantly. “Locke vamoosed, tossed his monk’s robe to the boy, and went out into the night. Took his hat from the hat stand as he passed out—or somebody’s hat. Connivance, you see. Now this boy merely ran away from the police because the police scared him. I’ll bet he knows nothing of what took place—and then this morning he returned at six o’clock from force of habit.
“He crept softly into Locke’s room to see if he were there, not wanting to wake him. It’s all fine. But look out that he doesn’t get away. They’re a sly race. We’ll accumulate his fine-smelling breakfast, and then we’ll see what to do with him.”
Hutchins was in fine spirits, and asked to see the monk’s robe.
He gazed carefully at the long plain garment, with its attached hood, deep and peaked.
“Put it away,” he said, to the man, “but, stay, wait a minute, what’s that smear?”
The garment itself was dull brown, but on the front ​breast was an almost invisible spot that might or might not be blood.
“Hard to tell,” he concluded, after a close examination, “but put it away very carefully. You fellows will have this place in your keeping right along, I suppose. Well, don’t let any one touch that robe till it’s tested.”
Charley appeared at the table suddenly.
“Caterman here.”
“Caterman? Oh, the caterer’s man. Tell him to come in. And bring me another cup of coffee. It’s the best in the world!”
The Chinaman smiled. Apparently conditions were not troubling him much.
The man from the caterer’s came in diffidently.
“I suppose you want to take away your chairs and dishes,” said Hutchins, casually. “You may do so— but be careful to take nothing but what is yours, and if you notice anything unusual or peculiar, report it. See?”
The man who, was intelligent, seemed to understand.
“By the way,” Hutchins said, “did any of your people see Mr. Locke the master of the house—er—late last evening?”
“One of our men was on the door, sir.”
“He was! Did he see Mr. Locke go out, by any chance?”
“He let him out.”
“Ah. You interest me strangely! What time was this?”
“About half past ten.”
“And why is your doorman so accurate as to the time?”
“Because,” the man looked serious, “because it was right after that that we heard the commotion upstairs.”
“Who do you mean by ‘we’?” ​
“The waiters—and our people from Mascarelli’s. We were in the dining room and pantry, of course.”
“Of course. And you have been talking the affair over among yourselves?”
“Sure—why not?”
“No reason in the world. I meant, do you know all about the doorman letting Mr. Locke out? And what do you mean by letting him out? Couldn’t he get out himself?”
“We had a regular man on the door to open it for the guests entering or leaving. So when Mr. Locke wanted to leave, of course Joe opened the door for him.”
“And did he say anything—anything special?”
“He only said, ‘I’ll be back in a few moments.’ That’s all.”
“You’re sure of all this? You heard Joe tell it? If you’re sure—I don’t need Joe’s story—but perhaps I’d better get it anyway.”
“No need, sir. We all talked it over and over. Joe told his yarn a dozen times, and every time he said that Mr. Locke just went out—not hurried like, but as if ordinary—and he said—‘Back in a few minutes.’ That’s all.”
“And it’s a lot. And whatever time it was by the clock, Joe says it was shortly before the excitement began?”
“Yes, sir, he says just that.”